Stranahan stowed the rod in the stilt house, came out, and picked up the bucket. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you off to?”
“Downstairs, by the boat.”
“Can I come?”
He shrugged. “You might not like it.”
“Like what?” Tina asked and followed him tentatively down the wooden stairs toward the water.
Liza hovered formidably in the usual place. Stranahan pointed at the huge barracuda and said, “See there?”
“Wow, is that a shark?”
“No.”
He reached into the bucket and grabbed one of the pinfish, carefully folding the dorsal so it wouldn’t prick his fingers.
Tina said, “Now I get it.”
“She’s like a pet,” Stranahan said. He tossed the pinfish into the water, and the barracuda devoured it in a silent mercury flash, all fangs. When the turbulence subsided, they saw that the big fish had returned to its station; it hung there as if it had never moved.
Impassively Stranahan tossed another pinfish and the barracuda repeated the kill.
Tina stood so close that Stranahan could feel her warm breath on his bare arm. “Do they eat people?” she asked.
He could have hugged her right then. “No,” he said, “they don’t eat people.”
“Good!”
“They do strike at shiny objects,” he said, “so don’t wear a bracelet if you are diving.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
This time he scooped up two pinfish and lobbed them into the water simultaneously; the barracuda got them both in one fierce swipe.
“I call her Liza,” Stranahan said. “Liza with a z.”
Tina nodded as if she thought it was a perfectly cute name. She asked if she could try a toss.
“You bet.” Stranahan got the last pinfish from the bucket and placed it carefully in the palm of her hand. “Just throw it anywhere,” he said.
Tina leaned forward and called out, “Here Liza! Here you go!”
The little fish landed with a soft splash and spun a dizzy figure eight under the dock. The barracuda didn’t move.
Stranahan smiled. In slow motion the addled pinfish corkscrewed its way to the bottom, taking refuge inside an old horse conch.
“What’d I do wrong?” Tina wondered.
“Not a thing,” Stranahan said. “She wasn’t hungry anymore, that’s all.”
“Maybe it’s just me.”
“Maybe it is,” Stranahan said.
He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. He turned on the lights in the house and vented the shutters on both sides to catch the cool night breeze. On the roof, the windmill creaked as it picked up speed.
Tina made a place for herself on a faded lumpy soda. She said, “I always wondered what it’s like out here in the dark.”
“Not much to do, I’m afraid.”
“No TV?”
“No TV,” Stranahan said.
“You want to make love?”
“There’s an idea.”
“You already saw me naked.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Stranahan said. “The thing is—”
“Don’t worry about Richie. Anyway, this is just for fun. We’ll keep it casual, okay?”
“I don’t do anything casually,” Stranahan said, “This is my problem.” He was constantly falling in love; how else would you explain five marriages, all to cocktail waitresses?
Tina peeled off the tropical T-shirt and draped it across a barstool. Rockette-style, she kicked her way out of her bikini bottoms and left them in a rumple on the floor.
“How about these tan lines, huh?”
“What tan lines?” he asked.
“Exactly.” Tina pulled the rubber band out of her ponytail and shook her hair free. Then she got back on the sofa and said, “Watch this.” She stretched out and struck a smokey-eyed modeling pose—a half-turn up on one elbow, legs scissored, one arm shading her nipples.
“That looks great,” Stranahan said, amused but also uneasy.
“It’s tough work on a beach,” Tina remarked. “Sand sticks to places you wouldn’t believe. I did a professional job, though.”
“I’m sure.”
“Thanks to you, I got my confidence back. About my boobs, I mean.” She glanced down at herself appraisingly. “Confidence is everything in the modeling business,” she said. “Somebody tells you that your ass is sagging or your tits don’t match up, it’s like an emotional disaster. I was worried sick until you measured them with that carpenter’s thing.”