I walked out to the edge of the beach and looked around. Suddenly I felt an urge to get naked and run into the water. The sun was hot and I glanced enviously at Yeamon, wearing nothing but a pair of black trunks. I felt like a bill collector, standing there in a coat and tie, with my face dripping sweat and a damp shirt plastered to my back.
Then Chenault came out of the house. I could tell by her smile that she recognized me as the man who had run amok on the plane. I smiled nervously and said hello.
I remember you, she said, and Yeamon laughed as I fumbled for something to say.
She was wearing a white bikini and her hair fell down to her waist. There was nothing of the secretary about her now; she looked like a wild and sensual child who had never worn anything but two strips of white cloth and a warm smile. She was tiny, but the shape of her body made her seem larger; not the thin, undeveloped build of most tiny girls, but a fleshy roundness that looked to be all hips and thighs and nipples and long-haired warmth.
Goddamnit, I’m hungry, said Yeamon. What about breakfast?
Almost ready, she said. Do you want a grapefruit?
Damn right, he replied. Sit down, Kemp. Stop looking so sick. You want a grapefruit?
I shook my head.
Don’t be polite, he said. I know you want one.
Okay, I said. Give me a grapefruit.
Chenault appeared with two plates. She gave one to Yeamon and put the other down in front of me. It was a big omelet with bacon laced over the top.
I shook my head, saying I’d already eaten.
She smiled. Don’t worry. We have plenty.
I’m not kidding, I said. I ate at the airport.
Eat again, said Yeamon. Then we’ll get a few lobsters — you have all morning.
Aren’t you going in? I said. I thought that migrant story was due today.
He grinned and shook his head. They put me on that sunken treasure thing. I’m going out with some divers this afternoon — they claim they’ve found the wreck of an old Spanish galleon just outside the harbor.
Did they kill the migrant story? I asked.
No — I’ll get on it again when I finish this one.
I shrugged and started to eat. Chenault came out with a plate of her own and sat down at the foot of Yeamon’s chair.
Sit here, I said, and started to get up.
She smiled and shook her head. No, this is fine.
Sit down, said Yeamon. You’re acting peculiar, Kemp — this getting up early doesn’t agree with you.
I muttered something about decency and returned to my food. Over the top of my plate I could see Chenault’s legs, small and firm and tan. She was so close to naked, and so apparently unaware of it, that I felt helpless.
After breakfast and a flagon of rum, Yeamon suggested that we take the speargun out to the reef and look for some lobster. I quickly agreed, feeling that almost anything would be preferable to sitting there and stewing in my own lust.
He had a set of skindiving gear, complete with a big, double-strand gun, and I used a mask and a snorkel that he’d bought for Chenault. We paddled out to the reef and I watched from the surface as he probed along the bottom for lobster. After a while he came up and gave me the gun, but I couldn’t maneuver very well without flippers, so I gave it up and left the diving to him. I liked it better on the surface anyway, floating around in the gentle surf, looking back at the white beach and the palms behind it, and ducking every few moments to watch Yeamon below me in a different world, gliding along the bottom like some kind of monster fish.
We worked along the reef for about a hundred yards, then he said we should try the other side. Got to be careful out there, he added, paddling toward a shallow opening in the reef, might be sharks-you watch while I’m down.