Spa Page 8

  “That was nice of you.”

  “Got to keep up the image.”

  “Which one of your movies was that scene from?”

  He smiled. “You’re pretty sharp, aren’t you. It was ‘Return of the Captain from Castile,’ I think. One of the early ones, anyway. As I recall, they wanted a ‘young’ Tyrone Power to play the Spanish count who saved the sweet young thing from a fate worse than death. It’s a pity I couldn’t have saved us both from the script while I was at it. It was pretty awful.”

  “You’re right, I remember it. But you were a real swashbuckler.”

  “Wasn’t I, though. It’s a shame that by then all the swashes had already been buckled. Those kind of films were out of style. I think the only place it ever played was on the Late Show.”

  “That’s where I saw it.”

  He nodded, but he wasn’t smiling.

  The tiny woman had taken a seat in the lounge now, surrounded by her luggage. She looked like she was going away for a year, not a couple of weeks.

  Joyce thought she looked very elegant, slightly confused, and vaguely familiar. And as always when someone looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t remember who they were, she tried to picture them in context. In this case she thought that maybe she had seen the woman at one of the Destiny social affairs, but she couldn’t remember which one. That probably meant that she was with one of the other publications in the building, Glamour, or Mademoiselle, though she looked a little long in the tooth for that crowd.

  A minute later the ticket taker appeared, and announced that the plane was ready for boarding and would they all have their tickets ready, please.

  After a little shuffling and stretching they lined up obediently by the outer door. The Taylors, who made a big show of not talking to one another, were first in line. Then came the matronly Mrs. Stewart, then Cliff Eastman and herself and, finally, bringing up the rear, the tiny woman and a porter with her luggage. Each handed in their ticket as they passed out into the scorching heat of the Barbadian afternoon.

  Joyce paused just outside the departure lounge door to change her tote bag from one shoulder to another. It was beginning to weigh a lot more than when she had packed it this morning. But then she had put her tape recorder and her notebooks in it, along with her toiletries and a couple of paperback books she had been meaning to read when she found the time. She put the suitcase down on the cement and shifted the bag to her other shoulder.

  Just as she was bending down to pick up the suitcase again, she heard the ticket taker say to the tiny lady, “Yes, Mrs. Kraft, I will make sure that all your luggage is on board.”

  “Mrs. Kraft!” Joyce, still bent over, turned to look, and the woman, who had started toward the plane, almost fell over her.

  “Oh, excuse me.” Maxine patted her on the arm as she apologized and then continued on her way to the plane.

  “It’s Maxine!” said Joyce to no one in particular. “No wonder she looks so familiar. Of all the places in the universe.… Oh Harry, why me?”

  Chapter 13

  “They’ve got to be kidding?”

  “This must be your first time in the islands. What were you expecting, a Lear jet?” Cliff handed Joyce’s bag up into the cabin.

  “No, but I wasn’t expecting one of the Red Baron’s rejects, either.”

  “Better get used to it. This is the only way to get where we’re going.” He hopped into the cabin and reached down to give her a hand. As he touched her fingers he looked deep into her eyes, and a little charge of electricity ran up her arm. Under different circumstances it would have been a moment to remember. As it was, she simply shook her head.

  “I can’t. I can’t fly in that thing. It looks like the only way it could get off the ground is if it ran out of island.”

  “You’re close. But don’t worry. It only flies at about two thousand feet, so if things don’t work out, we don’t have far to fall.”

  “You’re overwhelming me with security.”

  “Come on. You flew in here on a plane.”

  “Exactly. And I’d like to fly out the same way.”

  But he extended his hand again and she reluctantly took it and hauled herself into the dim interior of the plane.

  After her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Joyce looked around. Cigarette burns were everywhere, including the ceiling. Ashtrays were obviously considered an unnecessary luxury. Old, stained life vests were stuffed matter-of-factly under each seat. She wondered briefly which ship they had come from, and then decided she’d rather not know. Then something else caught her attention and she looked up. Thin shafts of light filtered down from above her head.

  “I can see the sky through the cracks in the ceiling.”

  “Don’t think about it. Here, sit by the window. The view will take your mind off things.” Cliff helped her into one of the seats. It looked like it had been stolen from the front of a ’58 Chevy. And no sooner was she settled in, than Cliff dumped a large makeup case on her lap.

  “The porter wasn’t far off. There is no bloody room in this plane. Do you mind having this one on your lap? Everybody else has volunteered to have a piece of Mrs. Kraft’s luggage. I’ll put the big piece on my seat and then I can go and sit up front with the pilot.”

  At the mention of his name, the pilot, who was wearing a leather helmet and goggles, probably, Joyce decided, in honor of the historic significance of his craft, turned around and flashed a brilliant smile punctuated by one gold incisor.

  “You folks all ready to go?”

  The folks nodded in unison, feeling no doubt that at this point they had little choice, and Cliff climbed over into the co-pilot’s seat.

  The ground crew-cum-propellor-turner slammed the door shut and returned to his station at the front of the plane, ready to fling the propellers into action when he got the signal.

  The pilot turned on the ignition and, after a series of coughs and splutters, the variegated thrum of the ancient motor vibrated through the entire fuselage.

  “Now I know how a milk shake feels,” Joyce said out loud, and found she was clutching Maxine’s makeup case as though it alone could calm her reverberant universe. As she looked around the murky interior, she noted with grim satisfaction that the others were also hanging on more tightly than necessary to their various pieces of luggage, and the plane hadn’t even started to taxi yet.

  “One minute to blast off.” The pilot let out a Geoffrey Holder-type laugh, banged on the window of the cockpit, and the “ground crew” kicked a hunk of wood out from under the tires.

  The plane began to roll down the runway with a curious thunking rhythm. Joyce thought that maybe one of the tires was flat. Could they still take off? More important, could they still land? She tightened her grip on Maxine’s bag.

  A few moments later, however, the plane gave a jolt and then a thump and they were airborne. Joyce looked around. Everyone seemed mildly surprised to still be alive.

  The pilot turned in his seat.

  “Be about twenty minutes to St. Christophe. Just sit back and enjoy the view.”

  Joyce wondered if he meant the one through the cracks in the ceiling or the one through the grimy little windows. She looked out the one window on her side which was level with her seat.

  Not more than fifteen hundred feet below them was the turquoise blue of the Caribbean, so clear that you could see the darker blue of the submerged islands intermingled with the strange shapes of the coral reefs glowing a deep emerald green. And each little island, some nothing more than a pile of rocks protruding from the sea, was bordered with a crescent of white sand, creating hundreds of tiny perfect beaches. All in all it was a beautiful sight.… The plane gave a sudden shudder as the pilot banked to the left.… But not one worth dying for.

  Joyce turned her attention back to the other passengers. Up front, Cliff was saying something to the pilot who nodded and gave a massive, glinting grin. Maxine was holding her purse and gripping the arm of her seat with the same hand. Only
her white knuckles gave away the truth concealed by her carefully composed face. The Taylors were sitting across from each other, sullen-faced and steely-eyed. And Cathy was sharing the bench from the ’58 Chevy with Joyce.

  “Are you nervous?” Cathy’s voice was only slightly above a whisper.

  Joyce shook her head. “Petrified” was the word. But why waste what might be her last few moments discussing her fear of flying in this airborne egg crate?

  “No, I’m not nervous. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe. These small planes look in worse shape than they really are. They wouldn’t let them fly if there was really any danger.” Joyce thought that invoking the power of the omnipotent “they” would at least make her companion feel better. Cathy looked as though she were the sort of person who still believed that the “theys” of the world did everything in the best interest of those in their care. It worked. She relaxed visibly.

  “You’re right, of course.” She sighed with relief. “My name’s Cathy Stewart.” She freed a plump hand from the strap of her purse, and Joyce shook it.

  “Joyce, Joyce … uh.… Allan.” Joyce suddenly realized that she had given no thought to the new identity she was going to need for the duration of her stay. And it was more important than ever, now Maxine was along for the ride.

  “I saw you talking to Cliff Eastman back in the departure lounge. Isn’t he dreamy?” She gave a big sigh. Joyce decided then that when Mrs. Stewart was younger she had probably “gone steady’ or, even worse, “been pinned.”

  “Dreamy.”

  “I guess I did go a little overboard, back there. Michael’s always saying that I don’t think before I act. But it was just the shock, I guess. You know it’s not every day you get to meet a real live movie star.…” Her voice trailed off and she began searching in her purse for something. A moment later she came up with a bag of potato chips. She offered some to Joyce.

  “Want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  Cathy shrugged and then proceeded to help herself. “Salt and vinegar’s my favorite.” Joyce nodded and watched as her seatmate devoured the bag of chips two or three at a time, crunching happily. In another minute they were gone.

  “Are you married?” Cathy spoke through the last of the chips.

  “Married? Ah … yes, of course I’m married.” As she spoke Joyce placed her right hand over her left so that her ring finger was hidden.

  “Children?”

  “Children? Ah, no. No children.” Faking a husband was one thing, thought Joyce, but trying to conjure up non-existent children was beyond her. “How about you?”

  “I have three children. Two-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, and another boy who is five. And I’m married, of course.” Cathy giggled self-consciously. “My husband, Michael, is in advertising. What does your husband do?”

  “Alan? uh …”

  “Your husband’s first name is Alan and your last name is Allan? Does that mean his name is Alan Allan?”

  “I guess it does. I mean … yes, it does. His parents had quite the sense of humor.” Joyce laughed to show she appreciated the joke, and made a mental note that to be a good liar you first had to have a good memory.

  “What does he do?”

  “Do? Uh … he’s … in chips.” She clutched at the first thing that came to mind. Besides, it sounded like the kind of hi-tech area that the inquisitive Mrs. Stewart would know next to nothing about and would therefore not wish to discuss any further.

  “Potato?”

  “No. Silicon. As in computers?”

  “Oh.” Cathy sounded disappointed.

  “My husband is in the magazine business.” It was Maxine. “He’s the executive managing editor of Destiny magazine. You must have heard of it. It’s very big. Two and a half million readers. His name is Harry Kraft. I’m Maxine. She leaned forward from her seat across the isle. “Nice to meet you both.”

  “Hi. My name’s Cathy Stewart and this is Joyce Allan.” Joyce nodded, searching Maxine’s face for any flicker of recognition, but when she saw none she relaxed a little, and leaned her forehead against the cool of the window glass. The air in the plane was turning stale. Belle had been smoking up a storm. How much longer before they landed?

  The tone of the engine changed abruptly and Joyce was immediately alert again. They were slowing down. She hoped it was on purpose, and looked below for some sign of land. Thankfully, coming up in front of them was the white crescent of a beach followed by some flat green scrub and next, what looked to be a very short landing strip which they were approaching much too quickly.

  Everybody had stopped talking now, sensing the descent, waiting for the bump that would indicate a successful landing. But it turned out to be more like a rattling thud, as though the plane had just dropped out of the sky and hit the tarmac like the crate it was.

  They taxied the full length of the runway before stopping. Then the pilot turned around.

  “This is it. Last stop. Everybody out.”

  Cliff climbed back into the cabin, while the pilot jumped down and came around to open the cabin door. The luggage was handed out first and then each of the women received a helping hand to disembark. There were no steps, and it was a good two feet to the ground.

  Joyce noticed that Cliff gave Regina the now-familiar deep-eyed look as he took her hand to help her down, and the girl blinked at him like a frightened fawn. Joyce turned away, vaguely disappointed, and looked down the length of the airfield. The place seemed uninhabited. There were no buildings, no people, and no cars. What were they supposed to do now—walk?

  But suddenly a cloud of dust at the far end of the runway alerted them all to the approach of their transportation.

  In a few seconds, the speeding car drew abreast of the small plane, the dust settling perversely on its smooth white body and its dark-blue-tinted glass. It was the longest Rolls-Royce Joyce had ever seen. Moreover, from its flying lady hood ornament to its matching white wheel covers and shining chrome bumpers, it was also the ritziest car she had ever seen. From the ridiculous to the sublime, she thought, turning her back on the plane. At least things were looking up.

  On the side of the driver’s door was the logo of the spa, two sets of waves, one above the other, navy and turquoise, and then the name of the spa underneath. The door opened and the chauffeur, a blond-on-blond girl of about seventeen dressed in a uniform that was the precise blue of her eyes, got out.

  “Hello, everybody. My name is Mariette. Welcome to St. Christophe.”

  Chapter 14

  Joyce had been right about Harry. While she had been sweating it out at the airport in Barbados, he was taking a leisurely walk up Madison Avenue on his way to a quiet lunch.

  It was a glorious day. The kind that happens in New York only in early spring. The sky was clear. The sun was warm. And a gentle, inspiring breeze was blowing off the East River, ruffling the yellow-green buds that managed to return to the trees year after year in spite of the pollution. It was a day made for forgetting the dreary, sopping skies of winter and ignoring the sizzling, stinking inevitabilities of July and August. A day that hadn’t yet been forced to make up its mind.

  Harry stopped and looked in a window near 49th Street. On display were men’s clothing and shoes. He looked down at his own worn loafers that were so ancient it was difficult, now, to determine what color they had been when new. He really needed to get another pair, but somehow he just couldn’t be bothered. He decided he had probably reached that age that he always remembered his old man as being. The age when one ceases to be a man and becomes instead a father figure, one who is disposed to select comfort over style and ends up shuffling around in worn slippers and a warm vest, mumbling about The War.

  The thought made him shudder; he was after all, only forty-nine. Too young to declare himself a candidate for the sidelines of life. But next year he would be fifty and then what? God. He never thought he would ever be fifty.

  Turning the corner at 50th Street, he walked toward the
Helmsley Palace. He shivered. The wind was a little more biting, out of the sun, and he was only wearing a suit jacket. Maybe the need for a warm vest was closer than he imagined. He had never felt the cold when he was twenty-five. But that, he reminded himself, was almost a half a lifetime ago.

  When he reached the entrance of the hotel, he noticed that the doorman was still wearing his burgundy-and-gold winter uniform and that he was sweating slightly inside his greatcoat. Evidently the queen had not yet declared spring at the palace.

  Harry pushed through the heavy brass revolving doors and into the posh and incredibly neat interior. It was, he reflected, one of the few hotels in New York that could pass the white-glove test that his mother had inflicted so often on Maxine at the beginning of their marriage. Poor Maxine. She had tried so hard to keep one step ahead of Sophie, and it had never worked.

  Sophie knew more about dirt than any woman he had ever known. She was like a bloodhound sniffing out a ferret. Every time she came over to their tiny apartment on East 71st, she went about her task with a single-mindedness only someone who believes in the inherent evil and corruption of dirt can envision. And Maxine had never once passed muster.

  He thought now, with the wisdom of distance, that it was probably his mother’s way of putting his wife in her place, and perhaps of instilling in her a sense of what wives were supposed to be all about. But, at the time, a bout with her ever-critical mother-in-law had seemed like the end of the world, and Maxine usually ended up in a flood of tears and reproaches the minute Sophie left.

  The funny thing was, that over the years since they got married, Maxine had slowly been evolving, until one morning Harry woke up and found that through some quirk of fate he was now sleeping with his mother. Maxine had become Sophie, and Harry was now his own son. Or at least that’s the way she made him feel. Kind of too old and too young at the same time. He went into Harry’s Bar—no relation to Hemingway or himself—and took a seat on one of the semi-circular brown leather banquettes under the window. There were only a few other people sitting at the bar. The lunch-time crowd had long since departed for a shopping spree on Fifth Avenue or a ride around the park. He was glad. He liked it like this. Nice and quiet. Maybe forty-nine wasn’t so young after all.