Читать книгу Unfaithful - Devon Scott - Страница 12

She can still taste the salt air on her tongue—that is if she concentrates real hard, closes her eyes, shuts out the cacophony of noise coming from the machines in her office—three-quarter-inch tape; digital video; DVD player; audio; high-definition plasma screen hanging on one wall opposite her desk; another flat-screen on a stand to her left; laptop docked behind her, all vying for her attention. Her senses are on overload—what she’s come to expect as a television producer. For a moment, she forces everything to grind to a halt and pushes it down defiantly, leaning back in her executive chair as she swivels, glancing out the picturesque window without really seeing the steel and concrete beyond.

Instead, she recalls the way warm, coarse sand felt on her toes as she maneuvered between lapping waves. Ryan’s fingers interlaced with hers as they walked the shore every morning, his brown skin a stark contrast to the white sand beneath their feet. Ryan cracking jokes, stopping every several feet to bend down, examine a shell, a smooth piece of colored glass, or discarded beer bottle fragments caressed by Caribbean seas. Leaning in, he runs a hand along the small of her back, kissing her neck at the spot that makes her instantly weak, under her chin just off the mid-line, knees faltering from his feather-like touch, and Miles rushing up behind them, patting her ass playfully as he directs them to “get a room” before taking off at a dead run. Olivia’s not far behind, clad in a neon bikini, her muscular calves flexing and locs flying as she digs into the sand, attempting to gain on her husband. Ryan and Carly follow close behind, refusing to give up this daily ritual to Miles.

Later, they all sprawl onto hard-packed sand, panting and sweating, laughing and boasting of previous nights, drinking binges featuring liberal amounts of Mount Gay rum and “wukkin’ up,” that high-energy gyrating dance that Olivia and Carly have come to fancy—their husbands and Bajan (locals), too! Racing mini mokes across the island along meandering roads that turn back on themselves as acres of sugarcane pass them by; hour-long naps in oversize hammocks strung between silk cotton trees; and gin rummy played on the veranda of their ocean-front villa.

These thoughts alone make her smile.

The cottage she shared with her husband for nine days was breathtaking: open air, vaulted ceilings, an explosion of colors, whitewashed hallways; orange rust living room and pale yellow dining room both beachside; cinnamon red study/library and vibrant blue bedroom. Carly could lose herself in any of these rooms and the eclectic artwork of Barbados natives for hours, while sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor leafing through a Zane novel, Ryan’s face in her lap, eyes closed, a pair of headphones adorning his head as he bops to melodic jazz. In the evening, they dined on couscous and fried flying fish, made love on an overstuffed mattress, windows and drapes thrown open to the elements, slow spins from a ceiling fan, sea sounds invading their domain, washing over their damp bodies as Carly used a goose-down pillow to suppress her orgasmic-filled cries. Later, they’d meet Miles and Olivia at the bar, and the ladies would exchange knowing glances, as if their respective passion moans had carried between villas.

The phone on her desk buzzes. Carly checks the caller ID—an associate producer—and ignores it. It is not her husband. Not Ryan. Her eyes flicker over the darkness outside her window that is spreading like a cloud. Fourteen hours in the office, and still no end in sight.

A moment later, the cell on her hip vibrates. She hits mute to squelch it; again it’s not him.

A few moments more…

That’s all she needs today.

Sun-ripe days spent with her husband and best friends, Miles and Olivia, sightseeing, snorkeling, dancing, shopping, tanning, eating, laughing, playing—dazzling starry nights filled with rum drinking, catamaran cruises, and partying till dawn.

She recalls their last night on the island at an outdoor restaurant in Bridgetown, the four of them dining under the stars as live music played on in the background. Miles stood, a thin wineglass filled with merlot.

“To best of friends,” he said, his low voice carrying across the expanse of sand as if on wings of doves.

“Hear, hear.” They toasted each other and drank silently, each of them lost in memories of the previous week. When Miles sat, flattening his napkin against his linen pants, Carly cleared her throat.

“I want to say something.”

All eyes were upon her. It was as if all conversation among the dining patrons ceased for that split second.

“This week has been so incredible. I can’t begin to put into words how I feel. I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve taken a real vacation, with work and everything. But my baby here,” she said, reaching out to stroke Ryan’s forearm, “knew just what the doctor ordered.” Her husband beamed. “And, inviting our best friends in the whole wide world was nothing short of genius.”

Ryan nodded. “Listen to the woman!” he yelled, having had a bit too much to drink.

“I’m serious,” she said, voice cut down a notch, eyes capturing each one’s gaze in turn. “Y’all my family—and I love you like you’re my own. So thank you for this; thank you for everything.”

Hugs.

Tears shed.

Memories of their vacation together spilled on that final evening like lukewarm tea.

Memories that would be etched into their psyches…forever.

They would walk along the beach with its waning breeze one final time, the four of them gazing to the heavens above, silent with their thoughts of the previous week, and contemplation of their place among the stars.

And afterwards still, they found themselves wukkin’ up, one last time…’til dawn….