An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant by LeAnn Neal Reilly

him, pressing
her whole torso against his. “It’s been too long since we made love.”
    She
pulled away long enough to close the curtains on the window overlooking the
canal. Then she twined herself around him again as if she feared his escape,
but she had nothing to fear. He was already paralyzed.
    “Time to
change that.”
    ***
    Later,
John drove her around the island, or as much of it as was accessible by road.
    “Not
much to see, really.” They turned north toward Playa Flamenco. “The beach is
world-class, of course, but nothing else is here.”
    “It’s
just because it’s not built up, John. Some people would think that was a good
thing, you know.” She paused. “So whadya have planned for me this weekend,
besides showing me how much you missed me?” At these words, she slid her left
hand up his right thigh and into his crotch, squeezing gently.
    John
kept his eyes on the road.
    “Actually,
I wondered what you’d think about going out for some deep-sea fishing. There’s
a crusty old barnacle around here with a forty-three-foot yacht, the Sakitumi.
That is, if battling big fish in the name of sport appeals to you.” He held his
breath. Given her rabid form of vegetarianism, he expected her to spit fire. He
had no idea what had prompted him to antagonize her this way.
    She
stunned him with her answer. “How Hemingway. I’d love to go. Absolutely.”
    She
leaned against the passenger door and looked out the open window. The breeze as
they drove dared to lift her heavy hair and caress her neck. In her dark
sunglasses and black camisole, she reminded John of a Hollywood starlet,
exuding sex appeal as cloying as night-blooming jasmine.
    “Maybe a
little development wouldn’t hurt,” she said after a few moments as they drove
south on 251 toward town. “Something that would help pay to clean this place
up.”
    “What?
You don’t like having such an unobstructed view to the terraced dump?” John had
forgotten the dump until it came into view and the sarcasm in his voice
surprised him.
    “Not in
paradise I don’t. They should plant some of those bright red flowers—what are
they called?—in front of the trash.”
    “Bougainvillea.
I think you’re thinking of that. Or maybe hibiscus.”
    It took
John only an hour to drive the circuit of the island’s main roads. Perhaps it
was Zoë’s presence or the view from the driver’s seat of the Samurai, but John
surveyed all of Culebra’s eyesores for the first time in two weeks. As they
neared Dewey, they saw cramped cinderblock houses huddling along narrow
streets. Boats rested on concrete blocks in the patches of land that
constituted yards and everywhere they saw more trash: pipes, tires, and beer
cans. Zoë wrinkled her nose and shifted away from the window. Even after they
drove south past Dewey and left the houses behind, lines creased her forehead.
Little existed on the southern and eastern arms of Culebra beyond a few side
roads leading to homes that, from their vantage point, seemed to promise
privacy to transplanted gringos . But for John, the trip away from Dewey
reminded him of the serenity that he’d discovered while visiting the Enchanted
Isle: every rise in the road brought views of the ocean, vivid against the sere
brown and dusty green of the landscape.
    Culebra
exists only
to draw the spirit to the sea around it . On the heels of this thought,
Tamarind’s ethereal blue eyes tantalized John’s memory, but he shoved the image
aside. Funny that he should think about a slip of a girl with crazy hair and
incessant questions while Zoë’s head rested on his shoulder—Zoë deserved
better. He turned the Samurai onto the road to Tamarindo Estates.
    “Wow,
that was short and sweet. After a winter in Pittsburgh, this sun is a godsend,
but I wouldn’t want to live here.” She hadn’t moved even though he’d parked;
instead, she ran her fingers along his forearm and the back of his hand.
    John
switched off the engine and looked down at