on the very same night."
"Yeah," said Angelina, "but you knew what to do with yours."
"And praise the Lord, he knew what to do with me."
Angelina raised a hand to her face, bit the knuckle of her index finger. "I wish I knew what to do with Sal."
Michael shaded his tired eyes and pulled his sandy brows together. "Go after him, girl."
"Go after him," Angelina echoed, trying out the feel of the words. They tasted too harsh. "Jeez, you make it sound so . . . so—"
"Predatory?" Michael said. "Aggressive? Sometimes it's like that. Look, someone has to have the nerve to lay it on the line, to make it clear, with words, with glances: I want it."
A nervous giggle started up from Angelina's tummy, didn't make it past her closed-down throat. Her legs twitched, the tanned knees rubbed together in the sunshine. "Michael," she said, "I can't throw myself—"
"Go back to that bar—" he interrupted.
"He doesn't want to see me," Angelina cut him off in turn. "You saw the way he fell back in the shadows, he looked like he wanted to be swallowed in the earth."
"The timing was all wrong," said Michael. "Your uncle was there ... Look, go back alone. Late. Go back looking very pretty. Show a little cleavage. And make sure he feels you looking at him. Your gaze—make sure it burns right through him."
"God, Michael, I don't know—"
"You do know. You know perfectly well."
Angelina bit her lip. Searing sun rained down and naked men cavorted in the pool. The air was freighted with the promiscuity of flowers, with a lubricious perfume of chlorine and coconut and viscous oils.
"Michael," she said at last, "lemme ask you. When two people ... I mean when, you know, it happens, I mean, like all of it, it happens—is it really as terrific as people say?"
His green eyes blinked. Was it possible? Was she really telling him what she seemed to be telling him? He tried to imagine the ripeness of her body, how the weight of that ripeness must tug at her, must pull and stretch like an over-ready fruit still captive to its vine, and he spoke to her not as a lover but as a priest of love, a guide, with a quiet holy fervor in his voice. "Yeah," he said, "it really is."
17
Uncle Louie, dressed in a turquoise cabana set and a plastic visor he'd bought that morning, sat on the seawall up by Smathers Beach, sucked at a mango smoothie, and quietly marveled at the variety of unnecessary exertions going on around him.
Along the broad but bumpy promenade, between himself and the long row of vendors' trucks that parked along the edge of A-1A, people with headphones whooshed by on Rollerblades. Bicycles went past, a few had dogs in baskets. Joggers plodded by, their skins glistening like those of basted birds. On the beach, against a background of bright green water, youths were playing volleyball, heedlessly diving on the thin layer of imported sand that imperfectly disguised the native lacerating coral.
The spectacle kept Louie entertained but could not quite cure his fretting. Since last night he'd doubted that coming to Key West was really such a hot idea; the thought was eating at him that, for all his good intentions, he'd done to himself what it seemed he'd done his whole life long—put himself in a pickle where no matter what he did was wrong. He'd found Angelina. But what had he really accomplished? He couldn't make her go home against her will; he'd promised her he wouldn't. On the other hand, he couldn't very well abandon her down here. Whatever she was going through, love or some other crisis, she was fragile. If he left and something bad happened, it would seem an unforgivable dereliction, not just to his brothers, but to himself.
Then there was the question of contacting the family. He'd vowed to Angelina that he wouldn't give away her whereabouts. But it seemed unfair, cruel, not to let the family know she was okay. But how? Louie didn't trust himself in a position where he had to answer questions. If he spoke to someone he was afraid
"Yeah," said Angelina, "but you knew what to do with yours."
"And praise the Lord, he knew what to do with me."
Angelina raised a hand to her face, bit the knuckle of her index finger. "I wish I knew what to do with Sal."
Michael shaded his tired eyes and pulled his sandy brows together. "Go after him, girl."
"Go after him," Angelina echoed, trying out the feel of the words. They tasted too harsh. "Jeez, you make it sound so . . . so—"
"Predatory?" Michael said. "Aggressive? Sometimes it's like that. Look, someone has to have the nerve to lay it on the line, to make it clear, with words, with glances: I want it."
A nervous giggle started up from Angelina's tummy, didn't make it past her closed-down throat. Her legs twitched, the tanned knees rubbed together in the sunshine. "Michael," she said, "I can't throw myself—"
"Go back to that bar—" he interrupted.
"He doesn't want to see me," Angelina cut him off in turn. "You saw the way he fell back in the shadows, he looked like he wanted to be swallowed in the earth."
"The timing was all wrong," said Michael. "Your uncle was there ... Look, go back alone. Late. Go back looking very pretty. Show a little cleavage. And make sure he feels you looking at him. Your gaze—make sure it burns right through him."
"God, Michael, I don't know—"
"You do know. You know perfectly well."
Angelina bit her lip. Searing sun rained down and naked men cavorted in the pool. The air was freighted with the promiscuity of flowers, with a lubricious perfume of chlorine and coconut and viscous oils.
"Michael," she said at last, "lemme ask you. When two people ... I mean when, you know, it happens, I mean, like all of it, it happens—is it really as terrific as people say?"
His green eyes blinked. Was it possible? Was she really telling him what she seemed to be telling him? He tried to imagine the ripeness of her body, how the weight of that ripeness must tug at her, must pull and stretch like an over-ready fruit still captive to its vine, and he spoke to her not as a lover but as a priest of love, a guide, with a quiet holy fervor in his voice. "Yeah," he said, "it really is."
17
Uncle Louie, dressed in a turquoise cabana set and a plastic visor he'd bought that morning, sat on the seawall up by Smathers Beach, sucked at a mango smoothie, and quietly marveled at the variety of unnecessary exertions going on around him.
Along the broad but bumpy promenade, between himself and the long row of vendors' trucks that parked along the edge of A-1A, people with headphones whooshed by on Rollerblades. Bicycles went past, a few had dogs in baskets. Joggers plodded by, their skins glistening like those of basted birds. On the beach, against a background of bright green water, youths were playing volleyball, heedlessly diving on the thin layer of imported sand that imperfectly disguised the native lacerating coral.
The spectacle kept Louie entertained but could not quite cure his fretting. Since last night he'd doubted that coming to Key West was really such a hot idea; the thought was eating at him that, for all his good intentions, he'd done to himself what it seemed he'd done his whole life long—put himself in a pickle where no matter what he did was wrong. He'd found Angelina. But what had he really accomplished? He couldn't make her go home against her will; he'd promised her he wouldn't. On the other hand, he couldn't very well abandon her down here. Whatever she was going through, love or some other crisis, she was fragile. If he left and something bad happened, it would seem an unforgivable dereliction, not just to his brothers, but to himself.
Then there was the question of contacting the family. He'd vowed to Angelina that he wouldn't give away her whereabouts. But it seemed unfair, cruel, not to let the family know she was okay. But how? Louie didn't trust himself in a position where he had to answer questions. If he spoke to someone he was afraid
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