What Men Want by Deborah Blumenthal Page B

type who enjoys exploring the vast underwater world, you’re dead wrong. First, I associate breathing tubes with lying comatose in an ICU unit. And second, as far as covering my eyes with a mask that fogs up and makes eyeliner bleed, my record is about seven minutes.
    Still, I was determined to play the part. We met down by the water, and the group boarded a forty-two-foot catamaran. So much for my concerns about going off alone with Jack in a private boat. Only one face looked familiar. Alex Ryan workedin the mayor’s office of film. I remembered seeing his face in an article in New York Magazine, discussing scouts for film locations. He was one of a small circle of people in the administration who worked for the mayor before he took office. He was about forty, intense, and bursting with nervous energy and impatience. Judging from the pallor of his skin, I saw him as more of a gym rat than someone who would slow down to snorkel and gasp at natural wonders. I had never met him in person, we had only spoken by phone.
    There was little conversation on the boat other than brief chitchat about the extraordinary view, and a few uncharitable asides about the less fortunate, back home, suffering the effects of bitter cold.
    â€œPart of Westchester County lost power because of an ice storm,” someone said. We all shook our heads in mock dismay, suppressing tiny gleeful smirks. The only ice here was floating in our drinks. We talked about sailing and sailboats. Of course, Jack had his own sailboat, not to mention a cigarette boat. I guess it went with all the other Hollywood toys that movie types collected.
    I closed my eyes, enjoying the breeze against my skin. Physical distance can have a calming effect, or at least give you a long-range perspective, and the more time that I was away, the calmer I felt about Chris. Reilly sat next to me, and even with my eyes closed, I could feel his presence.
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    Buck Island is one of those extraordinary places beloved by glossy travel magazines that feature it on their covers to evoke paradise. It’s a small, perfect, untouched swath of beach with sand as fine as face powder and water that’s a startling aquamarine. We anchored at Turtle Beach, on the northwest side of the island, for orientation. The tour company supplied snorkeling equipment and we sorted through to find our sizes. After we were suited up, some of the group took a forty-five-minute lesson. Reilly motioned for me to follow him, and I got a quick refresher course, one-on-one. The hardest part was relaxing and breathing easily with my mouth filled with black rubber, but finally, I got over my initial discomfort underwater.
    After everyone was familiar with how to use the gear, we got back on board and headed to the southeast side of the island where there is an underwater trail that’s the equivalent of a carefully labeled aquatic museum. While in motion, I learned that the island is built on tectonic plates, and that there are cactus, aloe, and as Jack made a point of pointing out, manchineel trees.
    â€œDon’t eat the apples,” Reilly said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThey’re poisonous, and so is the whole tree. They say that the sap can blind you if it gets into your eyes.” I didn’t know trees like that existed, except for remembering something about tree sap that the Native Americans used on the tips of their arrows to make their direct hits lethal. In any case, I’d be hard pressed if I had to survive in the wild. So instead of a picnic under the manchineel trees, we went into the water, staying on the trail and examining brain coral, elkhorn coral, sea fans, sponges, angelfish and parrot fish that flitted by, undeterred by our presence.
    It was a living museum of sea life—no wonder people came here from all over to snorkel. I spotted a sea turtle and pointed it out to Reilly. He nodded, taking my hand and leading me out farther. We swam together for almost an hour and