Everything is better than Nathan hoped it would be. The little island with its one elegant hotel is even more paradisiacal than he’d dreamed. Nearly all the tourists have returned to the mainland, and the food in the hotel restaurant is exquisite, the wine surprisingly good. And the beach is the beach of Nathan’s fantasies—fine white sand sloping gently to a turquoise lagoon with a backdrop of palm trees beneath a cerulean sky.
Nathan hopes to meet a beautiful woman on this beach. She will have a lovely body and a gorgeous smile. She will be ripe to meet the love of her life, and Nathan will be that love.
Nathan is forty-seven. The woman he hopes to meet will be in her thirties. In his fantasy, the woman reveals her formidable charm and sophistication in the very first words she speaks to him. She finds his wry sense of humor irresistible, and when she learns that he owns a successful company and a fine home in San Francisco, she confesses to a lifelong desire to live in California.
The beach is empty. There is not a breath of wind. Nathan imagines walking to the end of the white sand—a half mile away—and encountering the woman on his way back. The top of his head, which is bald, begins to ache from too much sun, so he puts on his new straw hat, though it doesn’t fit him well and makes him sweat profusely. He ordered the hat from a catalogue of Australian outback gear. The models in the catalogue are muscular, ruggedly handsome men wearing their hats tipped at rakish angles. Nathan tips his hat at an angle, too, though he is not muscular or ruggedly handsome. His jungle camouflage shorts and beige sun shirt came from this same catalogue of outback attire.
A dozen yards from the hotel, the soles of Nathan’s tender feet begin to burn on the sand, so he hurries to the water’s edge where tiny waves lap the shore. Standing in the deliciously cool water, Nathan is consumed by visions of the woman he hopes to meet. He imagines swimming in the lagoon with her, watching the sunset with her from the hotel verandah as they sip icy rum drinks, and going to his suite to make love with her.
The day is far hotter than Nathan expected it would be. Halfway down the beach, he is exhausted and thirsty. Finding himself entirely alone, he strips down to his bright red underwear and dives into the blissfully cool water.
“Oh, God, yes,” he croons, rolling onto his back and letting out a huge sigh of relief.
Thousands of tiny silver fish dart through the water around him, flashing in the sunlight like diamonds. Two white terns drift above him in the depthless sky. The rhythmic whispering of the surf lulls him into peacefulness he has not known since childhood. And into this peace comes a memory of being a boy sitting on a high stool in a warm kitchen, his beloved grandmother kneading dough, her cheeks rosy from the oven’s heat, a plate of freshly baked cookies steaming in the winter sunlight.
Now a feathery white cloud appears in the sky above him and he trembles to realize that he is no longer a little boy, but a man floating on his back in the waters of the Caribbean, a man with no idea of how long he has been drifting there. With some reluctance, he allows his legs to sink, and he becomes upright in the water. He looks back at the beach where his clothes should be, but to his horror they have disappeared.
Panic-stricken, he swims to shore. Seeing no footprints other than his own on the wet sand, he assumes that a thief or thieves must have emerged from the palm trees, crossed the short expanse of sand, and taken his clothes and his wallet full of credit cards.
He stands on the beach, frozen in fear, imagining the thieves boarding a jet and flying to San Francisco. Knowing his address from his driver’s license, they park a large van in front of his house and steal all his valuable possessions.
He runs toward the hotel, seeing himself canceling his credit cards and warning the police in San Francisco that robbers may very well be on their way to ransack his home.
“Fortunately,” he gasps, “I left my travelers checks in my room, so . . .” But wait! His room keys were in his shorts. He sees the thieves—two shadowy figures—finding the traveler’s checks in his suitcase and taking his portable computer.
Now a woman appears in the distance. She is walking toward him on the wet sand at the water’s edge. She moves with languid ease, her body slender and shapely, her long reddish brown hair caught in a ponytail. Her straw hat is the twin of the one Nathan just lost—all but two of the buttons on her long-sleeved white shirt undone over her bright pink bikini.
Nathan’s entire being becomes focused on his stomach bulging over his bright red underwear. Terrified of meeting this woman so undressed, he plunges back into the water and swims away until he is farther out than he has ever been in his life. Yet as he turns to look back at the shore, he sees the woman swimming out to him, coursing through the water like some fantastic mermaid.
In no time she is treading water beside him, flashing a brilliant smile.
“Hello,” she says, her voice enchanting. “I was hoping I could entice you to swim with me. We seem to be the only ones here and they say it’s not safe to swim alone.”
“Oh,” he says, dazzled by her sparkling eyes, “I thought you were coming to rescue me.”
She laughs. “Maybe I am. My name is Stephanie Anders. Who are you?”
“Nathan,” he replies, his heart pounding. “Nathan Porter.”
“Nathan,” she says thoughtfully. “I’ve always loved that name. Where are you from?”
“San Francisco. And you?”
“I was born in San Francisco,” she says, her voice deepening mysteriously. “But I’ve been living in Spain for the last few years. In Barcelona. I’m writing a book about the new generation of Spanish artists.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Spain,” he says wistfully. “But for some reason I never have. Gone.”
“You’d love it,” she says, swimming closer, “though I must admit I prefer France. I love the language so.”
“It is a beautiful language,” says Nathan, overcome by a fierce wave of anxiety. “I’ve got to go in now. Sorry. I . . . I was just robbed. I’ve got to cancel my credit cards and call the police. Sorry.”
“Robbed?” she says, frowning incredulously. “Here? I’ve never heard of anyone being . . .”
“Yes,” he says, swimming toward shore. “They must have been hiding in the jungle waiting for me to go in the water.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, swimming beside him. “I’ve been coming here for years and . . .”
“Of course I’m sure,” he snarls, wishing she would disappear—hating that she will see him in his too tight red underwear in the glaring sun, his stomach bulging. “You think I’m an idiot?”
“No,” she says, slowing down to let him go ahead. “I was only trying to help.”
THAT EVENING ON the hotel veranda, the sky aflame with golden clouds, Nathan waits for Stephanie to appear. He is eager to tell her the good news about his things—that they were found exactly where he left them.
“Sometimes people get disoriented when they first go into the lagoon,” explained the hotel manager. “Something about the light, the white sand, the sameness of the palms. Happens all the time. But we’ve never had anything stolen here.”
Nathan imagines Stephanie standing at the entrance to the dining room, a diaphanous dress clinging to her lovely form. He sees himself rising gallantly and crossing the room to her. He hears himself saying, “Please forgive me for my unreasonable outburst. I was disoriented and upset. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”
The golden clouds turn gray—dusk laying claim to the island. A waiter moves silently about the veranda, lighting candles. Nathan finishes his third glass of wine and beckons to the hotel manager, a dapper man with gray hair and a handlebar mustache.
“Tell me,” says Nathan, finding it difficult to focus. “You have a guest here named Stephanie Anders. I’m wondering . . .”
“Oh, yes,” says the manager, nodding slowly. “She left this afternoon. A sudden change of plans.”
