Beachbound Page 9

Philip paused for dramatic effect, taking a sip of water to allow the suspense to build. Nina glanced around the room. Some delegates had pushed back their chairs and were listening politely with their hands folded on their laps and faintly bored expressions on their faces. Others were focused on their coconut cupcakes. After a moment of silence, Philip began again in a booming voice that made Nina and everyone else in the audience jump. He had everyone’s attention now.

  “As I sat in my study in New York pondering what I should say this evening, a cut-glass tumbler of Delancy’s fine rum at my elbow, I recalled something Rudyard Kipling once said. ‘The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.’”

  He took an exaggerated deep breath with his eyes closed, fanning the imaginary scents of exotic lands into his nostrils with his hand. He was too close to the microphone, so it sounded like Darth Vader. Undeterred, he continued.

  “When I was a young man, just starting out in this field, I once walked four days through the mountains to sit at the feet of a wise man. A shepherd. We dined together on boiled chicken feet, sitting by his modest campfire under a starlit sky, and although I could not speak his language, nor he mine, we shared that moment in time, fellow travelers on this blue planet hurtling through space. It was an authentic moment. I can still recall the smell of the sweet mountain grass, the tang of the wood smoke, and the intoxicating aroma of the simple but delicious meal we shared.”

  “Why were there chickens roaming around in the mountains?” said Victor, leaning across the table to help himself to another glass of wine. “If the man was a shepherd, wouldn’t his diet be sheep or goat every day of the week? I smell a rat.”

  Philip scanned the audience again and then shook his head slowly.

  “I cannot help but be struck by the contrast with the gathering here this evening. We’ve become soft, my friends. If you can believe it, I actually saw an article on the surfing culture in Wisconsin in one of our learned journals the other day.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I guess they will print anything these days. Pandering to the illiterate nineteen-year-olds who come into our classrooms to nap every afternoon.”

  Beside her, Nina felt Razor sit up in his seat and exhale angrily.

  “Did you hear that?” Razor said indignantly. “That was a shot at me! I’ve had just about enough of that washed-up old has-been. Where does he get off?” He looked around the table for support. Sylvia met his gaze and pursed her lips, then turned her attention back to the podium without comment. Bubba and Nancy Delancy looked at each other. Bridget was wide-eyed.

  “Don’t let it rattle you, old boy,” said Victor. “Water off a duck’s back. Philip revels in being provocative. It’s his idea of being cutting-edge.”

  “Your paper sounds very interesting. I’m looking forward to reading it,” said Nina, touching Razor lightly on the arm. He startled at her touch, and she quickly withdrew her hand. His face was red with embarrassment and anger. He nodded curtly and stared down at his plate for a moment. Then he abruptly pushed back his chair, mumbled, “Excuse me,” and rose and walked briskly to the bar adjoining the dining room. Through the door, Nina saw him climb onto a bar stool and signal the bartender with two fingers.

  “What a shame,” said Nancy Delancy sympathetically.

  Up at the podium, Philip was just getting warmed up.

  “I guess we should not be surprised that such rubbish is being produced these days,” he continued. “I have not had a single graduate student of decent intellect in the last ten years, let alone one with real promise.”

  Bridget let out a startled whimper. Her face flushed crimson.

  “Oh, Philip. For heaven’s sake! Put a sock in it,” yelled Sylvia. “For once in your life, try to be the man your dog thinks you are!”

  Philip was undeterred.

  “John Steinbeck, one of America’s foremost writers, wrote in his novel Travels with Charley, ‘We don’t take a trip; a trip takes us.’ He was talking about the transformative power of travel. When asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, mountaineer George Mallory famously replied, ‘Because it is there.’ Today, if you ask the average person how they chose their travel destination, they’re likely to say, ‘I got a really good seat sale, and the hotel has free Wi-Fi.’ The young men of Mallory’s generation forged their characters paddling the uncharted rivers of Amazonia or trekking across the ice floes of Antarctica on a quest to reach the pole. Today’s generation is made up of drunken louts on spring break whose idea of adventure is a wet T-shirt contest at an all-inclusive resort! I fear, my friends, that it signals no less than the end of our civilization.”

  Sylvia rolled her eyes and took another large gulp of wine.

  Bubba turned to Nina with a baffled look on his face. “What is he talking about? The end of civilization? Drunken louts on spring break? We sell rum. Does he know that? We sell good times. I sponsored this event because I wanted to polish the brand a bit, grab some market share in the snob segment. He just insulted my core customers! I sell a lot of booze to the beach resorts when the temperature starts to drop up north. It’s a solid revenue stream.”

  Philip wasn’t finished.

  “It is our duty as sociologists in the field of leisure studies to document this alarming societal transformation and to seek out authentic cultural experiences to share with our less learned fellow human beings. However, our profession is now filled with mediocrities and lushes who dole out infotainment just to please the masses.”

  “Oh, how flattering. He didn’t forget me,” said Victor. He stood and raised his glass in Philip’s direction. “Cheers, old man! Here’s a quote for you: ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars!’ Oscar Wilde. Emphasis added.”

  Victor bowed and sat down. He smiled and looked around to acknowledge the smattering of applause.

  Philip jutted out his chin and clutched the edges of the podium with both hands.

  Nancy Delancy clapped and whistled. “All right, Victor! Good one. This is getting interesting! Usually I want to stick a fork in my leg at this stage in the evening.”

  Philip pounded the podium with his fist.

  “I will not be silenced! It is my duty to speak truth to power!” he shouted.

  “Just what power is he speaking truth to, I wonder?” mused Victor. “I can’t imagine Philip considered himself inferior in authority to any of us.”

  At the other tables, people were beginning to look at one another, confused. Some were laughing. A few had thrown down their napkins in apparent disgust, pushed back their chairs, and made their way to the bar. Philip had lost his audience.

  The Canadian culinary-tourism expert Philip had lassoed into serving as mistress of ceremonies for the evening quickly made her way to the podium and squeezed in front of Philip to reach the microphone.

  “Yes, I’d like to thank Professor Putzel for opening the conference with his thought-provoking remarks. You have given us much to think about as we meet over the next few days. As a token of our appreciation, please accept this coffee mug and a gift certificate for Shelley’s Beach Boutique. Thank you, Dr. Putzel.” She demonstrated to the audience that they should clap, and there was a half-hearted smattering of applause as Philip took the gift bag from her hands with an abrupt nod.

  “We’ll get under way at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning with a panel discussion on Leg Room: The Airline Industry’s Dirty Little Secret. That should be a lively discussion. See you all then,” she concluded.

  The gathering began to disperse.

  “Well, it’s never easy to be the truth-teller, but I think that went well,” Philip said as he approached his table.

  “Put that in the next newsletter, will you, Bridget?” he continued as he sat down. “Something like this: ‘At this year’s very successful Delancy Symposium organized by Philip Putzel on Pineapple Cay, Dr. Putzel delivered a keynote address on the importance of academic rigor in the field of leisure studies. The address was well receive
d, with one delegate remarking that Dr. Putzel had given her much to think about.’ Have you got that?”

  Bridget didn’t answer, just rose and stalked to the door. Philip gazed after her with a puzzled expression for a short moment, then turned to Bubba.

  “Did you notice how I slipped in a reference to Delancy’s right up front? In the same sentence with Rudyard Kipling, to elevate the tone a bit. I thought you’d appreciate that.”

  “All I noticed was your fatwa against my core business from the podium I paid for,” said Bubba. “Let’s go, Nancy. I need a drink.”

  The Delancys got up and left, and Victor laughed quietly. Philip looked around the table. His eyes alighted on his first ex-wife.

  “So, Sylvia—”

  “No, Philip, sorry,” said Sylvia firmly, tucking her bag under her arm and rising to leave. “Massaging your ego is no longer something I do. Nina, Victor, I’ll be having a nightcap in the bar later if you care to join me. Right now, I need some air.”

  They watched her make her way to the door.

  “Fascinating oratory, Philip,” said Victor across the now nearly empty table. “And interesting that you’ve already concluded that the conference has been very successful, when in fact it has not yet begun. The night is young, so to speak, Philip. Anything could happen. There could be a renewal of hostilities between the water-park crowd and the wilderness-canoe faction, for example. The first rule of rigorous academic research: never assume anything.”

  Philip looked at Victor for a moment with pursed lips, but he did not reply. He turned to Nina and announced, “I want to get an early start tomorrow. Meet me here at eight o’clock, please, to go over the last-minute details.”

  “Yes, Philip. Of course,” said Nina, thinking she would be very glad when he boarded the plane back to the frozen north.

  “Dr. Putzel?” A young woman stood by Philip’s chair, holding a copy of his latest tome. “I just finished your book on pet tourism, and I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed it.”

  He rose quickly to his feet.

  “Thank you, yes. It is a terribly understudied area of research, given the central importance of pets in modern society. Let me buy you a drink, and I’ll answer any questions you may have.” He put his hand on her back and propelled her ahead of him in the direction of the bar.

  “There is always one, and that is always enough,” said Victor.

  “I told Ted I’d meet him for a drink after we finished. He’s probably waiting for me in the bar,” Nina said, standing up and stretching her arms.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to be a third wheel again tonight,” said Victor. “I could use some peace and quiet after all that. I think I’ll take a walk on the beach. See you in the morning, Nina.”

  He smiled and strolled leisurely to the door and down the veranda steps with his hands in his pockets. Nina watched him cross the lawn to the beach and disappear from sight before she made her own way to the bar.

  Ted was standing at the bar talking to Michel, who was mixing drinks behind the long, polished wooden counter. Philip was ensconced in the corner with his young admirer.

  “Hi,” Ted said, greeting her with a smile. “How did it go?”

  “Oh, well, no one threw anything,” said Nina. They chatted with Michel for a few minutes, then took their glasses out onto the veranda, looking for a quiet corner. They sat and talked for an hour, undisturbed. Ted told her about his visit home to Florida to see his family, including his three sisters. Nina told him about growing up with her two brothers in Maine. He asked about her old life in New York, and she answered as best she could without dwelling on the gory details of her expired marriage. She asked him about life at the fishing lodge, and he made her laugh. Nina glanced at her watch. It was ten o’clock. They stood and walked down the steps onto the beach.

  Sylvia was walking toward them from the direction of her bungalow, her four-inch heels dangling from one finger.

  “I’m just headed to the bar for a nightcap. Care to join me?” she asked as she approached.

  “Thanks, Sylvia, but I think we’re going to head out,” said Nina.

  “All right, then. I could use a drink.” She exhaled sharply. “I just saw Razor Hudson, and he’s still in a state. Pacing the beach in front of his bungalow. I wonder if Philip has any idea of the upset he’s caused. No, of course he doesn’t. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Nina. Good night, Ted.”

  She trotted up the stairs to the veranda and into the bar. Through the lit doorway, Nina could see Philip at the bar, talking in an animated fashion to someone just out of sight and having a grand old time. Nina watched Sylvia give him a wide berth and disappear from sight. Nina looked at Ted and was just about to say they should head home when she heard someone call her name.

  “Hiya, Nina!” It was Bridget careening toward them arm in arm with Nina’s neighbor Les, the professional gambler.

  Where had she picked him up? They both looked like they’d had a few too many piña coladas. The expression of shock and dismay Bridget had worn while Philip was making his speech was gone. In fact, she was beaming. Bridget and Les stumbled to a halt in front of Nina and Ted, holding each other up. Les looked at Nina warily through half-closed eyes and wagged his finger at her before focusing on Bridget. She was laughing in snorts.

  “Can you believe that arrogant son-of-a-beach-ball?” she said, her speech slurred. “I did that research! That was my work he was talking about as if he’d done it all himself. Bwana Putzel and the mountain shepherd. Ha!” She stumbled, and Les pulled her up. They swayed in unison on the sand.

  “I’ve worked for him for five years. Philip, I mean,” said Bridget. “I have worked for him for five years.” She imitated Philip Putzel’s patronizing nasal drone: “Bridget, please go read every book in the library and have a concise summary on my desk by Monday morning.” Then she imitated herself, the ever-eager, perky assistant: “‘Of course, sir. Yes, Professor Putzel, I’ll get right on that.’ Five years! And then he spelled my name wrong on the letter of reference I asked him to write for a new job I really, really wanted. The letter was a paragraph long. Talk about damning with faint praise! I didn’t get the job. Well, to hell with him. I quit! I’m going to work at A Cuppa Joe instead. Gladly. And right now, we”—she looked at Les—“what’s your name again? Anyway, we’re going to celebrate by going skinny-dipping in the ocean followed by a soak in the hot tub on the roof of my villa. Yahoo! Freedom! Want to come?” She looked expectantly at Nina and Ted.

  “Well, maybe not tonight, but thanks, anyway,” said Nina.

  “Nina’s a bit uptight. Repressed,” Les said in a confidential tone near Bridget’s ear—but loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Nina bit her lip hard to prevent herself from replying.

  “Too bad, but the night is young. See you tomorrow, then. Bye!” said Bridget, waving goodbye as she and Les lurched away toward Bridget’s rental villa, which was on the far side of Sylvia’s bungalow.

  Nina and Ted motored slowly back to her cottage in Ted’s boat. He sat in the stern with one hand on the tiller. Nina sat on the bench facing him, the warm wind whipping loose strands of hair across her face. They passed Bubba’s enormous, brightly lit yacht and headed up the shore. The Redoubt was a glowing beacon in the middle of the darkened, sleeping village. They could hear the band from across the water. There was a bonfire on the beach in front. It looked like a good time, but they didn’t stop. Ted beached the skiff on the sand in front of Nina’s cottage, hopped out, and extended his hand to Nina, helping her out of the boat while she clutched the hem of her silk dress and shoes in her other hand. The water felt warm lapping over her feet, ankles, and shins. They paused for a moment and faced each other. The moon was high in the sky, lighting a glittering path across the water to the beach where they stood. He smiled at her. She smiled back. She marveled again at his long blond eyelashes and warm brown eyes.

  “I’ve got your hat. You left it at The Redoubt the other day. Wou
ld you like to come up for a cup of tea?” she asked, her heart pounding.

  “Yes, I would,” he said with a slow smile. She turned to make her way up the sand, but Ted caught her hand and drew her back beside him. He kissed her lips tenderly, and she felt her knees buckle slightly.

  “You smell wonderful,” he said softly in her ear.

  “So do you,” she whispered.

  Hand in hand, they walked slowly up the sandy path from the beach and through the small grove of tall coconut palm trees that stood in front of her veranda. The cottage was dark. Ted kissed the back of her neck as she pushed open the unlocked door and dropped her shoes on the floor inside. He shut the screen door behind them softly, then put his arms around her and kissed her again. She kissed him back, feeling his heart pounding against her chest.

  “We should tell them we’re here,” said Andrew Gallagher’s voice in the darkness.

  The lamp by the sofa snapped on, and Pansy, Andrew, and Danish rose slowly up from behind the sofa.

  “Surprise!” said Pansy weakly.

  “Awkward,” said Danish.

  Nina and Ted let their arms fall to their sides.

  “Um, happy birthday, Nina,” said Pansy. “Sorry. We’ll get out of your hair. Um, hi, Ted.”

  “Hi,” said Ted. “Is it your birthday?” he asked Nina.

  “Um, yes. How did you know?” she asked the three still standing behind the sofa.

  “I work at the post office,” said Danish. Danish’s day job was delivering the mail in Coconut Cove. “Three card-size envelopes delivered to your address in the past week. All postmarked Maine. One was a little thicker than the others. Maybe one of those talking cards from Grandma. One small package from a Louise Ely in New York. Probably earrings, something like that. I cross-referenced this information with the photocopy of your passport obtained by Pansy when you bought your house—”

  “Sorry, Nina,” Pansy broke in. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I told him your birthday.”

  “—and bingo. Nina Spark, thirty-seven years old today. I’m a professional investigator, don’t forget,” said Danish, obviously pleased with himself.