weren’t exactly offended when little Marie all but kissed your feet. As I recall, you strutted around like a rooster with two tails.”
“She helped save our skins. That was simple gratitude.”
“With a touch of simple lust thrown in.”
“Lust?” He stopped directly in front of her. “She couldn’t’ve been more than sixteen.”
“Which made it all the more disgusting.”
“Yeah, well old Jacques here must be pushing twenty.”
“My, my.” Whitney pulled out her emery board and began to repair her chipped nail. “That sounds distinctly like jealousy.”
“Shit.” He paced from one door to the other. “This is one man who won’t drool over you, duchess. I’ve got better things to do.”
Giving him a half smile Whitney continued to file and hum along with Elton John.
A few moments later there was silence. When Jacques came back in, he was carrying a good-size sack in one hand and his portable stereo in the other. With a grin, he packed the rest of his tapes. “Now we’re ready. Rock and roll.”
“Won’t anyone wonder why you closed up early?” Doug opened the back door a crack and peered out.
“Close up then, close up now. Nobody cares.”
Nodding, Doug opened the door for him. “Then let’s go.”
His boat was docked less than a quarter mile away and Whitney had never seen anything like it. It was very long, perhaps fifteen feet, and no more than three feet wide. She thought of a canoe she’d once paddled at summer camp in upstate New York. This was along the same lines if one stretched it out. Light on his feet, Jacques hopped in and began to stow the gear.
The canoe was traditional Malagasy, his hat was a New York Yankees fielder’s cap, and his feet were bare. Whitney found him an odd and endearing combination of two worlds.
“Nice boat,” Doug murmured, wishing he saw an engine somewhere.
“I built her myself.” In a gesture she found very smooth and very courtly, he held out a hand for Whitney. “You can sit here,” he told her, indicating a spot in the center. “Very comfortable.”
“Thank you, Jacques.”
When he saw she was settled opposite where he would sit, he handed a long pole to Doug. “We pole out here when the water’s shallow.” Taking one himself, Jacques pushed off. The boat glided out like a swan on a lake. Relaxing, Whitney decided the boat trip had possibilities— the scent of the sea, feathery leaves dancing in the breeze, the gentle movement beneath her. Then, two feet away, she saw the ugly leathery head skim the surface.
“Ah…” It was all she could manage.
“Yes, indeed.” With a chuckle Jacques continued to pole. “Those crocks, they’re everywhere. You have to watch out for them.” He made a sound somewhere between a hiss and a roar. The round, sleepy eyes at the surface came no closer. Without a word, Doug reached in his pack, dug out the gun, and hitched it in his belt again. This time Whitney made no objection.
When the water deepened enough for them to use the paddles, Jacques switched on his stereo. Vintage Beatles blasted out. They were on their way.
Jacques paddled tirelessly, with a smooth energy and enthusiasm Whitney admired. Through the hour and a half Beatle extravaganza, he sang along in a clear tenor, grinning when Whitney joined in with him.
From the stores Jacques had brought aboard, they had a late impromptu lunch of coconut meat, berries, and cold fish. When he passed Whitney the canteen, she drank deeply, expecting plain water. Tilting the canteen down again, she swished the liquid around in her mouth. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t plain water either.
“Rano vola,” Jacques told her. “Good for traveling.”
Doug’s paddle cut through the water smoothly. “They make it by adding water to rice that sticks to the bottom of the cooking pot.”
Whitney swallowed, trying to do it graciously. “I see.” Shifting a bit, she passed the canteen down to Doug.
“You come from New York, too?”
“Yes.” Whitney popped another berry into her mouth. “Doug tells me your brother goes to college there.”
“Law school.” The letters on his T-shirt nearly trembled with pride. “He’s going to be a hotshot. He’s been to Bloomingdale’s.”
“Whitney practically lives there,” Doug said under his breath.
Ignoring him, she spoke to Jacques. “Do you plan to go to America?”
“Next year,” he told her, resting his paddle across his lap. “I visit my brother. We’re going to do the town. Times Square, Macy’s, McDonald’s.”
“I want you to call me.” As if she were in a plush East-Side restaurant, Whitney drew