he’d bought her the minute they arrived at the ferry terminal from the airport, ten days ago. Although their trip hadn’t been successful by Bea’s measure (she hadn’t found Leo), the trip for Paul had gone exceedingly well. Bea’s spirits had oddly—or maybe predictably—risen a bit each day. Partly it was their surroundings, being away from New York, being away from the Plumbs. But partly it was because Bea seemed to let go a little bit more each day of the need to find Leo. It wasn’t anything she said—she wouldn’t talk about not finding Leo—but her dissipating urgency was obvious to Paul. Her brow seemed to smooth a little each day. Her shoulders unwound. She’d stopped chewing the side of her mouth.
Everyone else seemed convinced that Bea was on a fool’s errand. Well, if that made him the fool’s accomplice, so be it. He’d eagerly volunteered to accompany Bea when she confided how anxious she was about going alone, and not just for the opportunity of her company or to offer support for her fraught mission, but to be there to help her confront Leo if he actually appeared. Paul would be quite happy to confront Leo.
He enjoyed parts of their trip, especially the tiny side-by-side but separate wooden cottages they rented near the water, both with green tile roofs and cherry-colored bougainvillea surrounding the front doors. He appreciated the expansive view of the shimmering blue water that he could admire safely from his shaded deck. And the trip had begun with promise. An airport worker recognized Leo’s photo as someone who’d landed on a small charter from Miami some weeks ago and who hadn’t left, at least not by plane.
But after that initial hopeful sign, nothing. Nobody recognized his photo or—as Paul strongly suspected was the case—they did and didn’t say so. As Bea became increasingly frustrated, he started going out on his own some afternoons, looking in the more remote bars on the island, the places not frequented by tourists and, Paul believed, not appropriate for Bea. But those efforts ran dry, too. Two nights ago he’d coaxed her out for dinner at a small inn on the island. He took her hand in his and made his case for returning to New York. That’s as far as his physical intrusion went. She was preoccupied with Leo, occasionally despondent, and he didn’t want her to turn to him out of sadness or desperation. He’d waited this long, he could wait until they got back to New York. Or he could wait for her to make the first move. They’d been so simpatico lately that he thought he wasn’t crazy in believing she might just make the first move.
And she’d been writing nearly every day. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. He could hear her from his deck when the door to her room was open, typing on the keyboard. She demurred when he asked what she was working on, but he could tell she was pleased. And he was patient. If Paul Underwood was anything, he was extremely patient.
Then this morning, she’d excitedly knocked on his door before breakfast. She was talking so fast, he didn’t understand her at first. She’d sent fifty pages of something new to Stephanie, she told him.
“More Archie—”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “No Archie. No more freaking Archie. Something else. I don’t even know what it is yet, but listen.” Bea read from Stephanie’s e-mail, lavish with praise for the pages and ending with “Keep going. I love this. I can sell it.” And just like that, Bea was ready to go home.
They’d slipped some cash to a local police officer, asking him to “keep his eyes open” for Leo. They packed their things and booked their flights. They were waiting for the ferry to take them to the larger island’s airport. Paul walked over to Bea as she stood and tossed her empty plate of mediocre food in a nearby trash can. He had a headache.
“I’m going to go across the street to look for aspirin,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked over to the small gas station and accompanying rickety wooden building that sold mechanical parts and a smattering of groceries and other sundries. Flanking the doors were two small stands with boxes of mangoes in various states of ripening, swarms of fruit flies hovering over each crate. Inside, Paul went to grab the guava soda Bea liked. He could hear a lively crowd in a side room, a