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Authors: Scott C. Glennie
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dive, and even the hearty divers were dry heaving from the ocean surge by the time they boarded and stripped off their gear. Normally stable, the boat had pitched wildly in the white caps. Moored to a two-inch chain cemented to the ocean floor of the marine park, the boat was a half mile offshore and exposed in the open Caribbean Sea.
Vogel walked up the boardwalk to the rinsing station and dropped her fins, snorkel, and mask into one of the basins of fresh water. She had left the rest of her gear on the boat, including her exposure suit. Most divers waited to don their wet suits on the boat after the dive briefing. A noxious odor—a mixture of urine and saltwater—theneoprene suits tended to make her body overheat, which, when combined with the smell of diesel and ocean swells, was a recipe for chumming. She stopped by the Conch Bar, deserted, except for Karl the bartender. She ordered lemonade to hydrate. She sat by the pool area sipping the refreshing drink. Barney, the resident iguana, was sunning himself just off the boardwalk thirty feet away from the gift shop. This was Nick’s second trip to Little Cayman, but Vogel had been to the island too many times to count. She loved the Cayman Islands. They had booked one of the oceanfront villas tucked away from the resort campus. The views were splendid, and it was quiet. The resort had a tradition of karaoke on Wednesday nights. It was entertaining but not exactly why she came to a remote island with a population of less than two hundred ninety miles from Cuba. She was feeling better and decided to head back to the room to change. She would take advantage of the amenities on the island and book an afternoon spa treatment.
He was standing, naked—no mistaking Nick’s buttocks—and her back was against the shower wall, legs wrapped around him. By the sounds they were making, they were thoroughly enjoying sex. She was Madison-something, a perky strawberry blonde from Australia, with a stunning bone structure and perfect skin. She wore her hair cropped short, almost boyish. She was one of the dive masters assigned to the Fantasy. Vogel had observed Nick’s infatuation with her. Hiding behind sunglasses so he couldn’t see her reconnaissance, Vogel validated Nick’s interest in her during the dive briefings, when she stood in front of the whiteboard wearing board shortsand bikini top, using colored felt markers to diagram the dive site. She had trophy tits, a pierced belly button, and an ankle bracelet. Her happy-go-lucky personality fit Nick’s version of life—bumming around with the right crowd, getting by on good looks, and not accepting too much responsibility.
At first, Vogel felt nothing, no emotional outburst condemning them—she had caught them in the act; nor did she feel an urgent desire to flee from her adulterer. Vogel stood and watched, intoxicated by Nick’s performance. He was gifted, raising lovemaking to an art form. Finally, she slipped away undetected.
She removed her sandals and walked down to the beach. Slowly the anger swelled inside of her to the point where she wanted to scream. The rage that she felt was not directed at Nick. She was consumed by the anger of knowing her father had been right about Nick and that he had had the audacity to make his prediction known to her. She could hear his voice ringing in her ears…“I told you so!”
30
P eter Lowsley looked out the slider. The sky was gray and misting—minute droplets of moisture had replaced the horizontal rain. To the west, the clouds were thinning. There was a chance the weather on the beach would improve—sunbreaks, if they were lucky. He drained his coffee cup and slipped on a rain slicker over his fleece pullover. He would take advantage of the break in weather and load the truck.
Lowsley’s exchange with Dr. Schuler, an internationally known Harvard health care economist, continued to gnaw at him. He had been soundly beaten in their debate of health care economics and
Vogel walked up the boardwalk to the rinsing station and dropped her fins, snorkel, and mask into one of the basins of fresh water. She had left the rest of her gear on the boat, including her exposure suit. Most divers waited to don their wet suits on the boat after the dive briefing. A noxious odor—a mixture of urine and saltwater—theneoprene suits tended to make her body overheat, which, when combined with the smell of diesel and ocean swells, was a recipe for chumming. She stopped by the Conch Bar, deserted, except for Karl the bartender. She ordered lemonade to hydrate. She sat by the pool area sipping the refreshing drink. Barney, the resident iguana, was sunning himself just off the boardwalk thirty feet away from the gift shop. This was Nick’s second trip to Little Cayman, but Vogel had been to the island too many times to count. She loved the Cayman Islands. They had booked one of the oceanfront villas tucked away from the resort campus. The views were splendid, and it was quiet. The resort had a tradition of karaoke on Wednesday nights. It was entertaining but not exactly why she came to a remote island with a population of less than two hundred ninety miles from Cuba. She was feeling better and decided to head back to the room to change. She would take advantage of the amenities on the island and book an afternoon spa treatment.
He was standing, naked—no mistaking Nick’s buttocks—and her back was against the shower wall, legs wrapped around him. By the sounds they were making, they were thoroughly enjoying sex. She was Madison-something, a perky strawberry blonde from Australia, with a stunning bone structure and perfect skin. She wore her hair cropped short, almost boyish. She was one of the dive masters assigned to the Fantasy. Vogel had observed Nick’s infatuation with her. Hiding behind sunglasses so he couldn’t see her reconnaissance, Vogel validated Nick’s interest in her during the dive briefings, when she stood in front of the whiteboard wearing board shortsand bikini top, using colored felt markers to diagram the dive site. She had trophy tits, a pierced belly button, and an ankle bracelet. Her happy-go-lucky personality fit Nick’s version of life—bumming around with the right crowd, getting by on good looks, and not accepting too much responsibility.
At first, Vogel felt nothing, no emotional outburst condemning them—she had caught them in the act; nor did she feel an urgent desire to flee from her adulterer. Vogel stood and watched, intoxicated by Nick’s performance. He was gifted, raising lovemaking to an art form. Finally, she slipped away undetected.
She removed her sandals and walked down to the beach. Slowly the anger swelled inside of her to the point where she wanted to scream. The rage that she felt was not directed at Nick. She was consumed by the anger of knowing her father had been right about Nick and that he had had the audacity to make his prediction known to her. She could hear his voice ringing in her ears…“I told you so!”
30
P eter Lowsley looked out the slider. The sky was gray and misting—minute droplets of moisture had replaced the horizontal rain. To the west, the clouds were thinning. There was a chance the weather on the beach would improve—sunbreaks, if they were lucky. He drained his coffee cup and slipped on a rain slicker over his fleece pullover. He would take advantage of the break in weather and load the truck.
Lowsley’s exchange with Dr. Schuler, an internationally known Harvard health care economist, continued to gnaw at him. He had been soundly beaten in their debate of health care economics and
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