"Why?"

"Same reason."

"There isn't anything there for you."

Monica lowered her sungla.s.ses. "Do you have some illegitimate children down there you want to tell me about? Are you wanted by the law? Because I don't believe it's just about uncomfortable memories."

Bruce gave her an acid look. Monica looked out at the approaching sh.o.r.e. She spotted her narrow, two-story cottage with its double layer of decks facing the sea among the tightly packed crowd of beach homes. It was Bruce's future retirement home, and Monica paid the mortgage while she was living there. It surprised her that he had elected a house by the sea. She would have expected him to look for something buried deep in the forests, something more solitary and landlocked, like him.

"Dad," Monica said softly as their boat approached the sh.o.r.e, "do you remember that time Mom took me to watch a birth and the girl gave the baby to me?"

Bruce looked up from behind the rim of his hat. "Yeah."

"Why didn't we keep him?"

Bruce got out of the boat and tossed the cooler onto the seawall. He got a scaling knife out and began to gut the fish, tossing the fish parts into the water. He rinsed everything off with a garden hose from the neighbor's yard. "Your mother didn't want any more kids and I wasn't home nearly enough to take responsibility for an adopted child. Besides, look what a mess our family turned out to be. He's better off."

"What about what you wanted, Dad? Why was it always about what she wanted?"

"Parenting requires buy-in from both sides."

"Did you guys try counseling or anything like that?"

Bruce turned his head suddenly, as if the conversation had suddenly crossed a line into the distasteful. He took a deep breath and Monica understood that this was the last thing he was going to say on the subject. "We didn't need anyone to tell us what was wrong with us. We knew exactly what was wrong with us."

They packed their fish in freezer bags. "Fish for strength, fish for stealth," Monica intoned as she rearranged the frozen strawberries and chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s to make room in her freezer.

chapter 6 A SHARK TOOTH.

On Thursday, Monica rushed home from work to freshen up and change into loose cotton clothing before her evening appointment. Her father had given Will Lucero his ma.s.sage time slot as thanks for the interview. Monica had protested that he had no right to do that, but of course by then it was too late. "Besides," Bruce had said, "you owe him something for getting Sylvia all riled up about cone venom"

She opened her front door at ten minutes to six. "Hola," "Hola," Will said, bending down to kiss her politely on the cheek. Will said, bending down to kiss her politely on the cheek.

She pointed over her shoulder toward the interior of the house. "I'm ready for you," she said, her standard greeting suddenly sounding provocative. She bit her lip. As he pa.s.sed, she noticed that he smelled freshly showered-of Ivory soap and clean cotton. His hair was still wet.

Will approached the large picture window in her living room that faced the water. He crossed his arms and said, "There's just something about the water ... it's so peaceful."

Monica gave him a tour of the downstairs and the deck, but stopped short at the stairs leading up to the second floor. He complimented her taste in furnishings, the black-and-white photography in paper-thin black frames, hung in cl.u.s.ters throughout the house.

"You could paint this wall a bold color like indigo blue or black cherry," he said, making wide, sweeping motions in front of the cutout wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area. "Maybe with some light texturing. It would completely rebalance this room. You could pick up any of those three colors from the rug under your dining set. You have so much light in here." Monica folded her arms over her chest and stuck her lower lip out as she considered it. Will said, "I'm the finance guy at my family's company, but I watch the decorators. I'm always amazed what color on the walls can do to change a room and create a mood."

"I need something to offset the gloominess that sets in after October."

Will put a hand on his chin and looked around. "Then what you need is b.u.t.ter- or lemon-colored walls. Details in tangerine. Poppy. Fuchsia. You'll be so happy all the time, you won't be able to stand yourself."

Monica laughed and thought, I like him I like him. She said, "This entire part of the country is plagued by too much gray, white, brown. Maybe we should all paint our houses in crazy colors like they do in the Bahamas. It would be so wonderfully defiant to have a watermelon-colored house."

"Especially in January, when there's three feet of snow on the ground."

Monica stepped into the kitchen. "Can I get you anything to drink before we get started?"

"Water is fine," he said, following her. He cleared his throat. "I had no idea you were a Latina. When your dad told me you were born and raised in Central America, I was floored. You're tall, slim; you have green eyes, no accent. I would have guessed you were Irish. You are definitely hard to place, ethnically speaking."

Monica smiled and hunched her shoulders, handing him a gla.s.s. "Really?"

"What did your mom look like?" He followed her out of the kitchen, and she walked over to a blond wood table that ran along the wall at the foot of the staircase. She grabbed an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven photo in a polished silver frame and handed it to Will.

"It's you," he said.

"No, it's my mother. You think it's me because she's squinting and you can't see her eyes that well."

They stood staring at Alma's photo for a moment. A shark tooth hung from Alma's neck, glowing bright in the sun like a tiny dagger. A thin blindfold of her long, coiled black hair was blowing over her laughing face. Will looked up at Monica, then back at the picture and back at Monica. "Amazing. The smile is exactly the same." He handed her the frame. "She's beautiful."

Monica thanked him, blushing at the reflected compliment, and had to spend a few extra seconds fussing over the items on the table so as not to have to turn and look at him right away.

"So are you ready?" she said cheerfully, looking at her watch. "Six o'clock on the nose. Would you prefer to be ma.s.saged out on the deck or here inside?"

Will craned his neck and looked outside, raised one eyebrow. "It's a bit muggy outside. How about right here? We still get the view."

Monica nodded. Her "soothing ma.s.sage" CD was ready to go and her ma.s.sage creams were warming in a pump bottle plugged into the wall. "Do you have boxers on under there?" she asked, pointing to his pants, blushing uncontrollably this time. "Or do you need to borrow a pair?"

Will smiled and said, "No, I'm all set. Where's the bathroom?"

She pointed to the half bath next to the entrance. He walked down the hall, bending down to scoop up a small duffel bag that Monica had not noticed before. She heard him banging his elbows against the walls of the small half bath. She remembered his fall in her office. Was he accident-p.r.o.ne? She was pondering this when he came out, bare-chested, with biker's shorts poking out of another pair of more loosely fitting athletic shorts. Monica was both impressed by his physique and relieved by his modesty. Some of her clients chose to wear nothing but a towel.

"I don't know if you're interested, but I have some extra faucet k.n.o.bs I could give you for that half bath. They're the old-fashioned porcelain kind that are labeled HOT HOT and and COLD COLD in black letters. I think they'd look nice with the antique white linen theme you have going on in there." in black letters. I think they'd look nice with the antique white linen theme you have going on in there."

Monica patted the ma.s.sage table. "Yes, I'd love them. Now, no more redecorating. Just lie down here and stare out at the water for me."

"I'm sorry, I hope I'm not being obnoxious."

"No, no. I just want you to forget your work and relax."

He lay down. Soon he was under the spell of her healing hands, and her fingers glided over the vastness of his freckled back. No thin sliver of neck tension here. This man had solid tension everywhere, the kind that came from rigorous physical activity combined with intense emotional stress. His oohs and aahs came quickly and spontaneously, especially when she flattened out the palm of her hand and pressed down on the muscle centers, radiating the heat of their inflammation. She accidentally brushed his lips with the yoke of one finger while she ma.s.saged his face. He opened his eyes and looked at her, smiled, then turned his head and closed his eyes again. She felt a spark of pleasure spiral its way down through her body, and it made her terribly uncomfortable.

Instead of trying to tune in to the language of her client's body-those little clues and patterns of the body that spoke so loudly-she made an effort to tune them out. She tried to focus on the skill of her own movements, to pace her breathing so that she wouldn't tire so fast. After all, deep-tissue ma.s.sage on a muscular man took a great deal of strength. She couldn't help but notice the little bruises here and there, the way he recoiled slightly when she pressed them.

"Is someone beating you?" Monica asked. "I've counted five bruises already."

"Oh, it's just from working like an idiot. I'm so crazed all the time, rushing around and trying to do too many things. For the last two weeks I've been b.u.mping into stuff, falling off chairs, tripping on rugs."

"This might hurt a little, but it helps distribute the blood that's pooled under there." She rubbed the bruises, then slapped them lightly. "They'll go away in two or three days. Is there anything you can drop to make life a little easier on yourself?" She put her hand flat on his back. "Don't answer that. It's just a question I pose to all my clients, something for you to consider. A tiny bit of restraint can save your neck, your back, your feet, you name it. Stress is so expensive in the end."

"That's why I sail on Tuesdays," he mumbled. "It's one big deep-brain-tissue ma.s.sage. It gets the bad gunk out. Clears my head."

Monica squirted fresh ma.s.sage cream into her hands while he continued, "But even with the antistress effects of sailing, I'm still sore around my neck, my shoulders, along my spine. Three of our guys called in sick on the same day this week, so I had to pitch in with the heavy lifting."

She rubbed up and down his spine. This was the part when most people got quiet. But Will kept chatting away. "To answer your question, I don't know what I could drop. I can't work less, our business is only eight years old, and we have to be aggressive about building relationships with contractors and customers. I exercise; I visit Yvettte and stay on top of all her health care. That's a full plate right there. Sometimes I think I should just sell the house in Durham and move closer to New Haven, but I love our house, I restored it myself." He sighed, a big hopeless exhaling.

"Is there any chance Yvettte could be moved to a facility nearer to home?"

"She's at the closest facility already."

Will was silent for a moment, then said, "So what do you do to get your gunk out, Monica?"

Monica paused her ma.s.saging for just a few seconds before beginning again, taking a half step back to leverage more strength. "I fish with my dad. I volunteer at the Mystic Aquarium doing educational projects for kids. I take a ferry out to Martha's Vineyard and spend the weekend. Oh, and I hang out with my boyfriend."

"And what puts the gunk into into your life?" he asked, his voice m.u.f.fled by a towel Monica had stuffed under his neck. your life?" he asked, his voice m.u.f.fled by a towel Monica had stuffed under his neck.

"Mostly my boyfriend." She laughed, but her laugh sounded brittle even to herself. She felt something pa.s.s under her hand-a tensing, then releasing. He had been about to say something, then decided not to.

"But you know what?" she said, digging her fist around his deltoids. "You're here to relax, not to talk about problems."

"I'm relaxed just talking to you. But okay. I'll shut my trap."

Over the next fifteen minutes, Monica thought of three things she wanted to ask him, but bit her tongue. Will was finally silent, and although she was itching to learn more about him, the ideal environment for him to reap the full impact of her hard work was silence. Monica could tell that he was, as she called it, "gelling down." He was relaxing, releasing endorphins, a mild euphoria setting into his muscles. His thoughts were wandering freely. Soon he would start to feel sleepy.

Next, Monica got to work on his feet. She squirted warm cream on one hand and kneaded, rubbed, and pulled his toes so they made little snapping sounds. In a moment, she heard his heavy breathing; a few moments later, light snoring.

She always stopped at this stage, because what was the point of ma.s.saging someone who was asleep? She would let him sleep for twenty minutes, then wake him up and finish the ma.s.sage. She moved about quietly, washed her hands, and went into the kitchen to get something to drink. Then, she stepped out to the deck, laced her fingers together, and did some quick stretches. She breathed in the muggy air, and even though it was sticky and uncomfortable, she decided to stay outside a few minutes.

She looked at her watch. Kevin wasn't due to take her out to dinner for another hour and a half. Plenty of time. Thursday and Sat.u.r.day were their date nights, and Kevin was rigid about that because he watched his favorite TV shows on Mondays and Wednesdays. Tuesday and Friday nights he worked out at the gym and Monica gave ma.s.sages at home.

When the twenty minutes were up, she stepped back into the house, relieved to return to the air-conditioning. Will was still asleep, facedown. She opened a wood armoire and searched for a livelier CD. She popped in a collection of flamenco ballads and lowered the volume. Her intention was to raise the volume slowly, so as not to startle him.

Monica heard a soft clicking sound behind her. She turned around to see Kevin, in shirt and tie, appear in the hallway, jacket tossed over one arm. In his other hand was his laptop computer bag. The hallway was carpeted, so he had not made any noise as he came in. Monica held her index finger up to her lips to hush him. But something caught his eye and he looked away for a second or two and did not see her. He stepped into the living room, his work shoes clicking on the hardwood floor as he said, in a loud, irritated voice, "Who the h.e.l.l is parked in my spot?" As he spoke, he turned slightly to toss a handful of keys into a nearby ceramic bowl. The keys made a loud jangling noise.

Will's lids peeled open and he sat up, fists raised, muscles flexed, his face registering a wild confusion. Startled, Kevin jumped back, letting go of his computer bag to hold his hands out in front of him. The bag landed with a loud crash on his foot.

Monica sprang to Will's side and put her hand on his arm. "Easy, easy," she said. "I was ma.s.saging you and you fell asleep."

Will shook his head and dropped back onto the table, flopping one hand over his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Monica said. "I didn't expect him for another hour or so." She shot Kevin a look. "Thanks, Kevin. All that work for nothing."

Will sat up again and leaned on one elbow. "Are you kidding? You were great."

At those last three words, Kevin turned and eyed Will's muscular upper body. A little frown line appeared between his eyebrows.

Will stepped off the ma.s.sage table and offered his palm to Kevin. "Instincts, man. I didn't know where I was. I'm sorry." Kevin accepted the handshake, but his face was bright red.

"Is your foot all right?" Monica said, pointing to Kevin's foot. "That had to hurt."

"I'm fine," Kevin mumbled, motioning dismissively with his hand and limping up over to the stairs, where he took his shoe off and rubbed the toes inside his black sock.

After Will changed back into his clothes, Monica walked him out to his car. He gave her sixty dollars for the ma.s.sage. Monica refused the money and apologized three times, and each time he repeated that the fright hadn't ruined his ma.s.sage and pressed the bills into her hand.

"I really like your dad," Will said, changing the subject. "We've met three times already. I imagine he told you he's considering going down to Clinica Caracol to do some nosing around."

"What did you say?" Monica stopped.

"He wants to write an article about brain-"

"I know that part. The name of the clinic is Caracol?"

"Yeah, the word for 'seash.e.l.l' in Spanish."

"I know what it means," she said. "Caracol was the name of the beach house I grew up in. My dad didn't mention that detail."

"He said your mom was searching for a miracle snail up until the time she died. No wonder he's so interested."

Monica raised an eyebrow at Will. "Really? He talked to you about my mom?"

"Not really. I'll stop by to see you at the office one of these days. Yvette is vocalizing, moving a little, doing some things out of the blue. Dr. Bauer is retesting."

"That's great news."

Will shrugged. "The human body does a lot of things on a completely involuntary basis. Some activities can be misinterpreted as reactive when they're not. Yvette's 'crying' turned out to be the result of eye irritation. Some of the early signs that we saw-yawning and the opening and closing of the eyes-is a circadian rhythm directed in the brain stem and isn't one of the upper-cortex functions we're looking for. Same goes for the noises. They appear to be just noises, rather than attempts to communicate. The challenge is to determine if a specific activity is deliberate."

Monica blinked. "Sounds like a h.e.l.l of a roller-coaster ride, Will."

Will opened the driver's door to his truck and leaned against the open door. He examined his key ring as he spoke. "After we pa.s.sed the one-year mark, I chose not to let it be a roller-coaster ride. Call it logic, call it pessimism, call it a self-defense mechanism, call it by any name. When it comes to brain injury, time is your enemy. The longer you're out"-he pointed to his temple-"the slimmer your chances of coming back. Once a person's been vegetative for a year, the outcome has already shown itself. What is five percent improvement? Ten percent, twenty? What does it mean if a year from now Yvette can complete a toddler's puzzle? In ten years, she might be able to complete a slightly more difficult puzzle and say six words." His voice trailed off at the end of the last sentence, and his face flushed. The keys fell out of his hand and Monica bent down to retrieve them and handed them to him without looking into his eyes, which she wasn't brave enough to do.

"Then maybe this El Salvador thing is worth looking into, Will. If Yvette already has very little to lose in terms of mental ability ...," Monica offered, daring to catch a peek of his face. "If you say there's very little hope ..."

Will looked up toward the tops of the spa.r.s.e pine trees that separated the cottage from the neighbor's. "Trust me-n.o.body's taking Yvette to El Salvador. I think it's great to become educated on what's being tested, maybe maybe considering partic.i.p.ation in a very well-controlled study at a highly reputable inst.i.tution like Yale. But we're not sending my Yvette to El Salvador to partic.i.p.ate in some wild experiment. That's just irresponsible, doing something to appease ourselves rather than doing what's safest for her." considering partic.i.p.ation in a very well-controlled study at a highly reputable inst.i.tution like Yale. But we're not sending my Yvette to El Salvador to partic.i.p.ate in some wild experiment. That's just irresponsible, doing something to appease ourselves rather than doing what's safest for her."

Suddenly, the tension in his face vanished, and he smiled while he was still looking up at the sky. "Hey, look, a full moon. That explains why I almost attacked your boyfriend."

Monica looked up, then hung her head. "I'd managed to forget the incident for a moment or two."

Will smiled weakly and leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Now I get to look forward to another ma.s.sage."

She watched him get into his truck and pull out of her driveway. He stuck one arm out the window and waved. As he pulled away, Monica was surprised to see a golden retriever standing in the bed of the pickup. She waved back and the dog offered a few happy barks.

As her hand cupped the faintest pocket of wind coming off the water, it recalled the smooth grain of his skin across the palms of her hands. She looked up at the full, silver moon. Her awareness of it was like a tip, a bonus he had generously left behind. She tried to remember the first time she had ever touched Kevin's skin, and how it felt, but couldn't.

Monica thought about Yvette and felt ashamed that she felt attracted to Will. But it was no sin, as long as she didn't act on it or nurture it in any way. There was not a single good reason to contemplate this little crush longer than the full phase of the moon. Alma's mantra rang though her head: Can he change the world? Deliver justice? Can he save what's precious? Can he bring exceptional beauty to the world, or at the very least, relief of pain? If the answer is no, then move on.

No, Will wasn't curing cancer, saving whales, or sentencing criminals. But he was restoring the historical properties of Connecticut, which perhaps counted as bringing exceptional beauty to the world. Still, it was a stretch, as it was for most mortals. As if love were a board game, she thought. You love a doctor, a judge, or an environmental biologist; you pa.s.s go and collect two hundred dollars. If you love a postman, a construction worker, or a man who owns a fruit stand ... shame on you for squandering your love. Go directly to jail.

That night, Kevin and Monica spoke little over dinner. Kevin's mood was spoiled, and although he was normally not one to hold a grudge, the incident with Will really seemed to rattle him. During the drive home he said, "Besides your dad, Adam, and me, I want you to consider having a clientele of females only. You know, for safety reasons."