Jack
Jack squinted into the bathroom mirror. To shave or not to shave, that was the question. He was four days into his vacation on the lush tropical island of Tobago. It had not begun auspiciously. He'd managed to break a lens in his only pair of glasses on the morning of his arrival at Hotel Caribe Reef, then discovered there was no optician on the island. In order to replace the lens, he would have had to send the glasses over to Trinidad, and it would take anywhere from three days to a week to get them back. He only had four more days of vacation so he didn't bother.
Without glasses, his vision wasn't all that bad. Things just weren't very sharp, particularly around the edges. Normally that disturbed him, especially at work, but here on a tropical island where he'd come for rest and relaxation before beginning a new job in a new city, he didn't actually mind seeing the world around him with softer edges. It fit his holiday mood.
Jack took stock of himself in the mirror. Not only did he have a three-day growth of stubble on his face, his hair was in need of a good trim. Back in the real world, he was a very tidy sort of person, but he kind of liked the startling contrast from his usual crisp, buttoned-down appearance. He was on vacation after all. On a tropical island. When in
Rome or Tobago, as it were...
So he stuck his razor back in the medicine cabinet and splashed on some cologne he'd bought for the trip. He thought it had a Caribbean sort of scent. He had to laugh, taking one last slightly out-of-focus look at his rugged face, imagining for a moment that he was Robinson Crusoe washed up on the beach of Tobago Island.
An hour later Jack was sitting alone at a table covered in cotton batik under a peppermint-striped umbrella in the hotel's patio restaurant. The patio was built on a sandy, palm-studded beach punctuated with picturesque thatched gazebos. Twenty yards or so down the soft white sand was the gin-clear sea. He was contentedly listening to the murmur of the surf, enjoying the tradewind-fed breeze and sampling one of the local specialties, a seafood stew called callaloo, when an attractive blonde stopped at his table. She placed a thin, filter-tipped cigarette between her toffee-colored lips, leaned ever so slightly toward him, and asked if he had a light.
"Sorry, I don't smoke," he said politely.
Then he noticed the gold-covered matchbook with Hotel Caribe Reef embossed on it sitting in the unused ashtray on his table-sitting, he noted then, in every ashtray on every table in the restaurant.
Jack was being a bit slow on the uptake. The very attractive blonde was actually picking him up. This kind of thing didn't happen to him. He gallantly lit her cigarette, trying to look like this kind of thing happened to him all the time.
"You've got a great tan," she said through an exhale of smoke from her puckered toffee lips.
She introduced herself as Suzanne from Dayton, Ohio.
"I'm Jack." He didn't bother with the "from" part. He hadn't settled into Philly yet, but he was no longer a resident of Chicago. What did it matter where he was from, anyway?
"You know," she said through hooded eyes and another puff of smoke, "in bygone days you could have passed for a buccaneer."
Jack laughed. He thought about Robinson Crusoe again, glad he'd skipped the shave and the haircut. He couldn't say Suzanne from Dayton was exactly his type, but he couldn't say he wasn't flattered, either. He was contemplating asking her to sit down and join him for an after-dinner drink when his eyes happened to wander over to the French doors opening onto the patio. A gasp escaped his lips; his gaze stuck.
Jack Harrington was not a man given to romantic hyperbole. He never liked gushy love stories. He always changed the dial on the car radio when that dreamy mood music came on. He didn't believe in hearing bells, seeing stars, or falling in love at first sight.
But now, as he first laid eyes on Jill, a whole damn army of romantic hyperboles marched into his head. Of course, he didn't find out her name until later, but at the very first instant he saw her he knew she was the one for him. The only one. Crusoe had found his Friday on Tobago, and he had found his one true love. See, hyperbole!
She stood at the entrance, an auburn-haired beauty in a tropical-print strapless dress that blew against a body that looked like it had been designed by Michelangelo. Her thick hair fell over her creamy shoulders in careless lustrous waves. Even though his vision wasn't perfect, he knew he was looking at perfection.
As the maître d' started to lead the young woman across the patio, Jack couldn't take his eyes off her. He loved her walk, the way her hair moved with her. He couldn't believe his luck when the maître d' showed her to the empty table right next to his. All of his senses shifted into overdrive. He was captivated by the scent of her perfume as it wafted by him-a mingling of hibiscus and lime. He was electrified by the husky sound of her voice as she thanked the maître d'. He could imagine the feel of her creamy skin against his palms....
She had to be a new arrival. There was no possible way this auburn-haired goddess could have ever escaped his notice.
"It's such a lovely night," the blonde was saying to him in between puffs. "Wouldn't a moonlight stroll be nice?"
A moonlight stroll. Yes, yes, perfect, he was thinking, then realized his silent nod was giving the poor blonde the wrong idea.
"Oh, sorry. I've got...other plans for tonight." He did his best to keep his attention focused on the blonde, at least while he made his apology, but the flawless beauty seated less than five feet away from him kept drawing his gaze like a magnet.
The blonde stubbed out her cigarette in his ashtray, gave him a churlish nod and took off.
His goddess had to know he was staring at her. He knew it was rude, that he was acting the absolute fool, but some unnamed force held him riveted. She finally looked his way.
He smiled a little crookedly at her, hoping it came off making him look rugged and not like a lovesick idiot, which would have been a direct mirror of his inner feelings.
She smiled back. A simple nod of acknowledgment would have pleased and even encouraged him, but her smile, her glorious smile, bowled him over.
His goddess went back to perusing the menu. Just before the waitress approached her table for her order, he boldly leaned toward her.
"You should try the callaloo. It's made with local seafood. Very tasty." He tried hard to give it his best buccaneer drawl, but even he heard the quiver of excitement and anticipation in his voice.
She lowered her gaze in a demure and utterly beguiling fashion as she bestowed another smile on him.
"Thanks for the suggestion." That husky Marilyn Monroe voice drove him wild.
When the waitress came over to her table, to his delight, she ordered the callaloo.
"Delight" was an understatement. He was delirious. Oh, not just because she ordered the callaloo, not just because of her looks, her smile, her unbelievably sexy voice. But because she was the one. Because as soon as she stepped into his view, she took up permanent residence in this empty space inside of him that he'd only just realized was there. Now even the air around him had changed. It was thicker, lusher, more intense.
His outlook on his quiet, restful vacation immediately altered. No longer was he thinking about sublime relaxation-contemplative sails, finishing up that intrigue novel he'd begun on the flight in, lying alone on the white sand, soaking up the sun, making plans about work and organizing in his head the projects he meant to do in his new apartment. Now it was impossible for him to see beyond her.
Impulsively, even though he was almost finished with his callaloo, he invited her to join him.
"Since we're both alone. . ." He said it with a partial question mark. Was she here alone or was her lover too weary from the trip in to come down for dinner? Jack was sure his heart literally stopped until she said, "Yes, I guess we are. I guess. . .1 could join you." She had this enchanting habit of lowering her lids when she spoke. Not coquettishly, more a combination of unjustifiable shyness and electrifying mystery.
"Jack Harrington." He didn't extend his hand. He knew it was trembling. All he could do was stare at her foolishly, entranced and unable to still the ferocious thudding of his heart.
"Jillian Ballard," she murmured, sitting down across from him.
He automatically asked if people called her Jill, and then felt like a complete jackass. Jackass and Jill. Great, really great!
"No," she said with a sultry laugh. "But I wouldn't mind if you did. It's kind of funny...Jack and Jill."
He laughed with her. He wanted to do everything with her.
That was when he got a good look at her eyes for the first time. What eyes. What extraordinary eyes. He had never in his entire life seen a person with two distinctly different colored eyes. But hadn't he known on sight that Jill was thoroughly unique. Her left eye was a warm cocoa brown, while the other, quite remarkably, was blue. And not merely your run-of-the-mill blue. The most vivid indigo blue he'd ever seen.
They hardly spoke during dinner. Jack was tongue-tied--realizing she was so close that he could reach out and stroke her arm. And Jill appeared incredibly self-contained and impressively comfortable with the silence between them. She made no attempt at the usual questions vacationing strangers invariably ask one another. None of the "where are you from," "what do you do for a living," "where'd you go to school," "what's your astrological sign." No. No questions at all. She told him she liked the callaloo.
"I think I'll try the conch tomorrow," she added.
He'd had the conch the night before and hadn't cared for it at all.
"I'd love to try it, too," he told her. The hell with his taste buds. "How about trying it together?" he added, his heart pounding, his palms literally sweaty with the anxious thought that she might turn him down. He hummed with joy when she didn't.
The prospect of a second dinner with Jill left Jack restless with anticipation all night. The next morning, despite a lack of sleep, he again took stock of himself in the bathroom mirror and he decided he looked none the worse for wear. Perhaps even a bit more roguishly rugged. He even winked at his reflection and spoke to himself out loud. He was quite far-gone by this time. "You devilish buccaneer, you," he drawled, reddening with embarrassment at the thought of ever being overheard. Then he slipped on his bathing trunks and headed down to the beach.
Jill hated to fly, and so, on the trip down to Tobago, she tried to still her anxieties with a couple of Bloody Marys. She didn't like to drink very much. She chose the Bloody Marys because she didn't mind tomato juice and the drink seemed appropriately "brunchish". Two brunchish Bloody Marys later, she was feeling dizzy and queasy and still edgy as could be as the plane hit one air pocket after another.
As if the turbulent flight itself, made all the worse by her inebriated state, wasn't enough, just before landing she had to make a quick trip to the lavatory to put in her contact lenses. She'd bought them for the trip, and since she'd hoped to sleep during the flight, which she didn't, she hadn't bothered to put them in yet.
The lenses had been a sort of impulse purchase. Back in Philly, she'd gone into the optician's to buy a new pair of prescription glasses, but she was almost presold on the contacts by the optician's assistant, who confided that her own absolutely extraordinary violet-blue eyes were, in fact, tinted contact lenses. While Jill's eyes were a reasonably pleasant milk chocolate shade of brown, she'd always secretly wished she had blue eyes.
The clever saleswoman nailed down the sale when she claimed, or rather, exclaimed, that with Jill's shade of auburn hair, the change to blue eyes would make her a total knockout. Especially, she'd added, if Jill uncoiled her French knot and tried wearing her hair loose.
After she ordered a pair of indigo blue lenses to match the saleswoman's, Jill stopped at the resort department of Lord & Taylor and splurged on a few sexy sundresses and even some flimsy undergarments, feeling very wanton and very excited at the same time. In her workaday life, she strictly dressed for success. Tailored business suits--grays, blues, a couple of pin-striped starched cotton shirts, sensible pumps. Well, maybe she was thinking she'd be dressing for a different type of success on vacation. She'd managed to keep it a deep dark secret, but in her heart of hearts she was a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. When she decided on a tropical island vacation, she had visions of a daring romantic escapade, a brief bittersweet love affair.
She had big plans. Well, big dreams, anyway. A gal can dream, can't she? Especially one with flowing auburn hair and dynamite blue eyes. She knew she was getting carried away, which only convinced her all the more how much she needed a vacation. She hadn't taken one in two years and never before to a tropical island. It felt decadent. It felt terrific.
So here she was, standing in the miniature lavatory, looking at her indigo blue lenses shimmering in their case. She had some second thoughts, but she'd deliberately left her old glasses home, knowing herself well enough to guess she'd lose her nerve otherwise. In the midst of her wavering resolve, she reminded herself that the optician's assistant had sworn she'd be a knockout with them. They were comfortable enough during her practice sessions, and she did like having blue eyes. She'd already undone her French knot, her hair falling in loose abandon, as they say, around her shoulders. Not bad, she had to admit. Then again, without the lenses in, she couldn't exactly get a very good look at herself. She put the right lens in first. A vivid blue eye looked back at her from the mirror. She smiled seductively at her reflection. Maybe not a shattering knock-out, but a definite improvement.
She balanced her other blue lense on the tip of her index finger and was about to delicately maneuver it into her left eye, when the plane hit a big air pocket and suddenly lurched. The lens dropped to the floor and she dropped to her knees in the cramped space trying to find it. After a minute of being battered about by a whole series of air pockets, she realized her fear of crashing was zooming out of control as was her mounting queasiness. She sat back gasping, saw the flashing warning sign to return to her seat and rushed to obey, giving up her search for the errant lens.
The plane descended to a jolting, screeching landing. In her panic, Jill completely forgot about the missing lens. When the plane rolled to the terminal and came to a safe stop, her fear subsided, but the ill effects of the Bloody Marys hung on.
It was nearly 6:00 p.m. when she cleared the terminal. She hadn't been able to get down much of the in-flight lunch, and she figured she needed to put some food in her stomach quick. At the Hotel Caribe Reef, she dropped her suitcases in her room, dashed in and out of the shower, slipped Into one of her sexy island sundress numbers and headed to the patio restaurant for dinner.
The instant she stepped through the French doors out onto that patio, her eyes were drawn to a dark-haired man having dinner at one of the tables. He exuded the sally, wicked aura of a seafaring pirate. He certainly had a way with women. The blonde standing by him as he ate looked like she'd like to devour him.
Jill was taken aback when he looked her way. No "looked" was an understatement. He was ogling her. Before Jill averted her eyes she gave him a quick side-long glance that she hoped came across as enigmatic. Then she quickened her pace to catch up to the maitre d', who was leading her to her table. Right next to her pirate.
She picked up the menu, pretending to study it, all the while feeling his riveting gaze on her. Finally she looked back at him. He smiled. A whammy of a smile. Errol Flynn, in his best pirate films, hadn't done better. She could feel her heart skip at least several beats.
She smiled back with a smile she hoped conveyed shameless confidence, and yet, held a hint of modesty. She had never tried a smile like that before, so she was really winging it. But then, winging it was what this island vacation was all about. She'd indulged herself with optimistic romantic fantasies, and here she was, forget the fantasies, twenty minutes on a tropical island and this remarkably good-looking, sexy man was staring at her as though his eyes were having the feast of a lifetime. No other man had ever looked at her that way.
She went back to a pretend read of the menu, keeping a watch from the corner of her eye on her handsome pirate and the tall, blond vixen. They exchanged a few words, and then, to her delight, the blonde took off in something of a huff. Jill didn't think her pirate even noticed. He was still looking at her. She was still looking at the menu. Truly looking at it now, only to find herself straining to make out the selections. To her horror, she realized she was still wearing only one contact lens--one indigo blue contact lens. She prayed for her attentive pirate to look away for a moment so she could slip it out. What in the world would this dashing adventurer make of a woman with one blue eye and one brown eye? The thought filled her with dread. She tried to draw the menu up higher to cover her face, but he was leaning over toward her.
"You should try the callaloo. It's made with local seafood. Very tasty," he said.
She kept her gaze downcast and managed a smile she was sure looked dumb. "Thanks for the suggestion," she muttered, her voice unusually low, which always happened when she was nervous.
When the waitress came over a minute later, she ordered the callaloo. Jill wasn't ordinarily so daring when it came to sampling new food, but she thought it might please him. She wanted to please him. To be perfectly frank, she wasn't only thinking of food.
And she must have pleased him with her order, because the next thing she knew he was asking her to join him at his table. He said, "Since we're both alone..."- not "dining alone"-so that meant, like her, he was also by himself in this tropical paradise.
The only reason she hesitated at all about joining him was because of her eye dilemma. But dusk was falling, she rationalized. She could keep her gaze lowered.... Maybe he wouldn't notice that she was this strange lady with one brown eye and one blue eye. To hell with it. She'd have to risk discovery. There was no way on earth she was going to turn that pirate down.
Her mind went racing on. Holding hands, kissing, making love. There she was, thinking about safe sex and she hadn't even reached his table yet. Actually, prior to that point in her life, Jill's life had revolved around her career, and her thoughts about sex, safe or otherwise, didn't really crop up that much. She didn't date very often. And she worked for one of those stodgy companies that entirely forbade mixing business and pleasure. Not to worry. The men at the company were definitely not the stuff of romantic fantasies.
She set down her menu and joined her handsome pirate at his table.
"Jack Harrington," he said. He didn't stretch out his hand to shake hers, which was a relief. Her palms were sweaty with anticipation.
"Jillian Ballard."
"Do people call you Jill?"
She laughed. Even her folks didn't call her Jill. "No, she said, laughing again as she thought about the old Mother Goose rhyme. "But I wouldn't mind if you did. It's kind of funny...Jack and Jill." He laughed. He had the sexiest laugh any man had a right to have. They'd shared their first joke together. She was ready for a whole comedy routine if he suggested it.
Jill tried to maintain her lowered gaze, but she wasn't entirely successful. To her considerable relief, he never said one word about her peculiar eyes. In fact, he was very quiet during dinner. She was thrilled that he wasn't plying her with questions. She had no desire to admit to her mundane life beyond the tropics. She made up her mind to be evasive if he did ask her anything about herself. Maybe he'd think she was alluringly mysterious-a woman with a secret past. She intentionally didn't ask him anything personal, either. It was her way of preventing his throwing the same questions back at her. And maybe she didn't want to learn too much- maybe he was a womanizer, a rogue, a philanderer with a wife and five kiddies at home.
Their silence continued as her empty dinner plate was removed from the table. "I liked the callaloo," she said, lying. Oh, it wasn't indigestible, but it wasn't something she'd ever in her right mind order again. On the other hand, she hadn't been in her right mind since setting eyes on Jack, and if he suggested eating it again she probably would. To be on the safe side, she added, "I think I'll try the conch tomorrow." Conch. She had no actual idea what conch was, nor was she particularly keen to find out, but she figured a man who ate callaloo probably ate conch and she was hoping against hope he'd like to share his joy of eating conch with her.
"I'd love to try it, too. How about trying it together?"
Be still, my eager heart, she thought. "Great," she said. Now she felt compelled to get out of there before she ruined anything. She begged off a rum punch-she was feeling punch drunk as it was-mentioning how light-headed and exhausted she was. Which was the truth. They made plans for the next evening and she excused herself to return to her room.
Jill's first act after locking her door was to go to the bathroom sink and pop out the blue contact lens. Life for the remainder of her holiday was going to be a bit blurry, but she was already so infatuated with her pirate she wouldn't have been able to see straight even with her matched set of indigo blue contact lenses. So, she'd have to skip the pile of books she'd brought with her. Jack Harrington promised to make for far more colorful reading.
The next morning she ate her complimentary continental breakfast on her private patio-mango, croissant with tropical fruit jam, fresh brewed coffee-put on the skimpy black bikini she'd bought at the resort department at L & T, then went down to the hotel beach for a morning swim.
Okay, what she really wanted wasn't a swim but to bump into Jack on the beach. If she could have seen better she'd have tracked him down, stalked him, followed him all the way to heaven and back. The idea of waiting until dinnertime to be with him felt honestly torturous.
And then, in a sea of blurry male bodies on the beach-lousy eyesight and all-she found him. It must have been her inner radar overachieving.
He was leaning against the counter of one of the thatched gazebo bars a good twenty feet from where she was sitting on her beach towel. She had a wild and crazy fantasy at that moment that she could open her heart and pour it into his. Then they'd be two hearts beating as one. She had never in her life had such a blatantly hokey thought, but by that time she was so entranced with Jack, hokey didn't trouble her in the least.
While she was having her fantasy, Jack's inner radar must have kicked into gear, because moments after she'd detected him, his head turned in her direction and his eyes zeroed in on her eyes. Her two chocolate-brown eyes. Well, maybe two indigo-blue eyes would have been better, but from the telepathic messages Jack was airwaving in her direction she couldn't believe that the color of her eyes was going to stand in the way of true love.
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