Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [96]
Father and son grinned at each other, friends.
“You’re welcome.”
Fitz turned away, feeling suddenly tired. The idea of a nice quiet evening on the Fiesta with a simple dinner and a little Mozart on the hi-fi was very appealing. He’d get his flight instructions and head right back. He hoped Raymunda wasn’t still sulking.
Raymunda hummed a little song as she sorted through the contents of the wall-length wardrobe that contained her newly purchased selection of resort wear, most of which was still unworn. She was humming because she was happy, and the reason she was happy was that tonight she was going to a party and at last would get a chance to show off some of her new finery. Prince Bendor Grünewald’s invitation to an informal Bajan barbecue at the Villa Osiris had come as a complete and delightful surprise, and it had been exactly what she needed to cheer her up. She and Fitz had been here on the Fiesta for four days and they hadn’t left it once—not even to go to dinner at one of the beautiful restaurants, or to any of the good hotels where there were bound to be people they knew and who Raymunda felt sure were having a lot more fun than she was. She knew Fitz was here for a rest, but she was bored. “What’s the use of a yacht this size if you don’t fill it with people?” she’d yelled at him on the third night. “We should be having parties, dinners, cocktails.—anything!” What was it Fitz had replied? “Sometimes space is so that you can be alone.” Well, she didn’t want to be alone, she wanted company.
Shrugging on the marigold silk dress she’d pulled from the crowded wardrobe, Raymunda inspected herself in the mirror. Yes, that was perfect. The dress tied on one shoulder and was slit to the thigh—a bit like a toga. It was island-chic. She knew what these parties were like—“informal” simply meant as smart as possible without being grand.
Now, hair up or down? Down, perhaps. And jewelry? The multistranded freshwater pearl bracelet and the matching earrings? Or should she just wear a flower in her hair? Yes, that was it, no earrings; she’d call Masters, the chief steward, and have him get her an orchid, or perhaps a lily, or maybe a gardenia.
A glance at her watch showed it was nine o’clock. Damn, where was Fitz? They’d been asked for nine. Of course she wouldn’t dream of getting to the party before ten-thirty, but still she wished he’d hurry. Brushing her hair, Raymunda imagined herself arriving at the party on Fitz McBain’s arm—every woman in the place would be envious of her. And then, she thought with satisfaction, it would be their turn to reciprocate the hospitality—she would give a party on the Fiesta. She would be made, socially; no one would turn down an invitation like that.
Fitz brought the Lear into Grantley Adams and taxied thankfully toward the hangars. He should just be in time for Venetia Haven’s flight from London, though Miami control had told him that there might have been some delay because of the fog in Europe. He hoped the delay wasn’t going to be a long one; he was anxious to get back to the peace and quiet of the ship. Sometimes, he thought, it was the silence that he enjoyed most on the Fiesta—just the sound of the sea at night. He liked being alone then. Occasionally, when he was unable to sleep, he’d prowl the deck barefoot, breathing in the fresh sea smells and listening to the waves.
Barbados’s tiny airport was exceptionally busy. Flights were unloading from St. Vincent and Trinidad and the islands to the north, but the flight from London was still posted as “delayed” on the information screen—by at least three hours, confirmed the desk clerk; there were headwinds now.
Oh, well, it looked as though it would be a late night after all. He couldn’t send Masters to pick her up—he’d promised Morgan he’d do it himself. Still, he’d probably feel better after dinner.
Raymunda was waiting for him, looking exceptionally glamorous. Fitz felt pleased; she’d obviously emerged from her gloom and sulks and had gone to a lot of trouble to make herself pretty. And