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She was glad when the water got so choppy she had to focus all her attention on paddling.
TEMPLE APPEARED FOR DINNER THAT night in a clean version of the workout clothes she wore all day. Her body was muscular perfection. Her black racer-back top exposed arms with every tendon defined, and her matching Spandex shorts rode low enough to showcase a hollowed-out, muscle-rippled abdomen. She and Panda together were a matched set—both of them overexercised, restless, and surly.
Lucy muttered something about two nutcases on human growth hormones. Temple glanced at Lucy’s waist and made a reference to an aimless loser with middle-aged spread. Panda growled at them both to shut up so he could eat tonight’s crap in peace.
Unlike Panda, Lucy had no complaints about the underseasoned frozen beef stew—thanks to the sweet potato fries and giant sugar cookie she’d downed in town. Temple began a halfhearted lecture about the link between childhood illnesses and adult immunity, and when she asked Panda if he’d ever had chicken pox. Lucy couldn’t resist butting in. “Privacy intrusion. Panda doesn’t talk about his past.”
“And that galls you,” Panda retorted. “You won’t be satisfied until you know everybody’s business.”
But he wasn’t everybody. He was her lover.
“He’s right, Lucy,” Temple said. “You do like to poke around in other people’s heads.”
Panda flipped sides by pointing a fork at his employer. “Somebody needs to poke around in yours. The longer you’re here, the bitchier you get.”
“That’s a lie,” Temple retorted. “I’ve always been bitchy.”
“Not this bitchy,” Lucy said. “You’ve lost twenty pounds, and—”
“Twenty-four,” Temple said defiantly. “No thanks to either of you. Do you have any idea how depressing it is listening to you snarl at each other?”
“Our snarling doesn’t have anything to do with your problem,” Lucy said. “You have a textbook case of body dysmorphia.”
“Ewww … ,” Temple scoffed. “Big words.”
Lucy shoved away her plate. “You look fantastic everywhere except inside your head.”
“In your opinion.” Temple made a dismissive gesture toward her own body. “You can spin it any way you want, but I’m still fat!”
“When will you not be fat?” Lucy cried. “What ridiculous number has to flash on the scale you carry around in your head to finally make you feel okay?”
Temple licked her fingers. “I can’t believe Miss Porky is lecturing me about weight.”
Panda didn’t like that. “She’s not porky.”
Lucy ignored him. “Your body is beautiful, Temple. There’s not an inch of you that jiggles.”
“Unlike your hips,” Temple shot back, but without any real sting.
Lucy gazed at her untouched plate with disgust. “My hips will be just fine as soon as I can eat like a normal person again.”
Temple turned to Panda. “She’s some kind of alien. How can she gain twenty pounds and not have it make her crazy?”
“I haven’t gained twenty pounds,” Lucy retorted. “Ten max.” But sweet potato fries and sugar cookies weren’t her real enemy. Her enemy was the guilt she felt over the pages she hadn’t written, the family she was virtually ignoring, and the panic she experienced whenever she thought about leaving Charity Island.
Panda pushed back from the table. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’m going outside to shoot myself.”
“Do it near the water,” Lucy said, “so we don’t have to clean up after you.”
She and Temple finished their sad excuse for dinner in glum silence. Temple stared out the window, and Lucy picked at the kitchen table’s vomitous green paint.
LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON, AS Lucy pulled some weeds by the porch and contemplated a trip to a bar in town so she could work on her reverse bucket list, she heard a car pull into the driveway. It didn’t sound like one of their regular delivery vans. She set aside her trowel and went around the house to investigate.
A woman with short, bright red hair and a stocky figure stepped out of a silver Subaru. She wore a loose-fitting white top, serviceable tan capris that would have looked better on someone with longer legs, and athletic sandals. A chunk of turquoise hung from a leather cord around her neck, and silver rings flashed on her fingers. Lucy nodded in greeting and waited for the woman to identify herself. Before that could happen, the front door opened and Mr. Bodyguard stepped out.
The woman turned away from Lucy to face him. “Patrick Shade?”
He stopped at the top of the steps. “Can I help you?” he said, without answering her question.
