Butterfly Tattoo (27 page)

“Okay,” Michael says, but he doesn’t seem convinced that it’s okay to leave me on shore. Reluctantly, he strips off his surf shop T-shirt, revealing a clingy wet suit. It’s more like a satiny second skin, and my breath hitches in my throat to see the way it outlines more muscles across his shoulders and chest than I ever imagined he possessed.

Casey grins a little wickedly, watching Michael draw his forearm over his chest to stretch his triceps. “Wet suit?” Casey snorts. “It’s July, for crap’s sake.”

“I’m cold natured,” he huffs, tossing me a self-conscious glance. I work to ignore the way his shoulder muscles ripple beneath the tight material of that short-sleeved suit.

“You’re showing off.” Casey drops to the sand and begins waxing his board, his hand moving in brisk circular motions.

“Shut up. I am not.”

“Uh, yeah, I think you are,” he says, then winks at me with a sly smile that catches me by surprise.

Well, if Michael Warner is showing off, he has good reason because that wet suit is absolutely delicious on his well-toned body. Broad shoulders, defined triceps—how could I have not fully realized the beautiful body he’s been hiding beneath those faded T-shirts and Armani suits?

He slides out of his long swim trunks to reveal the lower half of his “spring suit,” a kind of short version of a wet suit. When he stands there, Adonis of the Beach studying the waves, feet planted solidly apart, I realize that I simply cannot breathe.
Deep breaths, girl. You don’t want to literally die of desire.
That would be just a little too embarrassing.

But I can’t help noticing that even a certain…bulge proves impossible for that slick material to hide. My gaze wanders there, and when he turns back toward me, I pull my shirt tight around my body, feeling self-conscious to realize that he’s
this
luscious while still half-dressed. What if he were undressed? What if he can tell I’m undressing him with my eyes?

Casey glances between us. “Oh, wait. I get it,” he gibes good-naturedly, his jaw falling slack. “You’re not showing off, Mike, that’s not it. You’re
hiding
!”

“Hiding what?” Michael grumbles, and by now I swear that a faint blush has crept into his olive complexion.

“
You
know,” Casey says and makes a little fluttering gesture with his fingers, then touches his own shoulder. “The ole army memento.” Again, he forms a fist, but waggles his fingers like some kind of…creature.

“Ah, geez,” Michael groans, rolling his eyes as he focuses intently on the task of waxing his board. “Please, Becca, just ignore this idiot, okay?”

“I’m right.” Casey grins at me, and I wonder what this joke is that he’s trying to let me in on.

“What’s he talking about?” I ask, curious, but also interested at how shy Michael unexpectedly seems.

“It’s nothing,” he says and now I’m certain that I spy splotches of color staining his cheeks. Pulling my knees close to my chest, I watch him, see the way his sinewy shoulders ripple and pull beneath the wetsuit. Absolutely beautiful.
Ridiculously
beautiful, as a matter of fact—no wonder he’s been gay. That’s not a straight guy’s body. It’s a masculine body that’s been honed and sculpted to perfection for another
man
. Or, maybe it’s just the body of a guy who works for a living, of a guy who plays hard in the ocean during his spare time.

He stops waxing and turns to me, the golden brown eyes flaring with something I don’t quite recognize. “It’s a tattoo, all right,” he barks. “That’s all. A damn tattoo.” Then, he looks at his friend. “Happy now?”

I wonder why a tattoo would be the source of such embarrassment, especially with a guy’s guy like Michael Warner. Unless…

“What kind of tattoo?” I ask gently.

Poor Michael, I feel bad when he thrusts an anxious hand through his disheveled hair. I think Casey regrets his own teasing. “I bet our girl loves tattoos,” he says.

Michael mumbles, “It’s a butterfly,” and Casey’s exaggerated hand gestures suddenly make a lot of sense.

“A…butterfly?” I scrunch my nose in surprise. I could have guessed a million things, but never that.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh.” He glares at Casey. “Both of you just laugh your damned asses off.”

“I’m not laughing, it’s just—” I search for the right word, “—kind of surprising.”

He looks at me. “An old army joke. Papillon, that’s what they called me. Got the tattoo on a drunken dare and I’ve lived with it ever since.”

“Uh, huh. So you
were
hiding it,” Casey says.

Michael points at the ocean. “It is fucking cold out there, man!” he shouts, surprising me with his volatility. He grabs his surfboard and stomps out into the waves without looking back at either of us.

Casey and I watch him step out into the ocean that pools eagerly around his legs, then sail onto his board, chest first. Neither of us speaks until finally Casey sighs. “How can someone that beautiful be so damned touchy about a tattoo?”

“Well,” I suggest, “maybe it makes him feel a little…gay. Having a butterfly?” Then to cover myself I add, “No offense.”

Casey frowns, watching Michael paddle into the waves. “Then why’d he get the damn thing when he was still straight? Huh?”

“Sometimes images gain more meaning after the fact.” I think of Michael with Alex, of how an innocent army joke must have become an emblem, an ambiguous definition in itself. I wonder if it held special significance between the two of them, and if maybe that’s why Michael’s so protective about it.

“Nah, sometimes people are just afraid to be vulnerable,” Casey looks meaningfully at the way I’m huddled on the sand, arms wrapped protectively across my chest. “You weren’t scared to go out there, not really. I don’t think you’re scared of anything.”

“Are you kidding?” I laugh, watching Michael sail awkwardly over the face of a breaking wave. “I’m scared of everything.”

“You were ready to do this until we got down to the beach.”

“Duh. You heard all the things Michael warned me about.”

His blonde eyebrows shoot upward, curious. “Has Mike seen you in your bathing suit yet?”

For some reason, I feel close to Casey. Like I can be real with him. “That really isn’t an image I’m thrilled about,” I admit. “Any more than he’s thrilled with his tattoo.”

“You’re gorgeous, Rebecca. Absolutely gorgeous. You know that’s what he thinks, don’t you?”

“Casey, please…”

“Not an image that squares with your reality?”

“Not at this point.”

“Try this on for an image, then.” He removes his T-shirt, tossing it onto the sand beside me. “
He’s
even more gorgeous out of that wet suit than he is in it.”

Studying Casey’s own sculpted, fit physique, it’s not hard to fill in what I couldn’t see of Michael moments ago. “Oh, my.” I blow out a slow, dreamy sigh. Surfer boys sure do age gracefully.

“Yeah, thought you’d like that one.” Grabbing his board, he warns, “I’ll get you out there yet, O’Neill.”

Back at Casey’s, I find Andrea lazing on the sofa with a book—not outside with Olivia on the beach where she belongs. So I implement a plan of action, and explain that I’m going out to fly one or two of my kites. That I’d love for her to tag along. With Michael in the shower, I figure now is a good time to make headway with her. She declines politely, but I give an upbeat smile.

Walking down the steps to the beach, I find an open area right in front of the house with plenty of good room to launch a kite. My choice is an easy one—the butterfly.

After a stuttering start, the kite zigzags into the open sky, flapping like a piece of paper caught in a floor fan. Holding the string tightly within my hand, I unfurl another few feet. The butterfly nosedives sharply, but then catches air and sails high again. Carefully, I ease down, sitting on my towel.

Behind me, I hear muffled footsteps on the sand—small steps—and I know that like my own tiny minnow, Andrea has answered the pull of my lure. It’s only a matter of time until she’s hooked completely.

“How come you brought kites?” she asks, standing behind me.

Never taking my eyes off my airborne creature, I answer, “Because kites are fun.”

“But they’re for kids.”

“Who says?” The kite ascends even higher. Pressing my hand to my forehead, I shield my eyes against the hazy, late afternoon sun.

“They just are,” she answers, settling beside me on the warm sand. She’s wearing a giant straw hat that’s sunk low down her forehead. I can barely see her eyes.

“Want to help me?” I ask, offering the ball of string to her, but she shakes her head. I’ve learned enough about precious Andrea, how she opens to me on her own terms.

For a long while, we sit together in silence, the gulls overhead competing with our kite’s peaceful performance. I envy both, watching them fly free, unencumbered. Beside me, Andrea digs her toes around, dislodging dark sand from below; it’s cooler underneath, she tells me after a while. Not like the sand we’re sitting on.

“I don’t want to surf,” she says, reaching for the string still held tight within my hands.

“Be careful,” I caution gently, “or it will get away from us.” She takes the twine from me with confidence, gripping it like an expert. The kite lurches slightly overhead as we make the pass off, but then sails boldly again.

“Michael wants me to surf,” she continues, pushing her hat back so she can see over the low brim. “It’s a big deal to him. But I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.”

“But he
wants
me to.”

“Well, he can surf,” I say. “Casey can surf. I can even surf, maybe. But I don’t see why you should, not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s something we did with Daddy,” she explains, auburn eyebrows furrowing sharply together. “It was always Daddy’s thing. That’s why he’s making such a big deal out of it. He’s trying to make it like it’s something we do together, but it isn’t.”

“You know, could be he just likes to surf,” I suggest, trying not to push too hard. Trying not to remind her that even she has told me how the three of them surfed together; that it was
never
only something she did with Alex. Memory serves the mind in many ways: sometimes self-deception furthers the healing.

“No, he definitely likes it,” she agrees with surprising ease. “But mostly it makes him think of Daddy. That’s why he’s always in the surfboard room.” I shake my head, not sure what she means. “He goes in there all the time, when I’m in bed. I think he even sleeps in there sometimes. He really misses Daddy.”

My heartbeat quickens, but I remain on track for her. This moment isn’t about me, or my sense of competition with a dead man. It’s about a lost little girl, one who needs me desperately. “So, if it’s something y’all used to do as a family,” I try, “then why not help him out with that? You know? He does miss your daddy. You miss him, too, so you could maybe just give it a go?”

“You
know
I can’t.” She begins to tug the kite back in, slowly winding the string around the ball.

“I don’t understand, sweetie.”

“But you know why.” She stares at the sky, away from me. “I told you.”

Noticing the long shorts she’s wearing now, I remember that day at Mona’s pool and her scar. “You could wear your spring suit,” I suggest, understanding the real issue finally—or at least one of them.

“But that’s geeky. It’s summer.”

“That’s not one bit geeky. It’s cold out there.” Father and daughter are both hiding, each for their own reasons.

“I just don’t know if I want to surf without Daddy, that’s all,” she admits, thrusting the kite string back at me. I take it, nodding in understanding.

We sit quiet for a while, me slowly winding it back in—and then I take a bold risk. “You know, I showed you my scars, but you never did show me yours. That day at the pool.”

“You didn’t show me
all
of yours.” She challenges me with her clear blue eyes. Somehow, she knows it wasn’t the full truth.

“Well, sweetheart,” I draw in a strengthening breath, “I showed you the ones I could.”

She pulls her knees close up to her chest, protecting herself. “You’ll think mine’s stupid,” she half-whispers into the wind. So quiet, I have to lean my ear down low toward her, to be sure I hear. “That it’s stupid,” she repeats, wanting to be sure I understand her meaning.

I shake my head in sharp disagreement. “I would never think anything important to you is stupid.”

She looks up at me, the pain she’s been battling to conceal since we met vividly apparent. “Promise?” she asks, and I hear tears in her small voice.

“Andrea, of course, sweetheart,” I assure her. “Deep down, you know you’re safe with me.”

She stares at the ocean, thinking on that statement. “Yeah,” she agrees after a time, “I guess that’s why Michael likes you, too.”

“I’m going to try surfing again,” I offer. “Want to go out with me?”

Her dimples pop into view. “You’re just really cool, Rebecca. And you’re tough, too.” God made me durable, I want to say, but I’m not sure she’d understand what I mean.

“You could wear your spring suit,” I continue, “but I hope you’ll show me that scar some day.”

The smile fades. “Yeah, maybe.” Then, “Rebecca? Do your scars make you think of what happened? Every time you see them?”

“Not every time, sweetheart,” I reply. “But a lot of times they do.”

Memory. I read once that every cell in our body warehouses our memories on a microscopic level. Maybe scars have memory, too. Maybe that’s why they’re so powerful, because they contain all that happened to us in that one explosive event, branded onto our bodies organically.

Watching the memory and pain dancing across young Andrea’s beautiful face, I wish that I could wipe her scar away. The one on the inside, that she lives with, that reminds her of such a violent loss. The one that she runs from, pushing her other daddy perpetually away.

“You know, surfing late is the best,” she answers knowingly, rising to her feet. “’Cause you get to paddle into the sunset. Sometimes you can even surf until dark.”

“Maybe we’ll try tomorrow,” I agree. She brushes sand off her hands and knees, walking back toward the house.