Chapter 11: The Photograph

"He's a friend," I said. "He pulled me out of a current."

"I know. I thanked him." Tripp drank. "Shelly, I'm not asking as a jealous husband. I'm asking because I want you to be happy."

"Who told you I was seeing him?"

"Nobody told me. I have eyes." He tilted his head. "You two were on a sandbar, for two hours, alone. The captain said you didn't come up for air."

"That's gossip."

"It's a small island." He smiled. "I only want to know if he's a good man."

I put my napkin on the table and stood.

"He is," I said. "Better than most. Thank you for dinner, Tripp."

"Shelly, sit."

"I'm tired."

"At least take the champagne."

"I'll buy my own."

He watched me go, the candles throwing his long shadow across the terrace, and he lifted his glass to my back.

I walked the whole garden path with my hands shaking.

I had told exactly one person that there was a man.

I had told her lying on a table with hot stones on my spine, and she had squeezed my hand and said, don't tell Tripp.

I did not sleep that night, and I did not knock on Room 15.

I told myself it was because Tripp might be watching.

The truth was that I wanted to think.

In the morning it rained, a soft, steady rain that blurred the hibiscus.

Camille came to my door at ten with a laptop under her arm and a tray of pastries.

"I come with photos," she said, and put the tray on the white bed. "Don't be cross. Please. I know you're angry with me."

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