Island in the Sea (2 page)

“I'm sure even Benedict Arnold did a few good deeds and Judas had a whole group of friends.” Lionel tapped a cigarette from a gold cigarette case. He lit it slowly and blew a thin trail of smoke. “I'll make a deal, I'll tell you the whole story, and if you think he still deserves one hundred sixty-six thousand dollars, I will find a way to pay him back.”

Juliet glanced at the plaster walls lined with Picassos and Manets and Cézannes. She saw the French doors and pink marble fireplace and tall wooden bookshelves. She didn't have time to sit around watching Lionel smoke cigarettes and drink dry martinis, Gideon expected her to return with an album of new songs.

“Gideon doesn't want the money.” She shifted on the silk love seat. “He wants you to write music.”

“He should have thought of that before he picked up an iron tong and drove it though my heart.” Lionel got up and walked to the entry. He stubbed his cigarette on the stone floor and opened the door. “Take the offer or leave it. I've got an appointment with a bottle of vodka and a copy of
The Picture of Dorian Gray
.” He turned and glanced at Juliet. “Look, all I've got left to my name is a two-bedroom flat in Chelsea. If you don't agree after you've heard the story, I'll sell it and give Gideon the proceeds.”

Juliet stood up and dusted her skirt. She walked to the door and held out her hand. “All right, you have a deal.”

“I knew you'd come round.” Lionel's face broke into a smile. “No one can resist a juicy story, plus I make an excellent Spanish omelet. We'll start tomorrow, don't come before noon, I need my beauty sleep.” He drew another cigarette out of the gold case.

“Oh and tell Gideon to extend your reservation for two weeks, and make sure your room has a private bath. I've stayed in Spanish bed-and-breakfasts and you don't want to listen to your neighbor singing
Carmen
in the shower.”

“Two weeks!” Juliet exclaimed. “What did Gideon do?”

Lionel leaned on the door and his whole body sagged. His forehead was suddenly lined and his green eyes dimmed. He looked at Juliet and frowned.

“He rewrote my whole past.”

*   *   *

Juliet climbed the steps of the Hotel Salvia and opened the red gate. She loved the three-story stone building with its black shutters and wrought iron balconies and peaked slate roof. She loved the lush gardens filled with green trellises and citrus trees and beds of pink azaleas. And she loved the location perched just above the main square of Sóller so she could browse in the elegant boutiques and eat tapas at the outdoor cafés.

Mostly she loved that everywhere she turned she saw the mountains and deep valleys and the horseshoe-shaped bay of Puerto de Sóller. She gazed at the turquoise swimming pool and tall pine trees and thought she had never been anywhere so beautiful.

She opened the front door of the hotel and entered the drawing room and admired the thick oriental rugs, antique chandeliers, and striped silk sofas. She glanced at the maple sideboard set with a crystal water pitcher and ceramic fruit bowl and felt like she was in a private home.

“Good afternoon Miss Lyman.” The concierge looked up from his notes. “Did you find the Casa Rosa?”

“Yes, thank you.” Juliet inhaled the sweet smelling air and her shoulders relaxed. “It's not far from here and the scenery was spectacular. I don't know how one gets anywhere in Majorca; I kept having to stop and admire the view.”

“The Casa Rosa is one of the finest private estates on this side of the island,” the man replied. “Would you like to make dinner reservations tonight? Chef Pedro is making baked saddle of lamb with olive crust and a rosemary sauce. You and your gentleman friend will enjoy your private terrace, the tables are set with silver candelabras and bottles of Mallorcan olive oil.”

“I don't have a gentleman friend.” Juliet blushed. “I'm here alone.”

“But you said you were visiting a gentleman at the Casa Rosa.” The concierge frowned.

“Lionel Harding is a business associate,” Juliet explained. “I'm too tired to eat out tonight, perhaps I could get a sandwich and a glass of milk in my room.”

“Everyone dines outside in Majorca in the summer,” the concierge insisted. “Even the fishermen pull up their nets and have a cold beer and a plate of fresh oysters. There's plenty of time to stay inside during winter when the wind is icy and the valley is covered in fog.”

“I won't be here that long.” Juliet smiled. “Though I'd like to extend my reservation two weeks, I'm afraid my business is going to take longer than I thought.”

“All the more reason to enjoy the nightlife.” The concierge flicked through his book. “The music is lively and there is always dancing on the square after midnight.”

Juliet pictured women wearing oversized sunglasses and bright chiffon dresses and strapless sandals. She saw men in sports coats and linen slacks and suede loafers. She imagined sitting alone at a table while couples held hands and sipped glasses of full-bodied Spanish wine. She imagined soft music and the scent of butter and garlic mixed with French perfume.

“I'm going to take a long bath and climb into bed.” She walked toward the staircase. “Perhaps another night.”

“Miss Lyman,” he called after her. “May I ask what line of business are you in?”

“I'm in the music industry.” Juliet turned around. “I'm an executive at a record label.”

The concierge studied her smooth brown hair and blue eyes and small pink mouth. He saw her knit dress and long legs and white sandals. “Perhaps you should think about changing careers, a beautiful young woman should not be alone in Majorca on a Saturday night.”

*   *   *

Juliet climbed the three flights of stairs and fumbled with her key. Gideon had booked a queen-sized room with her own balcony. Juliet gazed at the orange wool rug and turquoise walls and sloped ceiling. She saw the four-poster bed and mahogany desk and high-backed velvet chair.

She slipped off her sandals and placed her purse on the oak end table. Lionel might be prickly and abrasive but she was glad Gideon insisted she come to Majorca. The countryside was spectacular and the food was delicious and everything seemed to move slowly. She pictured the orange tram that took tourists to Puerto de Sóller and the sailboats with their billowing sails and a warmth spread through her chest.

She walked to the balcony and remembered the concierge thinking she had a boyfriend. She flashed on when she graduated from NYU and got her first interview at Sony. She'd worn a new navy wool suit and beige pumps. She remembered sitting across from Jane Backman and trying to stop her heart from racing.

*   *   *

“You're twenty-two and graduated summa cum laude from NYU.” Jane glanced at her résumé. “You could get an entry level position at an investment banking firm with an expense account and a summer timeshare in the Hamptons. If you take this job, you'll be stuck for years with a mid-five-figure salary and a railroad apartment in Bushwick.”

“My father is a linguistics professor at Sarah Lawrence and my mother writes for
The New Yorker
. When I was young I wanted to be a poet.” Juliet fiddled with her silver necklace. “But when I was twelve I got my first Ipod and realized words were too quiet. Music makes me feel alive and excited.”

“Let me tell you about a career in the music industry.” Jane leaned back in her chair. She had straight blond hair and brown eyes and a wide mouth. She wore a purple Alice and Olivia dress and platform shoes. “You'll spend your days in recording studios drinking vending machine coffee and eating Chinese fortune cookies. Your skin will never see the sun so no matter how much Lancôme revitalizing cream you lather on, you'll always look like a figure in a Henry James novel or one of those deathly pale models in a Robert Palmer music video.

“While your friends are meeting hedge fund managers at the Monkey Bar after work, you'll be backstage at the Brooklyn Bowl fending off pre-teen girls wearing sparkly sneakers. You'll spend weekends riding on a tour bus surrounded by smelly socks and dirty magazines.

“You'll never meet a guy who can discuss French literature or applied physics because most musicians stop learning in the seventh grade. And you'll turn thirty-five and realize you're eggs are getting stale and the lines on your forehead are deeper and your friends are getting bugaboo strollers for Christmas.” She paused and looked at Juliet. “Do you still want to work for a record label?”

Juliet glanced at the platinum records and silver album covers and bookshelves lined with Grammys. She smoothed her hair and smiled.

“There's nothing else I want to do.”

“I should make you walk out that door and think about applying to business school or law school. But I know if music flows through your veins there's nothing you can do about it.” Jane held out her hand. “Welcome to Sony.”

*   *   *

Juliet wrapped her arms around her chest and remembered the last proper date she had, with an entertainment lawyer she met at a Coldplay concert. He had curly blond hair and brown eyes and liked The Foo Fighters and Imagine Dragons. He invited her to go ice-skating at Rockefeller Center and they drank Irish coffees and talked about the music industry's crazy hours and demanding artists.

Juliet listened to the excitement in his voice when he talked about
Billboard
charts and foreign sales and thought Jane was wrong. But then he had to go to Tokyo to babysit a client who took too many Ambien, and by the time he returned, Juliet was on a tour bus to Philadelphia. After three weeks of voice messages and texts they admitted it probably wouldn't work.

That had been almost two years ago and since then Juliet immersed herself in her job. She loved the strange pit in her stomach when she knew a song was going to work. And she loved the buzz of standing backstage at Madison Square Garden and watching fifty thousand fans wave their arms. Music was like discovering an unknown Rembrandt or owning a vintage Valentino dress or eating the finest gourmet chocolate.

*   *   *

She leaned over the balcony and heard the sounds of laughter and music. Majorca was filled with young people from Australia and New Zealand and Scandinavia. She had two weeks and nothing to do but listen to Lionel's story. Maybe she would finally meet a guy who loved homemade soup and the farmer's market and watching Italian movies on Netflix.

Suddenly she didn't want to soak in the porcelain bathtub listening to Spotify on her iPhone. She was going to an outdoor café and eat tomato confit with Mallorcan cheeses. She was going to inhale the sweet night air and watch the streetlamps dancing on the cobblestones.

She walked inside and stood in front of her closet. She selected a floral dress and silver sandals. She rubbed her lips with red lipstick and dusted her cheeks with powder. She grabbed her purse and hurried down the staircase.

*   *   *

Juliet walked along the promenade and gazed at the lights reflecting on the water. She saw ice cream stores with neon signs and souvenir shops with racks of glossy postcards. She felt the evening air settle on her shoulders and suddenly wished she were back in her hotel room, sipping a cup of hot tea with milk and honey.

She had decided to take the tram to Puerto de Sóller and have dinner at one of the harbor-side restaurants. It had been exciting to board the tram with tourists speaking German and French and Italian. It had been lovely to feel the wind in her hair and inhale the scent of citrus and jasmine. And it was wonderful to arrive at the port and see the sparkling Mediterranean.

But now she saw couples holding hands and stopping to study the menus. She saw families with young children, carrying sand buckets and shovels. She glanced in the windows of sleek restaurants and saw tables set with delicate champagne flutes and flickering candles. She inhaled the damp sea air and felt suddenly alone.

She was about to turn back to the tram stop when she saw a tall house with a wide stone porch and lush gardens. It had blue shutters and window boxes filled with peonies and daisies. The front door was open and she heard a violin playing and smelled butter and tomatoes and garlic.

She climbed the stone steps and entered a foyer with lacquered walls and polished wood floors. There was a dining room with high ceilings and gilt picture frames. The tables were set with royal blue china and gleaming silverware.

“Can I help you?” a young woman asked. She wore a navy dress and ivory pumps. Her dark hair was knotted into a low bun and she wore pale pink lip-gloss.

“The concierge at my hotel gave me the address of Casa Isabella, but there's no sign.” Juliet frowned. “The front door was open and something smelled delicious.”

“That's the grilled suckling pig with lemon confit,” the woman replied. “My father doesn't believe in advertising, he likes to imagine our patrons are casual acquaintances invited over for dinner. He prepares one five-course meal and the menu changes daily.” She consulted the leather-bound reservation book. “Unfortunately we're booked every weekend from May until October.”

“I'll try another night.” Juliet sighed, suddenly realizing she was starving. She hadn't eaten anything except half a sandwich with Lionel. She glanced at the marble fireplace and tall bookshelves and wanted desperately to sit at a table and have a glass of Roija Cabernet and a plate of seafood linguini.

“Antonio Banderas reserves the same table every Saturday night and never arrives before nine
P.M.
” The young woman smiled. “If you promise not to linger over the chocolate fondant, I can squeeze you in.”

“That would be wonderful,” Juliet exclaimed, following her to a table by the window. “What a beautiful room, it's like a private home.”

“My grandfather was a wealthy citrus trader.” She handed Juliet a menu. “He loved my grandmother so much he hated being away at sea. He built a house on the promenade so he could see her standing on the balcony when he sailed into the harbor.”