This means in recent months he’s been caught attempting to make somewhat aggressive love to: an ottoman; an umbrella stand; other dogs of all breeds (and sexes); Dominique; my father; Michael; me; Lilly; Grandmère; the mayor of New York City; Clint Eastwood (in town for a movie premiere); an $84,000 Persian carpet; sofas of too large a number to name; numerous women’s purses; multiple room-service waiters; and almost all the bellmen at the Plaza Hotel.
I told Grandmère that we should write a book—What Rommel Humped—and donate the profits to the ASPCA. I’m positive it would make a fortune.
She didn’t find the idea very funny, though. Nor did she like it when I suggested that she should get Rommel fixed. She said, “I suppose when I get old and am still interested in sex, you’ll have me fixed. Remind me not to appoint you my health-care proxy, Amelia.”
Oh, dear. Michael just asked what I’m writing about. I couldn’t tell him the truth, of course.
So I told him I’m writing about how much I love him. It’s sort of true . . . it’s how I got started on this topic, anyway.
He put down his book and looked at me with those big brown eyes of his (such beautiful long lashes! Totally wasted on a man. If only I had them, I’d never need mascara again) and said, “I love you, too.”
So serious! He didn’t even smile.
Never sure what I’m supposed to do when he looks at me so seriously and says “I love you” like that. I know he does—his love is like this beautiful sea around us, warm and dependable and tranquil and calm, a place where dolphins can safely frolic and play.
But even here, on vacation, I’m seeing shadows in those lovely brown depths . . . and I’m getting the feeling that there’s rough weather ahead, with dark, deep waters, where you can’t see the bottom.
If I could have any wish, it would be that we could just stay here forever under this crystal-blue sky, in these nice warm shallow waves, and never have to face the harsh realities I suspect lie ahead.
But I suppose everyone who comes here wishes for that. Who wishes for storm clouds and wind-tossed seas? Only idiots.
Oh, here comes Mo Mo on the boat, with dinner.
CHAPTER 17
1:00 a.m., Sunday, May 3
Sleepy Palm Cay, The Exumas, Bahamas
Rate the Royals Rating: Whatever
Must write this quickly because I don’t want Michael to wake up and discover me out of bed writing in my diary in the bathroom like a lunatic.
But I found out what the shadows in his eyes are all about, and why he’s been looking so serious lately. I knew there was something. And it isn’t because he’s passing another kidney stone, been cheating on me with a music blogger, or that he wants to break up so he can have a normal life.
It’s the complete opposite of all those things.
I started getting suspicious this evening when Mo Mo brought a helper with him—he’d never done that before when setting up for any meals. The helper was a professional chef named Gretel.
Mo Mo set up a little table for two in the sand, looking out toward the sunset, with a white tablecloth and two rattan armchairs. Then he sank a couple of tiki torches into the sand and lit them.
Meanwhile, Gretel was setting the table and laying out all the food, which I couldn’t help noticing included several things that have lately become my favorites, such as grilled shrimp in pasta with mozzarella, jumbo lump crab cakes, and tuna tataki.
Also, Michael had actually gotten dressed—and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just for Gretel’s sake, because he’d changed out of his board shorts into real pants—long khakis—and a white button-down shirt.
I also spied a bottle of champagne sitting on ice in a silver cooler.
I didn’t want to think anything was going on other than a nice Saturday-night dinner, despite what the press (and Tina Hakim Baba) has been saying for AGES. I love romance novels, too, but as I keep telling Tina, in real life things don’t always work out that way.
But suddenly it seemed possible Tina could be right for once. She’s been asking me some odd questions lately, though I thought they were related to her breakup with Boris, or her love of The Bachelor.
“Which do you think is more romantic,” Tina asked me not even a week ago, “finding an engagement ring in a conch shell or a champagne glass?”
“Neither,” I had replied. “Both are better than a big public proposal, like on a Jumbotron, which you know is the worst, because what if the person being proposed to wants to say no? She’d feel terrible.”
“I know, but if you had to pick one.”
“A champagne glass, I guess. Sticking a ring in a conch shell would probably kill the conch if there were one alive in the shell.”
“True,” Tina said.
“Which did The Bachelor do?” I asked her.
“Oh,” she said. “Uh, conch shell.”
“Typical,” I said.
So when I suddenly saw Michael had put on a shirt, I thought, What if it isn’t because he simply feels like dressing up for dinner? What if he’s going to propose?
Of course there was that ever-present voice of self-doubt in my head (that probably all those people who see me in magazines would never believe exists, because of the way I project myself publicly) that whispered: Don’t be an idiot. He’s not going to propose. He’s going to announce the news that he can’t take it anymore, and break up with you!
But as Mr. Spock would say on Star Trek, that’s not logical. No one brings a woman all the way to the Exumas to break up with her. So I quickly squashed that voice.