Virgin Mary

By MichaelD38

DISCLAIMER AND AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons is unintentional and strictly coincidental. Although some real places and organizations are referenced here, no relationship or approval is intended or should be inferred.

This work contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity, and anyone offended by such things should read no further. If reception of this work is illegal due to your age or other repressive local regulations, liability for downloading it is your problem, not mine. This work is intended solely for the quiet and private enjoyment of adults, and any other use is a violation of the copyright. Reposting and archiving is permitted, except where a fee of any sort is required or earned for access (including banner-funded sites and fee-based age validation methods), provided this disclaimer and note remain attached to the story. All other rights are reserved.

A note to the faithful reader: This is yet another return to the quirky romances of previous works like "Sunset on Roses" and "Swimming Upstream." Don't let the title spook you, though--there's nothing sacrilegious about it, just a play on words.

If you missed a chapter, feel free to e-mail me, and I will be happy to supply the missing pieces. Intelligent comments and criticisms will receive appropriate responses. Flames and juvenile slobbering go straight to the recycling bin.

VIRGIN MARY

She found the man as he dropped anchor just off Cooper Island. Many of the tourists who came to this place paid no attention to the damage they left in their wake, but he seemed to make an extra effort to make sure the anchor landed in the sand instead of on the small reef in the center of the cove. That alone would have attracted her notice, even had he not seemed in need of something.

She swam closer, making sure the setting sun was behind her, before surfacing to get a better look. She knew a little about boats, and recognized the craft as a battered Hobie 36, easily ten years old.

The man moved about on the deck like he knew what he was doing. He had a good tan and the weathered skin of an experienced sailor. Mid- to late- thirties maybe, hair just beginning to thin. Not too tall, but thickly muscled. He wouldn't win any awards for his looks, but she thought he had a rugged charm nonetheless. This was a man with a history, whatever it might be.

She saw him disappear into the cabin and swam closer. The boat was named "The Wagon." She wasn't sure what that meant. Then he emerged from below carrying a mask and a pair of flippers. Realizing what he was about to do, she submerged instantly and swam away from the boat.

She would meet him eventually. But now was not the time.

II.

For a long time, Jim Donaldson had been convinced that all of it was the fault of his boss's secretary. If it hadn't been for her, he kept telling himself, he could have survived.

Jim came out of Yale Law School with the world at his feet. He took a job with a huge firm in Manhattan, working eighteen-hour days in exchange for truckloads of bonus money and a fast start on the partnership track. He went two years before seeing the inside of a courtroom. Ninety percent of his time was spent in the firm law library or in front of his computer. Partners asked him questions; he wrote them memos. His productivity was legendary. On a good day, he could complete two research memos before going home, sometimes even three. Once, pulling twenty-two hours straight in the office, he delivered four ten-plus page analyses to four different partners before falling asleep at his desk.

Many of the associates Jim worked with couldn't handle that kind of workload. Some quit voluntarily; others were let go at their six-month or twelve-month reviews. Jim's presence only made things worse, because he distorted the curve. The partners would point to him and ask why the other associates couldn't keep up. Most of them tried; a few snapped doing it. Jim soldiered on as always. His share of the associate bonus pool (he billed out nearly 3000 hours that year) almost equaled half his first-year salary.

Jim was the golden boy. He worked hard and played hard. He knew not only all the names of the partners but the names of their spouses and children too. He knew who to suck up to and who to avoid. When the attorneys went out together, he was the life of the party. In his fourth year, noises were already being heard about partnership.

Jim's problem, though, was that he also liked to drink.

Jim grabbed life by the balls, or at least that was how he liked to think of himself. He did nothing halfway. When he pledged his fraternity at Princeton, he was the one who outdrank all of the other pledges. He was the party god, the one who bought the kegs and usually emptied them too. He once accepted a dare to try to drink his weight in beer in twelve hours. He did it with three to spare. He kept a tap in his room, the keg always available to anyone who wanted beer at odd hours. He knew all the drinking games, and even invented a few. He and his brothers often went on long, alcohol-sodden road trips, sometimes waking up having no idea where they were.

Yet Jim's drinking never seemed to affect his schoolwork, and he often told himself that it helped him study more effectively. He couldn't seem to think as clearly sober. He made the Dean's List seven out of his eight semesters at Princeton, only slacking off after he had been accepted at Yale. He was so drunk during graduation that he blacked out during most of it.

For his first four years in New York, he kept his drinking under control. Sure, he kept a few bottles of Scotch in his office, often making drinks for the other lawyers when they visited him, but that was just good business. He would sip Glenlivet while he worked, adding some water if it was before five o'clock. So he was rarely sober at the office; no one seemed to care as long his work didn't suffer. At the end of that four-memo night, he had passed out, really, not just fallen asleep.

But, hey, he wasn't an alcoholic, right? He never drank the cheap stuff. He wouldn't be caught dead with a bottle of Thunderbird. Only the best for him. He drank eighteen-year-old Macallan (he liked to joke that he never drank Scotch with minors) and ordered bottles of five-star Barbancourt rum from Haiti and Goslings Black Seal from Bermuda. No cheap bourbon, either--only Maker's Mark or single barrel Jack Daniels.

Then came the day that Julie had arrived to work for Bill Macintyre, the managing partner.

Jim really had more experience with alcohol than with women. He had his share of college girlfriends, but his ongoing love affair with the bottle tended to limit his romantic endeavors. And to be frank, he had yet to meet a woman who attracted him more than the bottom of a martini glass. Until Julie.

The first time he saw her, she literally stopped him in his tracks. He was on his way back to his desk with several volumes of the Federal Reporter in his arms when he rounded the corner outside Macintyre's office, which overlooked Battery Park. There he saw someone new at the secretary's desk.

For four years, the desk had been occupied by a bitter old battleaxe named Marcia, whom nearly all the associates stood in mortal fear of. Marcia had finally retired, and this vision of perfection had taken her place.

"Statuesque" was the best word for her. Even now, when Jim heard that word, he saw Julie in his mind. Tall, long legs, big breasts (he would later learn they were implants, not that it mattered), long raven hair. Blue eyes like glacial ice. She was putting on lipstick when he first saw her, a blood-red shade that further enlivened her already voluptuous lips, staring into the little mirror in her lipstick case, making an "O" with her mouth.

She glanced up at him, rubbing her lips together to blend the lipstick, and gave him a sly smile.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi." She had a voice like honey, dripping slowly.

"You must be Bill's new secretary."

"Yeah."

"I'm Jim."

"Julie. Nice to meet you."

"You, too."

"You look like you're in the middle of something. Don't let me interrupt you."

Another smile.

"I've got a few minutes."

"Been working here long?"

"About four years. I could show you around later."

"Kathy showed me the office"--Kathy was the office manager--"but I'm new to New York. Maybe you could show me the town later."

Jim came close to dropping his books at that remark.

"Where are you from?"

"Philadelphia."

"Well, I'd be happy to."

"That's sweet of you. Come by again later and we can talk about it."

Though Jim would later learn that Julie had known in advance who he was-his reputation as the office hotshot had preceded him-he spent a few days congratulating himself on his charm. By the time he found out the truth, he was too far under her spell to care.

Though they went out frequently, he soon discovered that Julie was a first- class tease. A few stolen kisses, a stray hand up her skirt, a quick fondle over her blouse in the elevator--that was as far as she seemed willing to let him go. She also insisted, almost violently one night, that they keep their relationship secret at work. That at least much he understood-or thought he did.

He spent an enormous amount of money on her. They went to The Four Seasons, Tavern on the Green, Le Cirqúe. She would order the most expensive item on the menu, then pick at it. She would have him order a two-thousand-dollar bottle of wine, take one sip, and ask him to send it back. He bought her clothes and jewelry, which she would wear once--if that--and then suggest he buy her something new. He took all of it without complaining.

Julie never seemed to mind his drinking, though. If anything, she encouraged it. He often thought, years later, that she enjoyed the way his lack of sobriety kept him more under her control. She didn't seem to like him as much when he was sober. Which was less and less common as their relationship progressed.

They had been going out two months when she finally consented to sleep with him. They went to Le Cirqúe again that night, where she ordered their signature piece for dessert, a fifty-dollar tour de force of culinary architecture known as the Miniature Stove Le Cirqúe with Raspberry and Hazelnut Sauce and Chocolate Biscuit. For the presentation, the waiter upended two tiny chocolate saucepans of raspberry and hazelnut sauce over the little chocolate stove. Julie picked the thing apart with her fork, took two bites, and shoved it aside.

Then they went back to his apartment. They kissed across his living room before she took his tie and led him into the bedroom. They kissed again there, Julie smearing her lipstick all over his face. She let him fondle her breasts over her blouse, let him begin to unbutton it before pushing him backward onto the bed.

She pulled his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt, dragging her long red nails through his chest hair. Then she stood back, watching his reaction as she undressed. First came the blouse, revealing a lacy black demi-bra holding up her ample breasts. She unzipped her skirt, letting it fall to the floor, exposing the black stockings and garter belt she wore under it. She slipped out of her heels and crawled onto the bed above him.

Bit by bit, she let him expose one piece of her body at a time, making him worship each square inch as he went. He sucked her nipples until they were angry red and swollen. He licked her abdomen, her toes, the insides of her thighs. Finally she was nude, squatting over his head as he frantically tongued her neatly waxed and trimmed pubic mound. She rode him insatiably, not letting him stop until his tongue was beginning to cramp. Then she expertly teased him into erection with her mouth and straddled him, swallowing him into her belly.

Her muscular control was amazing. She held him off far longer than he thought possible, and when she finally did let him come, it was one of the most intense experiences of his life. He cried out, thrashing about like a hooked fish. When he came to, she was still astride him, looking down at him with a satisfied smile on her face. She bent down, kissed him quickly, and rolled off.

They'd done it a second time a bit later, flailing about on his bed like a pair of minks. When it was over, he got up and made himself a drink. He gulped down a couple of fingers of Glenfiddich, feeling the alcohol spread through his body and the peaty aroma through his nose, mingling with the tingling aftermath of their lovemaking. He drank another shot just because he could.

Then he turned to see Julie exiting the bedroom, largely dressed and pulling on a heel.

"Could you drive me back?"

"You don't want to stay?"

"I have a nail appointment in the morning."

He battled his disappointment for a second. But Julie was Julie, and she got what she wanted. He pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and followed her downstairs.

That was all Jim could remember from that night. His memory went blank when they climbed into his BMW. It didn't begin again until he woke up in the hospital, and a police detective was telling him about the truck he had hit after running a red light.

"What about Julie?" he asked.

The detective glanced at the doctor, then back at Jim.

"She's dead. She broke her neck going through the windshield."

Jim's blood alcohol level had tested at .16, and he went from the hospital to the jailhouse. When one of the lawyers from the firm showed up to bail him out, he learned a few interesting things. Julie, it seemed, had been a great deal more than a legal secretary. She was a former call girl Bill Macintyre had met in Philadelphia and brought to New York to replace Marcia. Bill had set her up in her apartment and put her to work at the firm. She had been seeing him the whole time Jim had been romancing her.

The firm, naturally, wanted to keep all this information very quiet. So they paid for Jim's defense, paid off Julie's parents when they sued Jim for wrongful death, and gave Jim a generous severance package after he agreed to resign from the firm. Since it was his first offense and he agreed to enter a treatment program (and because a few of the partners called in some favors with the New York D.A.'s office), Jim was able to plead down from vehicular to involuntary manslaughter. He got a year in prison, served six months, and got out.

Jim lost his job and his license to practice law, but he discovered that he didn't care. Sober for the first time in years, his perspective on life had changed. He no longer had any desire to work himself to death. He no longer cared for his former friends at the firm. All he wanted to do was to forget that unforgettable face he had put in the ground.

III.

Jim sat on the stern of his boat and pulled on his flippers. He slid off the edge into the water, then spit into his mask and spread the spittle around on the glass. He pulled the mask on and submerged.

He upended himself, swimming about thirty feet down to the bottom. He blew out his ears, then his mask, as he descended. The bottom was clear beige sand, dotted every ten feet or so with a large starfish, each at least a foot across. He flipped one over, examining the underside, feeling the tiny feet moving back and forth.

He spotted the anchor about ten yards away and swam toward it. He checked the positioning, not wanting the boat to drift. Then he let himself rise to the surface, kicking his legs in unison as he rose.

He spat the seawater out of his snorkel when he broke into the air, took a few deep breaths, then descended again. A small reef sat a few dozen yards behind the boat. He'd had to avoid it when dropping anchor.

The reef was fifty feet long at most, and maybe a third of that wide. It lay parallel to the beach, breaking the waves that rolled in from the ocean. Green and blue angelfish and striped sergeant majors circled the coral, picking at small bits of seaweed. He could hear the teeth of the angelfish as they fed. He grabbed onto a rock to hold himself on the bottom, watching the marine life around him. A few sergeant majors swam up in search of a handout, but then swam away when they determined he had nothing to eat. A small moray eel, no more than three feet long, peered out from under the reef. It stared at him balefully, mouth open to display its needle-sharp teeth, drifting back and forth with the current.

He swam around the reef, being careful not to touch any of it, as he knew that would kill the coral. He was about to surface when he saw the fish off in the distance.

Or was it a fish? He had seen a flash of blue-green, something big, maybe a grouper. But it had seemed to be swimming on its side, as if it were sick or injured. An oarfish, maybe? He squinted, and the image cleared for a second. His eyes bulged at the sight of it.

Whatever it was seemed to notice him watching, and vanished. His lungs were beginning to burn, and he swam for the surface. He swam back to the boat and climbed up the rear ladder. He shook his head, trying to catch his breath.

Jim had been sober now for two years, but he still couldn't be certain about the damage he'd done to his brain cells. Now and then, he still thought he saw things that weren't really there. This time certainly qualified.

Because he could have sworn he'd just seen a mermaid.

IV.

Cooper Island was so small that it didn't appear in the tourist guidebooks. It had no airstrip, no shopping, nothing more than a few scattered houses and a beach bar. It sat within sight of St. John, but saw few of the cruise ship passengers that more populated island attracted. Jim had stopped here for that precise reason.

As the sun began to set, he climbed into the dinghy and motored in to the beach. He tied the zodiac to a palm tree and walked up to the bar.

The open counter was empty as he approached. He found a seat near one end, by the TV set, which was on and showing a football game. Only then did he realize that it was Monday night. How long had it been since that mattered?

"What can I get you?"

He looked over to the see the bartender, a pretty blonde woman in her late twenties or earlier thirties.

"A Virgin Mary."

"Well, I'd say you're about fifteen years too late, then."

She grinned. Baffled for a second, he then noticed her nametag.

"Just my luck."

"Virgin? No vodka?"

"No vokda."

"Gotcha."

She left him to mix his drink. He looked back up at the game, seeing that the Cowboys were beating up on the Cardinals again.

Mary returned with his drink.

"Thanks."

She leaned onto her elbows against the bar.

"Since your being a designated driver isn't likely, I'm guessing you don't drink."

"I'm a recovering alcoholic."

"Strange place for you to be hanging out."

He shrugged.

"I like bars. I always have. It isn't necessary to get drunk to enjoy it."

"Just seems like you're tempting fate."

"The temptation is there no matter where I am."

She leaned back, looking out at the water.

"That's your boat?"

"Yeah."

"Nice. I understand the name now. I didn't earlier, when I saw you come in."

"Yeah. Buying that thing and stopping drinking kind of coincided. I figured it was apt. And a reminder to myself."

"Cute. But if you're in here, you're off The Wagon, aren't you?"

He grinned with her.

"You could say that. But it's a reminder, like I said. That it's that easy to fall off."

"Well, I won't let you do it, tonight at least. What brings you down here? I'm guessing there's a story there."

He looked away from her, out at the sunset, blazing reds like the lipsticks Julie liked to wear.

"Yeah. You could say that."

Jim woke the next morning as the sun rose, intending to lift anchor and find another island. He go could back the way he had come, back through the B.V.I. He could go south to Grand Cayman, like he had been thinking about, though that would mean having to go over to St. John for provisions first.

Or he could just stay here for a while.

He pulled on his trunks and found his mask and flippers. He jumped off the back of the boat, letting the cool water finish waking him up. He rinsed out his mouth with seawater before descending.

He swam to the bottom as he had done the day before, sinking down near the reef. He thought about the "mermaid" he had seen the previous day. What could it have been? Whatever it was had been at least twenty or thirty yards away, but he had gotten a good look at it. It was either for real, or a complete hallucination. And, since mermaids were a myth (right?), that had to mean he had been hallucinating.

He lay back on the sand, holding onto a rock, and looked up. He could see the shimmering refraction of the surface above him, could see the boat off to one side. He closed his eyes and felt the water around him, warm enough that it seemed scarcely there. He let go of the rock and floated upward slowly, feeling utterly weightless. He wondered if being dead was like this. What had Julie felt the moment after she had plunged through the windshield, the moment after her neck had snapped like a dry twig? Had she seen angels, or something else? Angels like he saw now?

With a start, the world swam back into focus. There it was again! And there was no mistaking it now. Either he was full gone in some sort of flashback d.t., or there was a mermaid not twenty feet away from him, hovering over the reef. She had blonde hair, floating loose around her. Above the waist, she was human, bare-breasted, but below was an iridescent green fish tail.

Then she was gone. In a flash, she turned in the water and swam away, disappearing out to sea.

Only then did Jim realize he needed to breathe. He swam for the surface, breaking into the air with a gasp. He lay on his back, sucking in long drafts of oxygen.

This was not good. Two years now he had been sober. He knew his body still craved alcohol, but he thought he had his addiction under control. Were hallucinations like this normal? He hadn't heard anyone talk like that in recovery. In the beginning, yes, but after two years?

He climbed onto his boat and went below. Slowly he began to get a grip on himself. How did he feel? Fine. Great. Better than he had in years, certainly better than he had when he was drinking. He had lost weight since then, and with all the swimming he did, he was probably in the best shape of his life now. Did he want a drink? Yes, of course, he would until he died, but the pull was no stronger now than it had been before the mermaid showed up.

So. He looked around the cabin. He grabbed a copy of "Sport Illustrated" off the deck, flipping through it. This was reality. Football. Basketball. Scantily clad young women in beer ads. Not mermaids.

Women. Yes. Maybe it wasn't alcohol, but something else entirely. It had been quite some time since Jim had gotten laid. The last time had been months ago in Martinique, an island girl he had met on the beach. A brown-eyed blonde, nineteen or twenty probably, unidentifiable bloodlines as it often was down here, a body like an otter. He had spent two days in bed with her, in her little apartment above a grocery store. He remembered the feel of her hard little breasts in his hands, the salty taste of her sex. She had been insatiable, and he had limped back to his boat when he finally left her. She had wanted him to stay, and they had seemed to make a connection after just two days together, but the timing was wrong. So he slipped out the third morning without saying goodbye.

Jim realized he had an erection. He wanted to reach into his trunks and stroke it, to give himself some quick release. He could think of Ariel, that had been her name, think of the way her strong thighs had felt wrapped about his waist. But it wasn't what he really wanted.

He wondered if Mary was working now. She had tried to get inside his head last night, but he hadn't let her. Too much history, as she had suspected.

He pulled on a T-shirt and climbed back down to his dinghy.

VI.

The bar was deserted. He walked around until he saw a man loading boxes behind the back room. He was an island native, skin so black it was almost blue.

"Hey."

"Hey. We're closed, mon. Bar opens at noon."

"I know. I was looking for Mary."

"She come on at six. Come back then."

"You know where she is?"

"Probably out swimming. She's a mermaid, that one."

It actually took him a split-second to realize the man was joking.

"Where does she swim?"

He cocked his head back away from them.

"Up the road. Ten minute walk, maybe. First beach you see. She might be there."

"Thanks."

"No problem, mon."

He walked up the road, cresting a small hill in a few minutes. He could see the entire island now, less than a mile long. His boat lay in the small cove behind him, and beyond that was the larger island of St. John's. Ahead of him was open ocean, the Caribbean, not much else until you got to Mexico. A small beach lay behind a rocky point break a few hundred yards ahead.

He got to the beach in a few minutes, not seeing anyone. Then he looked back toward the rocks, seeing a figure lying on a towel. It was a woman, blonde hair, sunbathing topless. She was too far away for him to see any detail, but his mind could fill in the rest.

Not wanting to seem like a peeping tom, he walked down toward the water, then slowly up toward the rocks. She still hadn't seen him, she might even be asleep, but he could see for sure now that it was Mary. She was shorter than he had thought, five-three tops, but she had a firm, tight little body. Her breasts were as tan as the rest of her-clearly this was a regular habit of hers.

What to do? She hadn't moved since he'd seen her, and he couldn't stand here gawking like this much longer.

He put his hand to his mouth.

"Hey!"

Her head came up, and she looked at him.

"Hey."

She came up on her elbows, but made no move to cover herself.

"What brings you over here?"

He approached slowly, trying to keep his eyes on her face.

"I just went for a walk."

"Well, you found me. This is my private spot."

"I'll let you alone if you're busy."

"No. Have a seat."

She sat up and picked up a T-shirt beside her, pulling it over her head. Relaxing at last, he walked over and sat down next to her.

"Sticking around here for a while?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know what for. There's not a hell of a lot on this island."

"I like it. It's quiet."

She didn't say anything right away.

"I suppose that's what you didn't want to talk about last night."

"Yeah."

"I won't ask then."

He sighed.

"I killed someone I thought I was in love with."

Her eyebrows went up.

"You did?"

"I was drunk. She wanted me to drive her home after she'd been over at my apartment. I did. I ran a red light, hit a truck. She died in the accident."

"Wow. What happened to you?"

"I got banged up, but nothing as bad. I spent six months in jail. I used to be a lawyer in New York, but the accident ended all that."

"Oh."

"After I dried out, I decided I wanted out of New York. I bought that boat and left."

"And you've been sailing around ever since?"

"Two years."

"Well, that sucks. What was her name?"

"Julie."

"You guys were pretty serious?"

"I thought we were. It turned out she was also my boss's mistress. She was an ex-hooker. He was keeping her as his secretary. She was sleeping with him at the same time."

"Oh."

"So that's the history."

"I'm sorry. I guess I shouldn't have asked."

"It's okay."

"You just looked like you were carrying around lot of turmoil. I mean, most ex-drunks do, I guess, but I never suspected something like that."

"I've dealt with it. How about you?"

She laughed.

"I'm a bartender."

"That's all?"

"I grew up in St. Thomas. I've worked some of the tourist spots around the islands. I know the guy who owns that bar, so when I lost my last job, I came over here."

"Huh."

He realized she was staring at him. She had light blue eyes, just a shade lighter than the water.

"What?"

"So what is it you're looking for?"

"What do you mean?"

"You ditched your old life for the tropics. You've been sailing around for two years. Why? What are you hoping to find down here?"

"I don't know."

"If it's absolution you want, I don't think you'll find it. I grew up here; I know. I mean, it's pretty and all, but you won't find anything you can't find first in yourself."

He grinned.

"The wisdom of a bartender?"

She shrugged.

"Take it however you want."

She stood up and began gathering her belongings.

"You hungry? Johnny makes a mean burger."

"I guess so. Who's Johnny?"

"The other bartender. A black guy. You might have seen him last night."

"I think I saw him this morning."

They walked together back up the road.

"You know, I just realized I don't even know your name."

"Jim Donaldson."

"Mary Martin."

"Nice to meet you."

"You, too."

"Johnny, can you make us a couple of cheeseburgers?"

"No problem."

Johnny went to work behind the grill as they sat down at the bar.

"That's a nice boat you've got. A Hobie?"

"Yeah. Might be crowded if it wasn't just me, but I like it."

"I haven't seen one of those in a while."

"They didn't make all that many."

"Do you snorkel?"

"Sure."

"There's a nice little reef out there."

"I saw it."

He wondered if he should mention the mermaid.

Johnny produced the burgers a few minutes later, and they ate lunch together.

"I have to run over to St. John," she said when she was done. "Are you coming by later?"

"Probably."

"Okay. See you then."

He sat with Johnny watching television for a while.

"What do you know about her?"

"Mary? She just showed up one day. She say she from St. Thomas, but I don't know. She don't act much like an island girl."

"What do you mean?"

"She hang out at the beach all the time, swimming. Most island girls, they leave that to the tourists."

"A mermaid."

He laughed

"Yeah, mon, just like I said."

VII.

Jim spent the rest of the afternoon on his boat. He went swimming again, but didn't see the mermaid. He began to wonder if Mary and the mermaid were connected somehow, if he was having these hallucinations out of loneliness, or simply a lack of pussy.

When the sun began to set, he drove up to the beach in his dinghy and found Mary behind the bar.

"Evening."

"Hey. What can I get you?"

"The usual."

"You're the only person I've ever met who drinks Bloody Marys at night."

"I developed a taste for them when I was drinking. When you're an alcoholic, you come out of benders at all hours of the day. Eventually you stop caring about what your drinking habits are supposed to be."

"I guess so."

He took a sip of his drink.

"Do you ever get bored here? This isn't exactly the busiest bar around."

"Sometimes. We get day excursions from St. John when the cruise ships pull in, but most of the customers are people like you, just wandering tourists."

"I don't know if I qualify as a tourist anymore."

"That's true. I've thought about heading back to St. Thomas, or to one of the other islands where it's busier. What about you? Are you going to sail in circles the rest of your life?"

"I might settle down. Enough time has passed that I'm getting tired of this."

"Could you go back to being a lawyer?"

"Maybe. I turned in my New York license rather than get disbarred. I don't know what it would take to get a license down here. Two and a half years isn't a lot of time for what I did. But who knows?"

"It might be worth a try. Worst they can say is no, right?"

He sat watching television for a few hours, talking to Mary when she didn't have to work. A few customers wandered through, and Mary made one of them a hamburger. At ten o'clock, he began to get tired.

"I'm going to head back to the boat."

"You staying another day or what?"

"I think so."

"Okay. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

Something woke him around midnight. He climbed up in the cockpit, looking back toward the beach. Mary had apparently closed things up, because he couldn't see the lights of the bar. The moon was new, and the night was black around him, the only illumination coming from the stars.

The only sounds he could hear were the quiet slapping of the waves against the hull, so when it came, he noticed it immediately.

Someone, or something, was swimming nearby. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear the sounds of their motion in the water. He went aft, looking off the boat, and saw her.

It was a woman, as near as he could tell in the darkness. She floated a few yards behind the boat. In the starlight, he could just see the tops of her breasts. Unless he was seeing things, she was nude.

But he couldn't make out her facial features. It was simply too dark.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

Her voice was very soft, scarcely louder than the waves.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't answer him.

"What do you want?" he said a moment later.

"Come in the water."

He looked down at himself. He was naked. But then, apparently, so was she.

"Who are you?"

"You saw me."

His heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be.

"Please come in the water."

Dazed, he stepped down the ladder, floating away from the boat. She came closer, reaching for him. When she put her arms on his shoulders, he strained, trying to get a clear look at her face. All he could really see clearly were her eyes, reflecting the starlight, but something about her seemed familiar.

He put his hands on her waist, feeling the smooth skin of her abdomen. Taking a breath, he felt lower, and her skin changed.

He had caught a big yellowtail tuna once, years ago, on vacation in Florida. The fish's skin had been slick and firm, the scales barely discernable. That was she felt like.

"You're a mermaid."

"Yes."

"How?"

She didn't answer him, again. Instead, she pulled him to her, kissing him. She tasted like the sea, cool and salty. He reached upward, feeling for her breasts. They were smooth and firm like the rest of her, tiny nipples hard in the water. She let him fondle her, doing nothing but kiss him. He felt her tail brushing against his feet as it swayed back and forth.

His erection came as a surprise. He didn't realize it had arisen until he felt her take it in her hand. She stroked him, the cool flesh of her hand arousing him. She pulled him closer, pressing herself against him. Her hand remained on his penis, guiding him, and with a shock, he realized he was slipping into her somehow, slipping into some channel inside her. She wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Love me," she whispered, "love me . . ."

He put his hands where her buttocks would be were she human, feeling only the smooth skin of her tail. He pulled her against him, thrusting into her, then out, then in again. Inside, she was warm, and each time he withdrew, the water would cool his erection. The constantly changing temperature began to dissolve his control. It had been too long since he been with a woman--whatever her species--and he soon lost himself in the sensations.

She held herself against him, moving with him, beginning to whimper. He thrust faster into her. Just as he finally erupted inside her, her hands dug into his back, and she let out a soft squeak, shaking against him as his seed passed into her.

He floated with her, still inside her, as his erection subsided. She pulled back, kissing him again.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Then she withdrew, submerged, and was gone.

VIII.

Jim awoke with the sun, head pounding. For a moment he felt like his old self, coming to after a bender, but the sensation passed. He didn't feel hungover, but he felt drained nonetheless. It was a moment or two before he remembered the mermaid.

The memory seemed fuzzy, not quite there. Had he dreamed the whole thing? His body felt sticky, as if he had gone swimming last night, but it could just as easily have been sweat from the warm tropical night. He looked around the boat. No trace of her, not that there would be.

He ate breakfast and took a quick shower on the stern. After dressing, he climbed into the dinghy and went in to the beach. He tied up his boat and walked up the hill to Mary's spot by the rocks. She wasn't there, and he saw nothing anywhere else on the beach.

He walked slowly back to the boat, wondering where she was. The bar looked deserted, but then it was still early.

"Hey. Looking for me?"

He turned to see her standing at one end of the bar, dressed in short khaki shorts and a yellow string bikini top. She had a beach bag over one shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Well, that makes two of us. I was looking for you."

"Were you?"

"Yeah. Today is my day off. The bar is closed on Wednesdays. I was thinking we could go over to St. John. I could show you around."

"I'd like that."

"How do you want to go?"

"I need to stock up anyway. Let's just sail over."

"Fine by me. Let's go."

He untied the zodiac and pulled it down to the water. As he got it into position, he saw her stepping back from oncoming wave, trying to keep sandaled her feet from getting wet. When it rolled back, she jumped forward, hopping into the dinghy before the water returned.

He shoved off, and drove them out to the boat. She climbed up the rear ladder and hopped into the cockpit as he tied off the zodiac.

"The place is kind of a mess. Give me a chance to straighten up first."

"It's okay. I'm not much of a neat freak."

He went below and cleaned up the worst of it before returning topside. She took the tiller while he hoisted the anchor, then raised the sails. In a few minutes, they were away from the island and beating up the channel toward St. John.

She positioned herself in the cockpit and began putting on suntan lotion.

"Do you mind if I ask how old you are?" she said.

"Thirty-four."

"Oh."

"I know I look older than that. Years of drinking tend to do it."

"No, you look good. I was thinking about thirty-five."

"I have more manners than to ask you the same thing."

She smiled.

"What do you think?"

"Twenty-five."

"Please."

"You could pass for that."

She smirked.

"You're sweet, but you don't lie very well."

The boat had begun to heel over as they moved up into the wind, and Mary rearranged herself up on the deck. She slid down her shorts, revealing a yellow bikini bottom to match her top, then lay down in the sun in front of him.

"I've never been to New York," she said a while later. "What's it like?" "The complete opposite of this place in every conceivable respect. Bigger, faster, noisier, dirtier, more expensive, much more crowded. I doubt you'd like it if you grew up here."

"This place isn't that cheap."

"It's nothing compared to New York. I was paying $2100 a month for a thousand square feet."

"Wow."

"Yeah. And I hated the place. But housing is so short, you have no choice. You pay someone to find you an apartment, and you take what they find, no questions asked. Otherwise you sleep in the street."

"I worked in Miami for about a year once. I didn't like it all that much after a while."

"Is that the furthest north you've been?"

"I have a cousin who lives in Texas. I visited her a couple times. But I think you're right. Life on the mainland just isn't the same as it is down here."

An hour or two later, they had crossed the channel. Mary was still sunbathing in front of him. He looked over her smooth little body for a few moments, suddenly not wanting to go into St. John. They were near the island now, though not the town, and he saw a small cove up ahead. He turned the boat toward it.

Mary sat up, looking around.

"Where are you going?"

"I feel like stopping for a little bit. You mind?"

"No, go ahead. We don't have to go shopping if you don't want to."

He pointed the boat into the cove, a small horseshoe-shaped recess in the island with a narrow beach behind some rocks. Mary went up on the bow and dropped the anchor when they got out of the channel.

Jim went below to find his mask and fins. He turned around to see Mary standing in the cockpit well, leaning forward, arms above her holding onto the overhead, looking down at him.

"What do you think?"

He walked back to her, but she stayed where she was. Their eyes held each other, and she smiled at him. He got very close to her, close enough to see the little sun-wrinkled crow's feet a the corners of her eyes, but she didn't move.

"I think . . . I can go snorkeling later."

He put his hands on her waist, and she lowered her arms, settling them around his neck. She still stood on the steps down from the cockpit, so her face was level with his. She leaned forward and kissed him softly.

He pulled her closer, lifting her off the steps easily, and she wrapped herself tighter around him, legs going around his midsection. He could smell the sea in her hair, taste it in her mouth. She was a tiny thing in his arms, no more than a hundred pounds, a hundred-five tops. She let him carry her forward, into the forecastle where he usually slept. He laid her on the bunk and lay down beside her.

She slipped out of her bikini in a few moments, and pulled off his trunks. She lay still, letting him explore her body. She ran her fingers through his chest hair, kissing his shoulder. Her breasts were small and hard, her nipples little pink pebbles. He suckled them gently for a few minutes, rolling them around with his tongue.

Then he rolled on his back, pulling her above him. She reached up, putting her arms up to hang from the forward hatch as she straddled his mouth. She was salty, wet like the sea, and he drank her up. She swung from the hatch, moaning softly as he worked on her with his tongue, holding her firm little butt in his hands. She began to whimper, then to twitch, then thrust herself back and forth over him. Her climax, when it came, was deep and quiet, shaking with the waves as they rocked the boat. Then she rolled forward, dropping down beside him.

He held her in his arms for a few minutes before she returned to life. She curled herself around, taking him into her mouth. She swallowed up more of him than he expected, taking most of his erection deep into her. He lay back, letting the waves of sensation wash over him. He looked up through the hatch at the clear sky above them, smelling the sea air.

Before she took him too far, he pulled her up, pulling her above him. She threw a leg over his waist and settled down, letting him sink inch by inch inside her. He pulled her close, kissing her as she moved up and down.

They rocked together for a long time, holding each other close, moving with the rhythm of the waves. She shook in orgasm twice more, digging her nails into his arms, before he rolled them over. She kept her legs up, holding her knees at his waist, pulling him as far into her as he could get. He drew back, almost taking himself out of her, before plunging back in. He drove into her repeatedly, rising toward his release, finally squirting off deeply inside her. She held him tightly, whispering his name in his ear, milking out the last of his orgasm with her body.

IX.

He awoke a bit later to find her lying on his chest, watching him.

"Hi."

"Was this why you decided to stop?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

He stared into her blue eyes.

"Do you believe in mermaids?"

Her eyebrows went up slightly.

"Why?"

"You'll think this is nuts."

"Try me. I'm bartender. I've heard a lot of weird stories in my time."

"A couple of times, back at the island, I think I saw--no, okay, I did see, maybe I was hallucinating, but I saw a mermaid. Twice. Three times, if I wasn't dreaming last night."

Her forehead creased.

"You're serious."

"Yes. It might have been some kind of flashback to my drinking days, but I saw something that looked a hell of a lot like a mermaid. And last night, it showed up at my boat and talked to me. But I might just have been dreaming that one."

She sat back away from him, leaning against the bulkhead.

"So maybe you did see one. It's not like the entire world has been catalogued and indexed yet."

"You don't think I'm nuts?"

"You know what a coelacanth is?"

"A fish."

"A prehistoric fish. It was supposed to be extinct, like for a hundred million years. Then some fisherman pulled one out of his net. So who says there aren't mermaids out there somewhere? Stranger things have happened."

He stared at her for a moment. What had Johnny said about her?

"Maybe you're one."

She grinned.

"Maybe I am. How would you know?"

"When we were getting into the boat, you didn't seem to want to get your feet wet. And Johnny said you didn't act much like an island girl, that you'd just showed up one day."

"Like I'd just crawled out of the sea?"

"Right. And I've been sailing around here for two years. When do I finally see a mermaid? The same afternoon I meet you."

"So I was spying on you? Checking you out first?"

"Maybe. Last night, when . . . this mermaid came to me, I thought something seemed familiar about her. Now I see why."

Her face dropped, and she held up a hand.

"Wait. Wait. You're serious about this? You really think I'm this mermaid you've been seeing?"

"I'm thinking it's a possibility."

She laughed in disbelief.

"You are crazy."

"Am I?"

"Yes. Come on."

She swung her legs onto the deck, standing up.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to prove it to you."

Not bothering to cover herself, she walked back down the cabin and climbed up into the cockpit. He followed her out, glancing around to see if anyone was watching them. Unconcerned with her nudity, Mary climbed up on the railing and dove into the water.

She surfaced a moment later, swimming backwards, holding her legs up.

"See? Feet. No fins."

He let out a breath.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Come in the water. I'll show you what I've got over that mermaid of yours."

He dove in after her, and she swam up to him, wrapping herself around him.

They returned to the island that night. Mary gave Johnny her notice, and they left together for Grand Cayman a few days later. They hadn't talked much about the future, because the past seemed enough to carry them along for now. Maybe they would stop somewhere eventually, somewhere where he could settle down and she could find another job. Or maybe not. Maybe they could just sail off into the sunset. Who knew?

Stranger things had happened.

She watched him leave sadly, fighting the tears. She had hoped she could have convinced him to stay with her, that that night together wouldn't be their last. She had followed him here all the way from Martinique, followed him after he had left her the morning she was going to tell him the truth.

The old ones had warned her about this. Human men, for all their charms, were not easy to catch. Not for good.

She rubbed her belly. He had put her with child, and it would have been good for the young one to know her father. She hadn't known hers. But it was a common story. She knew she would survive.

She was a mermaid, after all.

THE END