Island in the Sea by Anita Hughes Page B

she wore pink lip-gloss.
    â€œIt was just a summer cold.” Juliet entered the living room. She gazed at the open bottle of vodka and empty shot glass and raised her eyebrow. “You should open a window, it smells like a nightclub in here.”
    â€œI couldn’t sleep and sleeping pills can be so addictive. At least with vodka you wake up with a hangover; those lovely little pills look so innocent and the next thing you know you end up like Marilyn Monroe or Judy Garland.”
    â€œI’ll clean up if you want to go upstairs and get dressed.” Juliet picked up a stray piece of paper.
    â€œNo! We don’t want to upset Gloria.” He grabbed the piece of paper and stuffed it in his pajama pocket. “The agency sent over a new maid yesterday; she’s in her fifties with black hair and a mustache. I tried doing the dishes but she rapped my hands with a dishtowel and sent me out of the kitchen.”
    â€œWhy don’t we go into the study,” he continued. “I’ll get a pitcher of orange juice and a plate of muffins and we’ll get started.”
    Juliet entered the study and gazed at the turquoise rug and orange plaster walls. Yellow curtains opened onto the garden and a beige sofa was covered with brightly colored cushions. The coffee table held a stack of magazines and an enamel fruit bowl.
    â€œI didn’t know you followed tennis,” Juliet said, as she picked up a tennis magazine.
    â€œI’ve played since I was a boy.” Lionel carried a silver tray with a crystal pitcher and blueberry muffins and pots of butter. “It’s one of the few sports where grown men don’t fight over a ball. I attend Wimbledon every year; it’s an excellent place to catch up on music gossip. Sting has his own box and Bono never misses a match.”
    â€œI met him at the hotel last night.” Juliet pointed to the man on the cover. He had blond curly hair and wide shoulders. He wore a green Adidas shirt and white shorts.
    â€œHenry Adler.” Lionel glanced at the magazine. “He was the boy wonder from New Zealand until he injured his back. Three grand slams by the age of twenty-five and a sixth-set upset of Federer at Forest Lawn. God I’d hate to be a professional tennis player: one minute you’re an invincible god, the next some young pug who just learned to tie his shoelaces sends the ball over your head and makes you look like you need a walker.
    â€œHe’s been out for two years but he’s making a comeback,” Lionel continued, buttering a muffin. “I’ve read he’s very unassuming. He’s not one of those tennis Casanovas who thinks his racquet is some large appendage.”
    â€œWe just shared a slice of almond cake and talked about Majorca.” Juliet’s cheeks turned pink. She picked up the magazine and studied it closely. “I wonder what it’s like to have a whole stadium hold their breath waiting for you to serve.”
    â€œYou don’t worry about the crowd when you’re standing on center court, all you care about is connecting with the ball.” Lionel bristled. “It’s like when you write the perfect song. You don’t think about radio stations or music videos, you just want to soak up the words.”
    â€œI always thought writing a song is like having a new lover: you let the porridge get cold and leave your socks in the dryer because all you can think about is her floral scent.” He paused and his eyes dimmed. “Later, you want to shout from the steps of Buckingham Palace that you’re in love, but in the beginning you just want to memorize the shape of her neck and the curve of her thigh.”
    â€œSpeaking of love, how are the new songs coming?” Juliet asked. “Every night I go back to my room to a new e-mail from Gideon asking when you’re going to deliver the lyrics. I wrote back you’re inspired by the Majorcan sunsets and