Chapter 3

Saturday, June 19, 9:45 a.m.

Emma opened the front door before Susan Hatfield had a chance to knock.

"You're right on time. Welcome!"

"Doug isn't here yet?"

"No, but don't worry, he'll be along. He's been after me to hit the beach since two weeks before Memorial Day. I think he wants to see the rest of my hard young body."

"Emma, don't try to tell me that Doug Ferguson hasn't seen every -- you should excuse the expression -- nook and cranny of your hard young body, up close and personal, in the three months you've been keeping company!"

"I wouldn't try to tell you anything, Suz, since everybody knows you know it all. Just the same, ol'

Dougie hasn't seen me in a bikini yet, and it seems to be a matter that's awakened a certain interest."

"I wish men wanted to see me in a bathing suit," Susan responded. "Sometimes I get the feeling I could get paid if I promised I'd keep everything all covered up!"

"Don't give me that. You've got curves in places..."

"Yeah, yeah. I got curves all right. Let's drop it. Maybe being a fat girl ain't great, but it's tolerable, as long as one doesn't seek out conversations with goddesses about comparative bone structure."

"Oh, so now I'm a goddess! Maybe I ought to drop Doug the Realtor and try for something really fancy at the country club."

"Stick with Douglas Ferguson, sweetie. He's good-looking, he earns a nice dollar, he's got all his hair and a truly great butt!"

"Holy cats! Maybe I ought to stay home and let you and Doug hit the beach by yourselves -- if you could control yourself for 45 minutes, getting there!"

"Com'on, Em! I'm just having a fat-girl fantasy. I'm harmless. Besides, Doug would butt-out -- you should excuse the expression -- the minute you told him you were turning him over -- so to speak -- to me!"

Laughing, they watched as Douglas parked his elderly Land Rover in front of Emma's house.

"Ladies! Are we ready? Do you have a picnic lunch? Is there beer? Wine? Is this an incredible day, or what?"

"Ah, Doug. Restrain, restrain," Emma said, grinning. "No, there is no picnic lunch. You, Little Dougie Ferguson, will buy us an indoor, air-conditioned lunch, with indoor, air-conditioned beer-or-wine, the moment either of us suggests, having placed our blankets upon the sand, that our delicate little femininities so require. That's what big, strong men are for -- buying lunch!"

"So shall it be. Anyway, I have beer, wine, etcetera in the vehicle, all iced up and ready to go. But if you require air-conditioned beer, wine, etcetera, verily, verily, it shall be given unto you... Provided, of course, that you are going to wear It."

"It?" Susan asked, her voice rising.

"It," Emma explained, unabashed, "is the particular bikini that Douglas, here, believes is appropriate beach attire for a maiden lady of 31 years. This particular bikini is, in the words of the garment trade, 'brief'. I would call it 'abbreviated, ' but a four-syllable word somehow just seems too long to describe this teensy object."

Doug beamed. "A--breev--ee--a--ted," he intoned. "'Believe that's five syllables, there, Miz Paralegal. 'Gotta get it right in the legal biz. Anyway, it may be brief, but I'll bet it covers the subject wonderfully."

"In your fantasies, Doug, it covers the subject. I tried on this little wonder in the privacy of my own bedroom earlier this week. I concluded that, despite my exhibitionist tendencies, and despite my admittedly lovely little bod, this is Too Much. Or, more accurately, Not Enough. I won't wear it!"

Doug's face fell. "Emma! Please!"

"No kidding, Doug. I'd wear it for you, on some California beach with sheer cliffs all around and nobody but you, me and Suz here to scope it out. But c'mon! We're going to a public beach in goddamned North Carolina! Get real, Dougie."

Susan giggled. "Emma Majeski -- girl hypocrite," she said, laughing. "Is this the same girl who told me how she..."

"That's enough, Suz!" Emma cut her off with unexpected severity. Immediately, Susan realized she'd almost betrayed to Douglas a woman-to-woman confidence.

"What?" Doug wanted to know.

"Doug, I've got a bikini in my little bag here that I am confident will, when you see it, remove your socks without requiring you, first, to part with your shoes. It is not your selection, Doug, but I promise you, it is close. The only difference is, this one, while it's arresting, won't get me arrested! Anyhow, it's going to have to do. Let's go!"

The trio drove to the beach in the Land Rover, happily buzzing about the week's parade of partner foibles at the small-town-stuffy law offices of Stevens, Breckinridge and Shelton, and the not-dissimilar faux pas of Douglas Ferguson's associates at Heritage Realty. The short drive to MidCoast Beach was casual, uneventful fun. It was going to be a great day.

All three laden with beach paraphernalia, they set up camp closer to the dunes near the boardwalk than to the surf. Doug left, alone, on a second trip to the car for the all-important beverage cooler.

Emma's gaiety disappeared immediately. "Cripes, Susan!" she exclaimed. "I told you about my 'hobby' in confidence! Do you think I want Doug to believe I'm some kind of pervert!"

"I'm sorry! Really!" Susan said. "Honest-to-God, Emma, we were just cutting up and it just came out! I could'a bit my own tongue off!"