"Thanks again, Chief!" shouted Lloyd Danvers as he left the beach to walk the short distance to his bungalow. He was plumb worn out and waterlogged after a day of pre-planned waterfront activities and anxious for some alone time. Lloyd was one of only two salesmen at ToneDef Communications honored that year with a week at the Clitz Royal Resort in Grand Cayman. Known facetiously as Club Davos for the abundance of top political figures, CEOs, and Hollywood elite who traveled there to see and be seen, Lloyd found the environment and its clientèle overly pretentious. Nonetheless, the allure of the luxurious accommodations was undeniable.
This visit, his third, he was a 5th wheel. Sharon had been overwhelmed with a bathroom remodel and had stayed back home in Scarborough, leaving Lloyd to spend his days with one of his entourage: his boss, the boss's wife, his rival Chad, and Chad's girlfriend-in-progress. As for late afternoons such as this one, it was typically just Lloyd and his left hand, then a catnap before dinner. Today, however, was an exception to the rule, for when Lloyd unlocked his Hacienda-style front door, he thought he heard giggling buoyant on the private saltwater pool just beyond his lanai. He grabbed a cold beer on his way to investigate, and shortly thereafter, his suspicion was confirmed.
"Kerry?"
Waist deep in the pool with a lavender martini perched in her piano fingers was Lloyd's Mistress of Mississauga, as he called her, and if that wasn't surprising enough, she had company.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"You told me your wife wasn't coming, so I thought I'd surprise you."
Kerry placed her plastic martini glass on the edge of the pool at Lloyd's feet and twisted her long fawn mane high on her head to better secure it with the wide-toothed comb, while Lloyd gazed down into the deep gorge formed by the compression of her cowajungas by the balconette bikini.
"You know Dragana, of course," she said, smiling up at him with an exaggerated wink, as if to suggest he had locked legs and swapped gravy with the woman he now recognized as one of the resort staff. Tall, very thin, and surprisingly pale, with a stylish black satin bob, cut shorter in the back and angled to the front, she wasn't Mexican like most of the menial workers; she was some sort of East European transplant who worked in the front office and wore tropic-casual attire, rather than a uniform. Regardless, he'd had only minimal contact with her and it had been strictly business.
"She let me in," Kerry added.
"Ciao, Monsieur Danvers," said Dragana, addressing Lloyd in the disparate dialects, "You no mind?"
Of course he didn't mind, well, notwithstanding the worry his boss would discover the subterfuge; that would be a disaster of extraordinary magnitude. Their wives were tennis partners; there would be no way to protect Sharon from the scandal, and having been duly embarrassed, she would be compelled to divorce Lloyd just to save face. As for Chad, he'd love nothing better than to see Lloyd lose his job so that The Chadster could turn his #2 salesman jersey in for #1.
All torqued up with the pessimistic possibilities, Lloyd plopped on the edge of the pool and took a long draw of his beer to settle himself. Then realizing he had over-reacted, as he was inclined to do, he talked himself out of the scary scenario he had just conjured. He was pleased his paramour was about to be under him, and it was just for one night; he was headed home tomorrow. If he could just get rid of this office manager person, he and Kerry could get in a quickie before dinner, then he'd make up some excuse to get back here early and bed her again for the night - the ENTIRE night. For obvious reasons, that was nearly impossible to negotiate back home, and knowing it was now in the cards had Lloyd hardening with new optimism.
"So Dragana," he asked, interrupting the chitchat, "Who's minding the office?"
"Arturo," she answered, then proceeded to explain just who this Arturo fellow was in broken English mixed up with some Spanish, which she appeared to speak with more proficiency. But it may as well have been Maltese since it all sounded like gibberish to Lloyd.
"She's off the clock," said Kerry, disappointing him with the translation, for he wanted Dragana gone, so he could cream the Twinkie with Kerry.
Just then the mid-afternoon sun broke over the west end of the bungalow, flood-lighting the outdoor space and prompting Lloyd to lower his Maui Jims. He labored to his feet, wincing with the painful ping in his left knee, leftover from the knee surgery two years previous.
"Can I get you ladies anything while I'm up?" he asked, just out of politeness - he didn't really mean it.