Brothers of Paradise Series

“No. I got up early and exercised.”

He stops by the edge of the dock, back to me, and takes a few pictures of the harbor. “This is good. I want you to stand here.”

I walk past him to the very edge of the dock. “For you to push me in?”

“Don’t tempt me.” But he backs away, camera raised. I take a deep breath. Showtime.

Posing isn’t always difficult, but sometimes it is. When there aren’t clear elements to work with. When I’m unsure of the direction the shoot is going. When I know the photographer isn’t pleased.

“This isn’t working,” he says, putting down the camera a few minutes later. “Try sitting.”

“On the edge?”

“Yes.”

I pause, half-crouched. “You’re definitely planning on pushing me in.”

He sighs. “You flatter yourself.”

I sink down on the edge of the dock and swing my legs over the edge, the turquoise water glittering below. Being pushed in wouldn’t even be that bad. The dress would be ruined, but as long as I could blame it on Rhys it would be cool.

Leaning back on my hands, I shake my hair over my shoulders and look at the horizon. “Are you taking pictures?”

A testy voice behind me. “Yes.”

And then a hand on my shoulder and a sudden exertion of force. I grip onto the edge of the dock and push back, and the pressure vanishes immediately. Behind me, Rhys laughs.

“You asshole!”

“I couldn’t resist. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“I don’t believe you.” Standing up, I brush off the dress. It falls like a cloud of red silk around me.

“Come on,” Rhys tells me, looking out over the distance. A dark curl has fallen over his forehead. It’s very, very easy to see how the roles could be reversed. Give me your camera and I’ll photograph you. “The all-mighty call sheet has dictated that I’m to shoot you walking in the streets.”

He strides down the dock, shoulders wide, camera gripped in one hand, like a soldier at war. Perhaps that’s what he’d rather be shooting-nature or people or wartime atrocities. Not me.

We spend the rest of the afternoon walking around Gustavia. I do all kinds of mundane things, posing all the while. Sipping a glass of wine at an outdoor café. Buying fruit from a vendor. Walking down cobblestone streets. Twirling under a giant, blooming bougainvillea.

“Good,” Rhys says finally, looking through images in his camera. “We’re done for today.”

But I’m not. Because somewhere in the distance, music is playing. “Do you hear that?”

He frowns down at me. “Hear what?”

“That’s a live band playing.” I walk down an alley, following the tune of a saxophone. It’s definitely live. A few turns later and I emerge in a small square. Nestled against colorful houses, a band is indeed playing, and people are dancing salsa in front of it.

I clutch my bag to my chest. “Oh.”

Rhys snorts by my side-I hadn’t been sure he was following. “You were right.”

“This is perfect.”

“For what? For shooting?”

“For… experiencing.” I head to one of the small tables by the side and sit down, grabbing my phone. I have to take a picture of this for Penny.

Rhys sprawls in the chair next to me, placing his camera on the table with a sigh. “Filming for your online followers?”

“And so what if I am?”

“I thought you wanted to experience this.” He raises his hand for a waiter. “Une biere, s’il vous plait,” he orders. “Ivy?”

“Just water for me, please.”

“Bien sûr,” the waiter says, retreating through the dancing couples. I watch them move, the beat intoxicating.

“So you do speak French,” I say.

“Guilty.”

“Are the French?”

“Usually.” His small grin tells me he’s somewhere else, thinking of other experiences. And perhaps that’s more infuriating than anything he’s done so far-because he’s intriguing.

I want to ask how. Why. But it’ll no doubt yield nothing at all, so I watch the dancers instead. Breathe in the scent of the town, the beat of the live band, the feeling of being someplace new. It’s addicting. Beside me, Rhys fiddles with his camera, the picture of bored elegance.Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

A middle-aged man in a French boater hat breaks away from the group dancing to stop in front of our table. He looks straight at me, holding out his hand.

“Mademoiselle?”

There’s only one answer to that.

I put my hand in his. He pulls me out amongst the other dancers. The man leads me into a hesitant salsa, but grins when he sees that I know the steps.

“I used to dance,” I tell him. He nods, still smiling, and turns me around. The music flows through me, the beats strong and seductive, and I let go. It’s been years since I’ve danced like this. No routine, no plan, no timer. Just pure uninhibited dance.

He spins me once, twice, the skirt billowing out around me. The second I’m still again, he grins. “Trés bien,” he tells me. I don’t know how long we dance for, as one song bleeds into the next. And perhaps I put a bit extra sway in my hips, knowing that Rhys is sitting a table away and watching.

Sweat is running down my back, beneath the beautiful silk dress, when the man I’m dancing with nods toward the beach and asks me something.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak French,” I say.

He chuckles, like I’ve made a joke, and his grip on my waist tightens. He repeats the question, smile widening.

I pull back. “I’m sorry, but I think I’m done dancing.”

Raised eyebrows and yet another question spoken in the same incomprehensible language. I shake my head and take a step back. “Sorry.”