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New York in the winter? That's for suckers. The beaches of the Caribbean— that's the proper place to while away December as the calendar rolls over to 1964— on the sunny, shiny, white sands of Bermuda.
A private car to the airport. A chartered jet with DC Industries on the tail. Caviar, champagne, and rich foods on the flight south.
And then a lazy, meandering drive through the Bermuda countryside with Roberto at the wheel of the convertible and Marie and Scarlett riding along, the top down, the whitewalls rolling, and the wind whipping through everyone's hair.
"Estamos aqui!" Roberto calls, pointing at a beach house appearing around the corner— white, blue trim, and so neatly appointed it must see year round service and maintenance. "Ahaha, I knew I'd find it," he says, pulling the convertible up in front of a pair of waiting, white-gloved servants. He vaults from the driver's seat, stretching, and grins at the women, offering them each a hand out. "Bienvenidos ala casa de Raul," Roberto says, gesturing grandly. "My friend's summer home in Bermuda. Fortunately, he is an avid skier, so he agreed to lend me his cabin if I give him my little shack in Aspen," he says, leaving the baggage to the attendants to manage.
*
A getaway from the everyday puts the rolling palm-shrouded outcroppings and rocky islands at Scarlett's shoulder while Hamilton Harbour vanishes into the distance. Lovely blue water and mild weather constitute a better time for someone escaping the hell hole that is New York in snow induced by frost giants and worse. A good time to take a holiday at the northern tip of the famous triangle; maybe they can hope a gateway will open up and return them to 'normal' Earth where aliens do not assassinate the president and then end up blown up.
The redhead hasn't much to say, though she wears a jade sundress in defiance of the mid-December date. Being closer to 72' than 32' wins points in her book. A darker green sweater tied around her shoulders does actually nothing useful except provide something to sit on. The appearance of the beach house and its servants warrants a low, curved smile. "How delightful. Why would he ever want to leave? Skiing makes sense, but only for a short getaway. Look at how peaceful the water seems."
Her gaze trails away from the ragged line of surf towards the eastern horizon. Next stop, North Africa.
*
There was a time in Marie's life when she was accustomed to the extravagant; that part of her history seems long ago, but it doesn't prevent her from enjoying the trip! Travel, whether it be by boat, by car, by motorcycle or by jet seem to be something that the girl enjoys… and it's something she enjoys all the more when that travel is accompanied by friends and warmth.
Warmth that Marie has /missed/ so much in New York. When she first arrived in the city? It was relatively warm, but here? Oh, this weather is divine, to say the least. Not to mention those /views./ Oh, she could live in a place like this without much difficulty.
"The…" Marie trails off, racking her brain for the expression, "…grass is always longer on the other side, as they say?" …expressions will always be a point of difficulty for Marie, it seems, but she doesn't seem too phased by this. Once they stop? Marie takes the offered hand to exit the car… taking a moment to smooth out the - slightly oversized - white blouse and coppery skirt she wears once her feet are again on solid ground. "Thank you again for bringing us, 'Berto — it was most kind, and just what we both needed, I believe." …especially as recent events kept spiraling out of control. A place away from the news of the world? She is one-hundred percent up for /that./
*
"Some crave the heat of the sun, others the heat of a warm fire in the snow. Myself," Roberto says, walking ahead of the women— "I am the sort who prefers a hot, sandy beach and the ocean lapping at my ankles."
He gestures for them to follow along. "The main house, owned by several families who timeshare it. We are staying in the bungalow at the edge of the water," he explains, walking down a fifty-yard footpath to a grassy overlook. Low trees, expertly planted, give a tremendous amount of natural privacy and the sense that the beach belongs to the three of them alone. He opens the doors to allow light and sun into the large, spaciously appointed bungalow, shutters flying back to allow paradise into the interior of the place. A hearth sits in one corner, and a record player with a modest assortment of material shares a shelf with a generous collection of books.
"Anything we don't have, they'll run from the main house with a call," Berto says, tapping the phone on the wall. "The mainland's an hour trip, so if you're craving anything special for dinner, just call it in by lunch and the chefs will fetch it. Clothing, food, fine wine— anything we need," he says, winking gregariously at the two women. "What do you think?"
*
Details are taken in, gaze shining with curiosity and a distance that might only be recognizable to Marie due to experience. Scarlett is nothing if not a chameleon, adopting another mask whenever necessary. Quiet though attentive, she hones in on the record player of all things. "There must be an entire music store stacked up over there. Truly, that's a collection. Does the owner have a taste for music, or has this been a tradition of all the families who come to leave a record behind?" She muses on that idea, clearly tickled a little. "I imagine there is a record shop in town that does a roaring business."
Her forgettable sweater is folded over her arm and then set aside on a chair to be forgotten for the duration. "Perhaps we can meet a siren or a mermaid out there, someone who can tell us about the secrets of the blue depths. I don't expect to stay on land much." The glitter of her gaze strikes azure, and she looks back at Marie and Berto. One can only hope both of them are as seagoing as their friend, or else they'll have all weekend to themselves (maybe that's the point…) while she scuds off the waves and dances on the surging, violent mountains of water further out to sea where even freighters bound for the Panama Canal fear to roam. It's a bit reckless, but she's not the kind to care anymore.
"I can jaunt back if we forgot anything. It takes me only a moment, and customs won't be so much of a hassle." Is it the decidedly English accent? Maybe. But dropping silently out of the sky with groceries is also a good way to break the law in style.
*
"The heat is fantastic," Marie agrees, smiling brightly… "…but the water…" she trails off, closing her eyes and daydreaming a bit. Oh, Scarlett certainly can expect the seer's company at least when it comes to the water. It's been quite a while, but she /does/ remember how to swim, and looks forward to the opportunity where the water will be warm; in New York, she wasn't nearly so sure that the waters looked inviting. Here, though… she could run out and jump in, clothes and all.
…and then her eyes open again, shining with joy. "I think you are a most gracious host and that you have brought us somewhere most beautiful, Roberto; both your friend's home and the country it's built in." Sometimes she feels like she's taking advantage of people; it's a feeling that she's trying to get past, though. She knows her intentions and if anything, it's more a difficulty saying 'no' to a good situation than something malicious.
*
Roberto moves to the record player and puts on something modern and trendy— a jazz styling popular among certain circles in Miami, with a strong trumpet and a saxophone playing a jangling duet with the strum of a bass. He grins at Scarlett, walking past her with an offered curl of fingers to guide her into a stepping twirl. "A tradition, yes. Someone is keen for some Coltrane, or perhaps some Frank Sinatra— a note to the boatboy next time he goes into town, and it's here by nightfall. After a time, it's just easier to leave a collection behind."
"Books for the bookish, music for the dancers, and catamarans for those who love the sea. And, warm sunny beaches," he says, offering Marie his other hand and a twirl going the other way, "for those who just want to burrow into warmth and hide from the world."
"I can't stop you from nipping anywhere you like, senorita," Roberto tells Rogue, smiling. "Nor would I want to. But part of enjoying luxury is letting yourself relax, and letting others fetch for you. Give it a try, si?" he invites the redhead, flashing his most disarming grin at her. "But at a minimum, I think yes— a trip on the catamaran around the island would be a fine time— there is, also, a small yacht we can take if we wish to strike out past the breakers. At least for those of us who are otherwise trapped on the ground," he grins at Scarlett.
*
Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, and given the comparable shade between the sea and the taller redhead, the affinity of girl to ocean is considerable. She steps towards the water, though it is a long way off, her heels touching the ground. Nodding absently to the options for music, she reaches up her hand to catch Roberto's. Her expertise in dancing this way is limited; white gloves or not, it's hard to partner when one can dislodge pieces of self from the body and leave a comatose husk behind. Pivotal revolutions follow as they spin shortly, and her tea dress rises on a spiral, revealing bare legs to the knee. "I look forward to the peace of evening. Perhaps it will encourage us all to drift away without too much weight on our shoulders. New York is never truly dark or quiet."
Her vivid eyes stare off towards the water for a time, and then she goes to stare out the window or a sliding door, whatever separates the room from the greater world at large. Breakers have a call, a lulling murmur. "It is very gracious of you to open your home, or rather your friend's home, to us. Thank you. I would not have you thinking I was not appreciative."
*
Music. It can soothe the savage beast, an enrapture the soul of a dancer. As the music starts to play, Marie can't help herself, already starting to sway along to the music — and when Roberto comes to take her hand? She pirouettes easily, showcasing the grace developed from years of dancing.
"There is nothing wrong with hiding from the world… sometimes I think it may be the most splendid idea ever; to find a place where only the people I care for could find me, and live there in peace and harmony."
But that's not her path. Marie's seen glimpses of her path every now and then; things that she's come to accept, but doesn't look forward to. Others still that excite her and drive her to journey forward; she saw this trip, for instance! She didn't know the form it would take. Not until the finer details started coming in through conversation, and when the cards confirmed it was time to go? Well. It was time to go. A reward for the faithful for following the path to the letter.
"He is right, ma cherie." Marie adds, with a smile offered to Scarlett. "You do so much for everyone, allow things to be done for you for a change. Please?" the last is offered in a hopeful tone. She /knows/ her friend needs to relax. After all the city's been through, and what the girl herself has. "I suspect morning, noon and night alike will be as peaceful as we choose it to be." …because admittedly? Fun can be rambunctious, but it's still good.
*
Roberto moves up to Scarlett's other side, bracketing her with Marie, and gives the redhead a smile that's much more wry and friendly than merely boyishly charming. "I do not pretend to be a man without self-interest, Scarlett," he tells the enigmatic redhead. "But I have always endeavored to be a generous fellow. My family— all I have, comes from the kindness of people who saw the value of our hard work," he says, gesturing vaguely around him. "And invested in me. In my family," he remarks.
That boyish, outrageous grin returns. "So while I must say, I have no objection to sharing a villa for a weekend with two beautiful women, please do not think I expect or require gratitude beyond the thanks you have already suggested. I am merely pleased to share a little slice of heaven, with two people who enjoy it."
He grins at Scarlett, brows lifting in an attempt to cajole a smile from her. "So! What shall we do first, ladies?" he inquires. "There is perhaps time for a quick jaunt to the beach, or we could summon up dinner from the house and relax after our drive in, and enjoy some music and pleasant company? I know little about you, Scarlett," he tells the tall woman, flashing another quixotic smile. "It perhaps behooves us to get to know one another?"
*
They're all trying to get their date with lady luck, winning the attention of a most fickle cosmic force. Dance and be graceful, speak generously of others, and hope the blessing will return; or seize life by the reins and ride for all you're worth — the method doesn't so much matter as much as trying.
For Scarlett, there is no do, no try, only looking out over the sea towards that far horizon shrouded in the mysteries and nautical tales of sailors for the past five centuries, give or take, since an intrepid Portuguese captain decided to round Africa again. Her thoughts snap back to attention when a pause lengthens around a question, and drags her in. She's a student, no other way around it, and those pauses inevitably pull her into focus and the frantic pursuit of the correct answer. "I would never assume," she murmurs. Ha! Canny girl, maybe she really is listening. "The least I can do is put together a meal at some point, however." Idle hands and devil's work apply even in a Mid-Atlantic paradise, this is true. "Not dinner, as you have plans, but something."
The lingering question remains, what do to? And in that, the redhead is mired in her own falling strands of fate, the destiny she fights so hard to conclude herself from dragging her under. The most she can do is defer: "Whatever moves you, let's go with that."
*
While Roberto and Scarlett seemed more than eager to pass the decisions of what to do along? Marie's probably the least decisive of all of them. At least without using her cards, that is. However, years of reading her cards have made her good at reading people to an extent. Picking up clues. So while she answers… the answers were stolen from words and actions already taken.
"Perhaps a trip out on your cat marine?" …she didn't quite catch the word, but it sounded like a boat to her. "We can talk, we can laugh, and we can enjoy the beauty of the ocean at the same time." she suggests; those looks that Scarlett kept giving towards the water were one sign. Roberto wants to be around people; and she's not /entirely/ sure how a being of heat would enjoy being submerged. So she put two and two together!
*
"The Catamaran, it is," Roberto grins. "I'll head to the dock and prepare the boat— you ladies change into something appropriate for the ocean, si?"
Ten minutes later, Roberto's standing hip deep in the ocean, his shirt tossed onto the catamaran's deck, and preparing to shove the vessel off the sandy beachhead so it can drift into the waters beyond. The sails are hauled back and knotted expertly out of the way until he's prepared to take charge of them— the naturally swarthy fellow looks as if he lives his life at sea, and when the girls arrive, he holds the boat steady at the dock until they're aboard.
"A quick run out, then back with the tides?" he suggests, starting to kick and push the boat out into the deeper, azure waters beyond the breaks.
*
"I think that sounds very good. I would like to see how you maneuver a boat around here, and how one runs it anyways. I haven't much had the opportunity to be on any boat with a motor, or at least that kind." A new learning opportunity? Signed up, and sitting in the front row, that's her. She doesn't bend or fold to possibilities when it comes to education. Scarlett dips her head in a nod, and then smiles. "Let's do it."
She still hasn't bothered with that sweater despite /being/ on a boat, or a shoreline, where the wind perpetually wanders over the waves and dusts the hair of the unprepared. Joke's on the wind; her hair is constantly braided in elaborate designs that belong fully to Asgard.
*
Victory! That's one point for Marie. One point against Marie? Having not /been/ to a proper beach or ocean, she didn't know how to pack for the trip. Nor have the clothes, which would've been hard to find in the city at this time of year. So when she arrives at the dock, it's dressed the same as she was — because frankly? She'd be willing to jump into the ocean as she is. Because she /can./ She's around friends, in a paradise… and the weight of the world is something she isn't feeling the slightest of.
She /does/ walk carefully to step onto the vessel, because she remembers sea legs were something that weren't easy to get on the /last/ boat she was on… but once she's on? She finds herself a seat an laughs merrily, "You are the expert, 'Berto, let's go!"
*
With one more grunting push, Roberto moves the boat off the sandbank. It's a big boat— it's rather surprising he can move it at all, but he does, and he clambers on board swiftly once they've left the shoals.
"Tide is a bit low, so I wanted to clear the breakers before risking the engines," he explains. The deck of the catamaran sits six feet off the water, and the two keels straddle a net in the center that resembles nothing so much as a big hammock. He unfurls a sail, which catches the breeze coming off the mainland, and the boat starts groaning out into the lapping tides.
He's a surprisingly deft sea hand, and in short order the boat is a hundred yards from the coast and the Brazilian fellow— strapping, swarthy, wearing a pair of brief blue swim trunks— is at the till, banking the boat into a parallel course with the beaches, his reflective sunglasses glinting against the warm Caribbean sun.
"There's food and some drinks belowdecks," he calls to Marie and Scarlett. He reaches over to kick on the engine and the boat starts tacking further out into seas, the motors taking over for the odd angle of the wind cutting across the sails as he collapses them. "Did you two not bring swimtrunks?" he inquires, a beat later. "Or are you simply too modest to swim?"
*
Scarlett places herself as close to the bow of the boat as she can. Rather she sits there than closest to the engine, getting in the way of Roberto's operation of ropes, sails, and possibly sea sprites. Okay, not so much the latter.
That being said, she is altogether too likely to stretch out and stick her hand in the water, feeling the currents and distinction in the colder or warmer water, learning of the vagaries of the ocean firsthand. On the other hand, the likelihood she'll be flung off into the shallows is fairly low, and deserved if it happens. Her folded legs pin her skirt to her thighs, no misbehaviour here. "Suit under the dress," she says easily enough, though the usual warning that comes with baring so much skin is absent. It may be a reason why she is lolling over the waves, getting the odd face full of briny water, grinning when it happens.
Marie is given a nod if she wants to help herself, but the first few minutes are going to be spent so close to the water she's probably soaked along the way.
*
"As I said, you are the expert." Marie assures Roberto at his explanation; she had no doubts that he knew what he was doing; and if he needed the help? She could have easily summoned the tarot to lend her a hand. Yes, even now the cards are with her; kept in a waterproof bag somewhere beneath her clothes.
…as for swimming? Marie shakes her head a little; "One cannot bring what one does not have. The stores in New York were most unkind to this shopper." It's not like she had months of warning before the trip. She smiles; unlike Scarlett's braids, Marie's hair blows easily with the wind. It's a /good/ feeling. "However, I do not intend to allow this to stop me. Clothing can dry as well as anything else, and I do not expect to die of chills here."
…and she checked, too. Death isn't in the cards for today. The offer of food tempts; but one isn't supposed to swim for a while after. Drinks? They tempt in a different manner altogether; but one best avoided with the ocean as a more immediate intention.
*
It's a balmy eighty degrees, even with the spray of the salt air and wind— Roberto grins at the two women. "As the ladies wish," he remarks— and singing a song in lilting, fluid Portuguese, he sets the rudder right and sends the boat northwards, standing strong and sturdy on two firmly planted feet.
It's every moment a voyage of sunny, cerulean delight. Shoals and sandbars abound, little proto-islands consisting of only a single palm tree scattered all around the tiny private atoll. Seagulls float across the water, singing and cawing, and a pelican makes a stately descent to gobble some poor fish out of a flickering of tails.
The wind remains warm and steady, the splash of the sea helping to cool the skin from the warmth of the late afternoon sun. At one point, a group of dolphins skitter and chirp their way across the seascape, the pod singing and laughing stories only dolphins can appreciate. A whale blows a few hundred yards, unexpectedly, calling for cheers and exclamations from Berto as four great beasts of the sea surge to break the surface, then vanish again.
The trio are out for most of an hour before the tide shifts— he brings the boat around, dashing across the hammock suspension in the center, and resets the sails to cut into the wind as it shifts. He's a fairly competent sailor, it seems, or at least knows enough not to let the boat career out of control. The low pontoons of the catamaran make it ride low against the waves, creating a rhythm to the welldipper of Rogue's hand in the water.
As they approach the dock once more,w with the sea spray blowing up and soaking skin and hair, Roberto collapses the last of the sails and putters into the dock.
"Ladies, go inside if you please, and maybe call for some food?" he requests. "I shall need a few minutes to secure the boat, in case of late tidal breakers."
*
Sing Scarlett does not. She lingers on the catamaran, arm trailing over the side, bouncing over the waves and probably at a few times coming close to falling in the water. No matter, she won't complain if that is the case. The freedom of not thinking, only being, comes as a powerful sedative and an upper, if such a thing can be true. She drinks in the fresh air and breathes out the salt locking her lips, seeping from every pore. Her damp braids need a towel to ever come close to the description of dry; there is no reason for her to complain, at least, and she musters a small chuckle at Marie's discussion about drying out after the fact. How appropriate, yes?
The boat swings around the hook of the island, and fortunately no one capsizes. That might be unfortunate. Sunshine doesn't bake her skin, alas, but she can appreciate this chunk of sand and stone poking out of the Atlantic about parallel to the Carolinas, a friendly bastion for all that one could want. Notably, no trouble.
A weary soul rejoices in the short-lived escape from yesterday and tomorrow. Today will be fine, if it stays suspended. By the time they return to the dock, she is curled up, sitting, at least. "I can help with the ropes. I do not mind."
*
Marie's… very obviously enjoying herself. Thoroughly. She sways and listens to Roberto's singing, her eyes oftentimes finding her staring out over the ocean and it's many wonders. More often than not her voice was ringing out in melodious laughter; and eventually, she does decide to partake in a couple of things to eat. Deciding to nibble on some exotic cheeses while she enjoys the view.
So many animals that she's being able to see in person, rather than in books or photographs… it's an eye-opening experience and that's to say nothing of the water itself. So much /bluer/ than any water she's ever seen. Remarkable.
"Well then, I suppose I will leave the two of you to speak while I call for the food." Marie replies to the pair, bowing her head slightly before making her way in.
*
Roberto throws an anchor down onto the beach to moor the boat, then nods at Rogue. "If you would, please, tie us off to the other mooring point," he says, nodding at pylon anchored in knee-deep water, the tide rolling upwards. The dock is small and light, floating and visibly too delicate to work as a mooring point.
He sets about making sure the sails are down and properly stowed, then locks the rudder and till in place. Once it's all lashed and down, he lands on the dock and offers Scarlett a hand down to the planks, and the two of them head up towards the bungalow. "I am glad you joined us, Scarlett," Roberto tells the woman, smiling at her as he slings a pack of food and sundries over one shoulder, while the two trudge up the hillside towards their accommodations. "I hope Marie didn't have to twist your arm too much. You do seem to be enjoying yourself a bit, I hope?" he inquires, hesitantly— the quiet, withdrawn redhead was something of a mystery to the garrulous Brazilian heir.
*
Inside, Marie's staring at the phone. Decisions aren't something that come easily to the girl, so knowing that she'd have to decide what to eat before making the call has left her in a difficult position. Doubly difficult without a menu and the thoughts running through her head that basically anything might be at her disposal and… it means the possible decisions to make are endless. Which makes it that much harder for her and… well, she's basically going to be frozen there for a while unless assisted.
*
Roberto enters the bungalow and spots Marie's stunned discomfort immediately— so he takes charge with a smiling apology, moving to the phone. "Hello, Tony? We're ready for dinner. Some of the pork loin, the vegetable platter, and we'll start with a large bundle of those Atlantic oysters," he adds. "Oh! And the shrimp, if it's ready. Thank you." He smiles at Marie and Rogue. "Ladies, why don't you take a moment and get changed from our boat ride— and then we'll sit down for a meal together, like civilized folks, hmm?" he offers, gesturing at one of the partitioned 'rooms' in a corner of the large bungalow.