She cut herself off because both David and R.J. pointedly looked at her breasts. Neither Ariel nor Sara was flat-chested by any means, but neither were they burdened with breasts the size of cantaloupes.
Ariel was unperturbed. “Wherever do you think she found a surgeon on this island?” she asked in mock innocence.
“She could have had them done in California,” Sara said. “You know, back when they were pioneering implants. I wonder what they’re full of? Some poisonous gel? Maybe she should have them checked.”
“Okay, you two,” R.J. said, grinning. “Have you decided what you want to eat?”
“Seafood,” Sara said.
“Yes, definitely seafood,” David said, then he and Sara smiled at each other. They were making a joke because there was nothing but seafood on the menu.
“Let’s see,” Sara said, thoroughly pleased to have David’s attention, “they have fried seafood, steamed seafood, or grilled seafood. Or, they mix seafood with other seafood, then they fry it or steam it, or they put it all together in a little dish and bake it.” David was smiling more broadly with every word she spoke.
“Could you just say what you want to eat without the editorial?” R.J. snapped.
With David’s laughing eyes on her, Sara put her finger on the menu, ran it down the page, stopped, then looked. “Number eight. Fried clams, flounder, and shrimp.” When David did the same thing, she said, “What did you get?”
“Oysters,” he said in a low, seductive voice that suggested the long-held belief that oysters give a person sexual appetite. Sara laughed suggestively right back at him. R.J.’s glare was making her feel good—and after the events of the day, she needed whatever could make her feel good. “Oysters …” she said. “Oh, yes. Let’s have oysters.”
The waitress’s arrival stopped Sara from saying more and they gave their orders. As soon as she left, Sara looked at David to let him know she was ready to continue the teasing, but R.J. leaned across the table to Ariel and said, “I want to hear everything you know about this island.”
Ariel looked around the restaurant as though she thought the other people in the restaurant were listening. “I’ve been told that they do what was done to us,” she said.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“That isn’t enough?”
“I guess it is,” R.J. said. “The Internet sites say the same thing. I just thought you might know something more.”
The food came and as they ate, they tried to talk of something other than their predicament, but it was difficult.
The waitress returned for their dessert order. Sara was full, but wondered if this would be their last meal. They had yet to tell the waitress they were charging everything to Ms. Vancurren. Was her credit good? Or would they be washing dishes? she wondered.
When the waitress handed the men their plates of apple pie and put the bill on the table, R.J. told her that the meal was to be put on the account of Phyllis Vancurren. For a moment Sara thought the young woman was going to take the desserts back. She pursed her lips and frowned, then said that they could charge a meal one time, but never again. She went away in a huff, and for the first time, the other people in the restaurant looked at them. Sara wanted to slide down the seat in embarrassment.
For a moment the four of them were quiet. Sara picked up a fork and began to share a piece of pie with David.
“I wish I’d ordered another drink before I told her,” R.J. muttered and Sara smiled.
“I’m just glad we didn’t tell her before we ate,” David said and Sara smiled more.
“What are we going to do for food tomorrow?” Ariel asked.
Again they were quiet, but then R.J. took the pen out of the plastic folder the waitress had left and pulled a napkin out of the metal holder. “Let’s make a list of useful things that we can do. Maybe we can get enough work to feed ourselves for a few days.”
“We’ll work for food and a bed, just as Lassiter said,” David said, and for once Sara was glad for his gung-ho attitude.
“I can mow lawns,” Sara said. “In fact, I might be the best at mowing lawns of any other person on the planet. I can even mow them in patterns. I once wrote a kid’s initials in the grass.”
When she finished, the others were looking at her in a way that she couldn’t read.
“Lawn mowing,” R.J. wrote, but no one could read his writing so Sara took the napkin and pen away from him and wrote “lawn mowing” legibly.
She looked at R.J. “You can lay brick.”
R.J. grimaced and she knew that his pride was hurt. He could make multimillion-dollar deals, but she didn’t think there would be any call for those on King’s Isle. Suddenly, the seriousness of everything hit her. She looked at the napkin and saw the two items. How had they come to this? What had they done to deserve this? What would happen to them if the judge decided that R.J. was guilty?
It was David who lightened the air. “Sara,” he said seriously, “have you no pity? Maybe your boss used to lay bricks when he was younger, but he can’t do it now, not with the extra weight he’s carrying.”