S2 E8 – You Won't Come Back, Will You?

Part 2 of 2

She takes a half-step towards him in utter certainty that he's said something else. Her ears catch up her brain and she falters, "Harry?"

"Yeah, my lizard…" he falters on his own as he watches her downcast eyes, "Well, I had to give him a name, didn't I? I couldn't just keep calling him Lizard."

She rallies, tries to put a brave face on it, props a hand on her hip, and listens to him blather on about feeding Harry. Mangoes. And mashed bugs. Now he's waving a mango in her face. She snatches it, slams it down, trying her best to keep her temper and her tears in check. Oh, and NOW he's taken the beer from her hand and is gulping it down, all the time shooting worried little glances at her as if he expects another arm-lock any second. She can't take any more. She's been skirting around the only question that matters and he's never going to answer if she doesn't just blurt it out. She has to say it. Ask it. She HAS to know. She turns away, grips the veranda railing, "You won't come back, will you?"

She doesn't see his face as he halts in surprise but she hears his pathetic fake response, "Well, yeah. Of course I will." Any fainter and she wouldn't have heard him at all. Yeah, Detective, real convincing!

She also doesn't see the building horror on his face and in his eyes at her next words as he slowly turns to look at the beach, the sky, the ocean, his dear little house, and finally back to Camille herself who is rocking imperceptibly as she struggles to get the words out. "No, you won't. You'll get home, it will be cold and raining…" She sees movement in her peripheral vision. Dwayne and Fidel are coming to see what's taking so long. Her time with him here on his veranda is almost at an end.

Forever.

"… and you'll have a pint of beer in your pub and… uh…" she leans on the railing, squeezing it until it creaks, "… and you'll want to… stay there." The last two words almost choke her but she spits them out regardless. After all, you can't show weakness to the enemy, now can you? Non, you cannot.

Unseen by her, he is becoming as upset as she is. Leave the island? Leave the best team I've ever had the privilege to work with? Leave my friends? The Commissioner needs me. Fidel and Dwayne need me. A tap. He looks down, Harry's tiny cool fist on the back of his hand. He smiles. Even Harry needs me. His chest swells with a deep breath. Yes, I am needed here. Who else can possibly fulfill all the insane details that are now my lot? Sometimes it is over-whelming but I accepted my fate months ago. I CAN do it. I WILL do it. As long as I have…I have…

He can't think it, won't think. It's like a lump of poison that he's walled up to protect himself, like a deep dark dirty secret he must deny even having. It's not true! It can't be true! It's the impossible dream! Give it up, man, and concentrate on getting the job done… the job… the job…

… Camille…

Her name wafts like ambrosial smoke through his mind and he all but swoons. Her name unlocks the gates of his self-imposed prison cell and now the floodgates cannot hold back the torrent.

With dawning wonder he looks at her back. She is the key! The key to everything! In order to keep this life, the life I want so badly, I have to have HER. I need her! Not on my side but AT my side. Not as my second-in-command but as my life's companion. As my… my wife. His knees tremble at this thought. It is followed immediately by another thought that actually makes him feel faint. He has to brace himself to keep from falling to those shaky knees. As my wife and mother (hopefully) of any children I manage to sneak past her guard. A sudden vision of pairs of intense green eyes looking up at him with sharp intent roots him to the spot and he sails away into an impossible future.

When she turns back at his silence, he is simply standing there, a dreamy look on his face. She snaps her fingers, "Hello, Earth to Richard. Did you hear anything I just said?" Figures, she thinks, I pour out my heart and he's standing there dreaming about England. Oh, go! Go home, Richard! You're killing me! Go away and let me die in peace.

He starts, blinks, looks at her, "Um, yes, I certainly did. Thank you for presenting the case so eloquently. I can only repeat… I am coming back. Can I go now? Soonest begun, soonest done." As she precedes him to the taxi, he thinks, I know what I have to do now. I have one week to come up with a cunning plan, a fool-proof plan, a truly miraculous plan to convince this fiery independent woman to marry me.

Seeing the anguished hopeless anger on her face when he gets into his ride, he gulps. I hope I survive the attempt.

As the taxi bears him away, he suddenly feel her fleeting kiss, the quick hug, even the two back slaps that she'd snuck past HIS guard while he'd been wool-gathering. He collapses in a boneless heap and then almost lunges for the door, almost leaps from the car, almost, almost, almost runs back to her.

But he doesn't. Too many witnesses. Too much to explain. Too much to say. Too much risk of her ripping my arm off and beating me with it. Just too much of everything. Best if I stick to my original plan. He sinks back into his seat and groans. Yes, my plan! My plan to woo and wed Camille Bordey! That plan. Oh, god, help me, I need a plan! Come on, brain! I need a plan!

His time away from her stretches infinitely into the future with no relief in sight.

It all passes as if in a nightmare, a cold drizzly over-crowded grey dreary heartless nightmare. Nowhere is there golden sun, white beaches, lilac skies, deep velvety nights, gentle zephyrs, music everywhere, friendly people, fragrant air you can drink down into your soul. Nowhere. Also, nowhere are there warm loving eyes, gentle hands, smooth arms, rampant tresses that need taming, and a fiery soul that could drink him down like a cool tropical libation she can set alight and watch burn all night.

That last thought keeps him up every single night WAY past his bedtime.

And, every morning, he awakes with the same desperate thought. Friday! FRIDAY! Will Friday never come? But, it does. Of course, it does. With no plan in the offing, none a'tall, as Dwayne would say. Not even a hint of an idea of a germ of a guess at a plan. He is in knots. He hasn't slept. He hasn't eaten. He hasn't done anything except gyre in tightening circles of desperation as his time ticks down to days, then hours, then minutes, then to nothing at all.

I'm on the plane. I'm going home. I'm going home and I haven't a hope in hell of any happiness at all, do I? Of course, I don't. I'm English. I'm English and I'm doomed.

He hangs his head and despairs all the way back to Saint-Marie, his heart rabbiting in his chest.

Paradise and Camille; heaven or hell, angel or demon, life or death, sometimes it's a fine line.

END