hour south of Myrtle Beach, Ron throttled back the engines and they glided up to Cape Romain, an isolated island wildlife preserve with no inhabitants. Its beaches were pristine; no fires were allowed.
As Ron dropped anchor in five feet of water, Dolly walked to the water-skiing platform on the stern of the boat and dove in. With summer not yet fully in swing, the coastal water was still refreshingly cool. When she surfaced, she saw Ron talking on the cell phone again.
“When?” He pulled out a P.D.A. and checked his calendar. “OK. What’s the tee time?” she heard him ask. “How’d the caddie auction go? Got good ones?” he said to the caller, a silly grin on his face. “Make sure they’re crowd pleasers. Gotta go. Bye.”
Ron saw that Dolly was bobbing in the water a few yards away. He walked to the stern of the boat with an insulated plastic cooler. “Can you get this to shore OK?” he asked her. “Don’t worry. It’s waterproof. It’s OK if a little water gets on it.”
“Sure, no problem,” Dolly replied, and waded to shore with the cooler. She walked up the beach a few yards and deposited it in the shade of a grove of graceful palmetto trees. Looking back at the boat, she could see that Ron had placed a large picnic basket and a blanket on the ski platform. She watched as he shed his shirt and jumped in the water himself. Reaching up, he placed the blanket on the basket, the basket on his muscular shoulders, and waded ashore.
“And what is a caddie auction?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. Ron gave her a sheepish smile. “Uh, pretty girls who are working as golf caddies for a charity golf match next month. You know, sit there, look cute, drive the golf carts for the guys. I had to set up a foursome for some clients of mine.”
“Do you mean one of the topless golf tournaments like they had last month?” The First Annual Myrtle Beach Topless Golf Tournament had received national attention when the ministers and churches of Myrtle Beach raised a huge stink about the event. The news about the protests made all the national news networks. Community pressure – and the strong opposition to the event by the city fathers – forced the cancellation of the tournament.
However, once the furor died down, the tournament – now with a million dollars’ worth of free national publicity behind it – was quietly rescheduled for a month later. This time there was no public notice, and tickets were available only through the local strip clubs – and then only if you knew whom to ask.
Dolly knew. One of her girlfriends had worked at a club that sponsored the tournament. From what she reported, a few lines of coke and a hundred-dollar tip quickly turned many of the topless caddies into bottomless sex toys long before they reached the last hole.
“Well, more or less,” Ron admitted. “But it’s not illegal, and I have to entertain these guys. They come down here from Canada, New York, and New Jersey, and if I don’t show ‘em a good time, they’ll buy their condos from somebody else who will.”
Dolly wasn’t thrilled with the admission, but at least he hadn’t lied to her. She was realistic enough to know that showing and selling tits and ass was a basic commodity in the Redneck Riviera.
Dolly set out the blanket under the trees and opened the wicker basket. It was lined with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth and filled with linen napkins and an amazing array of delicacies. Dolly could hardly believe her eyes. The feast included so many new foods that she had to ask what they were: shrimp-salad and smoked-salmon miniature sandwiches; small chunks of ahi – Sushimi-grade yellowfin tuna with soy sauce and Wasabi paste; pink ginger root, sliced paper-thin; a chilled mango-and-peach fruit salad; fresh brioche with brie, Camembert, and Edam cheeses; and for dessert, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.
When Ron opened the cooler, Dolly saw the label of her favorite French champagne, Moët et Chandon. It was her favorite because it was the only French champagne she’d ever tasted – courtesy of Ron on their first boating date two weeks earlier.
“What’s the green paste?” Dolly asked.
“It’s Wasabi. Green Japanese horseradish. Cures what ails you,” he said with a big smile. “Use it in very small quantities until you get used to it. But once you do, you’ll be spoiled forever.”
Dolly fumbled with the chopsticks he provided until Ron intervened. “Here’s how to hold them,” he said, placing his hand on hers to show her how to hold and move the sticks. His hand was warm. She smiled. Within minutes, Dolly – the poor country girl from tobaccoland – was picking up pieces of slippery tuna with ease. “Take the ahi and dip it in the soy sauce and then in the Wasabi. Go real easy on the Wasabi. It’ll curl your hair if you take too much.”
Dolly picked up a piece of the dark-pink tuna, dunked it in the soy sauce, and then coated it with the Wasabi paste. Just before she popped it into her mouth, Ron intercepted the morsel, and it dropped into her plate.
“What?????” Dolly yelped in surprise.
“The Wasabi. It’s the best of the best – full strength, right out of the tube. Straight from Japan. Not from powder. A tube of it will power a nuclear aircraft carrier for a year. You picked up a two-week supply on your first bite. A tenth of that will clean out your sinuses for a month.” He scraped most of the green sauce off the chunk of fish and handed it back to her. “Try it this way,” he said.
Dolly shot him a puzzled look, placed the fish in her mouth, and started to chew the succulent morsel. The ahi was delicious – sweet flesh and a delight on the tongue. The soy sauce was a familiar taste. Then, after three chews, the Wasabi’s aromatic vapors kicked in and made their way into her nasal cavities. It was a sensory experience like no other she’d ever experienced. Her eyes crossed. She felt as if steam were blowing out of her ears. Her brain went into overload from over-stimulation. Her mouth didn’t burn – it merged directly with her nervous system, and Dolly experienced her first culinary orgasm.
“Holy mackerel!” she said, looking at Ron in amazement. “What do they put in that stuff?”
“It’s all natural. Just pure horseradish. What do you think?”
Dolly’s jaw was still hanging open, her eyes as big as saucers. It was an amazing experience. She had suffered from a stuffed-up head every spring and summer from pollen allergies. But now, Dolly knew, she had the antidote. Her sinuses were totally clear, and she could breathe freely again. She looked at Ron with astonishment.
“Good stuff, huh?” he asked with a chuckle, leaned over, and kissed her. Dolly barely noticed the touch of his lips. She was still somewhere between shock and heaven. With her previous boyfriends, Dolly was happy if they sprang for a steak, fries, and some red wine before they put the make on her. Whatever other nice surprises this guy’s got prepared for me, she thought, I’m ready.
She looked at the FunTastic, rolling gently twenty yards offshore. “Tell me more about your business, Ron,” she said. “It looks like you’ve been very successful.”
“It’s not very interesting, Dolly, but I earn a good living. Condos. The Grand Strand is a real estate salesman’s dream. We have everything: forty miles of sun, sand, world-class golf, the Pavilion, waterslides, mini-golf, family oriented reviews and stage shows, seafood restaurants, dance clubs, and nightlife,” he said.
Just as he finished his sentence, his cell phone rang. Dolly was dismayed that he had even brought it ashore during their intimate lunch.
“Hi there, beaut..., uh, just a minute, please,” he said to the caller. “Sorry,” Ron said to Dolly. “I gotta take this.”
Dolly sighed. Men, she thought. They’re all obsessed with business, recalling a former lover who stopped in mid-stroke to answer his cell phone two seconds before Dolly would have gone over the top. They never change.
Ron immediately switched his focus from Dolly to the caller, and briskly walked away to the privacy of the palmetto trees to talk to his...who? Her name started with “beaut....,” as in “beautiful,” which is what he seemed to call every woman. Was it another girlfriend? A daughter? Business partner? Wife? Client?