Men at Work: Through the Roof / Taking His Measure / Watching It Go Up

“I’ll be right with you,” a voice called from the back.

Marina’s eyes welled up again as she looked around Ms. Keys’s very plain, very small office and wobbled over to one of two green velour easy chairs that had seen better days.

Oh, God. The swelling around her eyes would never go down before the silent auction tonight if she didn’t stop this. And she had to emcee.

Marina set her purse in her lap and her Jumbo Jamba-Juice on an old trunk cluttered with magazines. The only other piece of furniture in the reception area of the office was a very large dog crate that served as a stand for a beat-up coffeemaker.

She wondered a little nervously where the dog was—she was petrified of big ones. Curiously, the air held not a whiff of eau de canine—just a faint mustiness that was all too common in south Florida.

With unsteady fingers she opened her Ziploc bag and removed two more cucumber slices from her reserve stash.

She was just leaning back and placing one on her right eyelid when an inside door opened and a striking girl with white-blond, short, spiky hair stuck her head out. “Mrs. Reston?”

The girl stared at the cucumber slices. Then she took in Marina’s five-inch silver sandals and her adorable, silver leather Ferragamo bondage bag with the scarlet silk lining and tasselties. Her pale blond eyebrows shot up.

Meanwhile, Marina stared in fascination at the tiny sapphire in the girl’s nose. It actually looked fabulous on her and deepened the gray-blue of her eyes.

Marina sniffed woefully. “It’s actually miss.”

She tottered to her feet and gathered her belongings in her left hand, pinching the cucumber slices between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. “It would have been Mrs. in just four months,” she blurted, “But then I found it.” She swallowed. “The letter.”

“I see,” said Gina Keys, not unsympathetically. It had to be Gina, since there was nobody else in the office. “Well, won’t you—”

“He broke up with me in a letter! Can you believe that?”

“Um—”

“A letter.” Marina brandished the Jumbo Jamba-Juice while Ms. Keys nodded calmly.

“Yes. That does seem a little—”

“Low-down? Cowardly? Generally crummy?” Marina’s voice rose and cracked.

“Passive aggressive.”

“I need you to find him for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Gray-blue eyes met hers. The tiny sapphire glowed. “Why don’t you come into my office and sit down? And though I think you’ve figured this out by now, I’m Gina Keys.” She smiled.

“Marina Reston. And I’m sorry but I’m a bit of a mess right now.”

“Your fiancé’s disappeared. It’s understandable.”

Marina sniffled again. “Yes. Well. Thanks for not offering me ranch dressing for these. That’s what the guy at my bank did.” She dropped the bag of cucumber slices into Gina’s trash can, followed her into the other room and sat down in another slightly battered chair opposite her desk, which was actually a door with screwed-on legs.

Gina’s lips twitched. “Do the cucumbers really work?”

Marina nodded vigorously, stared at the door-desk and wondered how long the P.I. had been in business. But she came highly recommended by a friend, so maybe she was just one of those no-frills types.

Gina handed her a box of tissues, pulled a legal pad and pen closer to her and leaned back in her chair. “Well, why don’t you tell me about, ah, Ben. Delgado is his last name?”

“Yes.” Marina fought to get her thoughts under control, to push back all the images crowding her mind: Ben’s slightly dazzled expression when they’d first met in her garden to draw up landscaping plans. His self-assurance when he’d asked her out. The feel of his hand gripping hers as he helped her onto his friend’s boat and served her champagne with cold, sliced nectarines.

Ben’s expert salsa, his feet never missing a step and his hips gyrating and making her blush. The way he’d made love to her the very first time, as if she were the eighth wonder of the world. And the night he’d proposed to her. I’m not a rich man, mi corazón, but I’ll take care of you…I will love you until the dayI die…you will want for nothing that is in my power to give you.

The words and images moved through her head like a personal film trailer and she was helpless to stop them.

“Ms. Reston?” Gina brought Marina back to reality with a jolt. “Can you tell me a little bit about Mr. Delgado?”

Her chest ached from inside; it physically hurt. Her throat was raw and her sinuses felt stuffed with fiberglass. Her stomach churned. She wished her brain would dissolve and free her from the mental torture of her memories, but they remained all too sharp. Pull yourself together, Marina. Tell her about Ben.

“He’s half Peruvian, though he spent his teenage years in Venezuela after his mother remarried. He has a U.S. passport, since his father’s American—of Spanish descent.”

“Do you have a photo?”

Marina nodded and fished a 5 x 7 out of her bag. Ben stared coolly from the picture, his black hair lifting in a May breeze. His stubborn jaw showcased a sensual mouth and even, white teeth.

He had long lashes and dark eyes, faint lines of humor—and mulish male pride—etched at the corners. Above them stretched black eyebrows, which used to form playful, sexy squiggles.

But lately, since the horrific early storm, they’d been slashes of deep worry and anger. Hurricane Ernestine had destroyed everything Ben had worked so hard to achieve. Did it have to ruin their love, too?

Marina ran her finger over Ben’s image, trying to feel his familiar, warm olive skin, the rock-hard arms emerging from the sleeves of his T-shirt. Of course, it was useless, since he had vanished just like every greenhouse tree, shrub and flower of his formerly thriving landscaping business.

But, while they had blown or washed away, he, the hopelessly handsome bastard, had walked.

She knew it had devastated him. That he’d spent weeks in a hopeless rage against fate and the weather and the small print in his insurance contract.

She’d tried to be there for him, but he’d pushed her away. She’d offered help but he’d rebuffed it. She’d offered comfort but he’d behaved as if it were emotional charity. How did a woman reach a man like him? How could she channel his futile fury into something more constructive? The answer: She couldn’t. She had to let him rage until he’d gotten it out of his system. But why was he punishing her for something nature had done?

Gina inspected the photo and then put it down on her desk without comment. She made a couple of notes on her legal pad. “Do you have others?”

“Yes. I can get them to you tomorrow.”

“What are his clothes like?”

Marina bit the acrylic tip on her index finger. “The ones I buy for him or the ones he buys?”

“I’m asking about his general look.”

“Jeans, Levi’s—nothing fancy. T-shirts, usually black and snug. No belt. No socks. Nice leather sandals. Maybe work boots if he’s on the job.”

“Jewelry?”

“A simple gold chain around his neck. No watch—he sold his Rolex after the storm ruined him. He wouldn’t let me give him another one.”

Gina nodded. “Clean-shaven?”

“Well, sometimes he’ll go a couple of days without a razor. He looks so hot when he does that…” Marina bit her acrylic nail again and this time she succeeded in cracking it. She stared at the nail as if it were a metaphor for her heart: Split down the middle with a jagged edge. The difference was that she could pay two dollars to have the nail repaired.