Legacy of the Tropics E-Book

Mary Deal

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A trilogy of stories that shatter the myths of stereotypical islands of paradise.

In Promises, during the late 1960s, the ketch, Mercy, sinks during a sea storm off Culebra near the Virgin Islands. Ciara Malloy assumes custody of her drowned fiancé’s son and learns a devastating secret about the boy that changes her life forever.

In Adrift, in the late 1990s, underwater photographer Lillian Avery gets caught in a rip current and swept out to sea off Kauai in Hawaii. In facing death, she finds a way to leave a message behind.

Years later, in Reunion, the two former neighbors from Puerto Rico reunite on Kauai. A hurricane wreaks island-wide havoc. Ciara is missing, presumed dead. Among the rubble, Lillian finds Ciara’s memoirs; a life history that threatens to expose tightly held secrets about the boy since the sinking of the Mercy.

Leseprobe

Legacy of the Tropics

Mary Deal

Copyright (C) 2011-2017 Mary Deal

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Promises

Chapter One

The jagged scar on Pablo's belly protruded above his waistband and wriggled like a snake as he darted out of the yard to join his friends playing on the sidewalk. The mark started above his belly button and ran nearly to his pubic bone. Sweating in the tropical heat made it glisten, but the disfigurement never bothered him. Others were more conscious of it than he was. The erratic scar was the result of a surgeon who had been careless or, perhaps, in a great hurry to enter the child's abdomen. Back in Colorado, where Ciara Malloy was from, a laceration like that would be cause for a thorough malpractice investigation. But things were very different here. Moving to Puerto Rico was a first-hand lesson in culture shock.

San Juan's August humidity hung thick in the air. Even so, it was better to be out on the patio than sweltering indoors in front of the window air conditioner. Jalousies cranked tightly closed were neither capable of keeping out the humidity nor containing the cooled air.

The limp breeze finally picked up and carried with it spicy aromas of neighborhood cooking and the smell of fresh moisture. Moments later, the rain came. Huge drops made the fire in the barbecue spit and hiss.

Ciara ducked under the raised floral umbrella over the table. Rico dragged the hot barbecue across the concrete patio closer to the main house and under shelter of the eaves in order to finish cooking the game hens. His muscles flexed, and his torso glowed from standing too near the fire and from the late afternoon heat. Just like when she had seen him at a construction site. The sight of him reminded her of the first time she saw him at work. He wore only shorts and construction boots and with tousled wavy black hair, looked like a golden god in a hardhat as he tight-roped a two-story block wall supervising the construction crew.

Frequently in the Caribbean, rain showers passed over then ceased within minutes. This time, the rain continued. The air had been sultry and the breeze on the patio tempting. Maybe they would have to eat dinner indoors after all.

“It'll pass,” he said, smiling in a way that said he would allow nothing to spoil this day. Being bilingual, his English retained a heavy Cuban Spanish accent. “Better today than tomorrow.” They both loved being outdoors.

Rain hitting the large flat leaves of the nearby avocado tree played a constant rhythm in the background. Drops hitting the tin roof next door added accompaniment. Their eyes met.

“Nothing bad will happen today,” Ciara said.

“You aren't going to leave me, are you?” he asked. His smile was facetious.

Leave Rico Rey? She loved him with all her heart. She loved Pablo, his little boy, as her own. She could not understand why she and Rico had not set a wedding date. After a freak storm last year that blew down her shack on the edge of the beach, she had moved into the cottage behind his house on Calle Delbrey. Not being married, they lived separately for Pablo's sake. That was the way Rico wanted things. They needed to maintain a level of dignity. Dictates of the Puerto Rican culture forced them to live in separate homes until they married. But to hear him occasionally allude to her leaving, if that's what he feared the most why, then, did he hesitate about finally tying the knot?

“Was this the kind of weather you had when your wife left?” Ciara asked. They had always talked openly about the past. Wounds healed more quickly when feelings were aired. Or was it because when she and Rico met the bonding energy between them had wiped out the pain of old hurts?

“About the same,” he said. “Strange how bad things in my life happen on rainy days.” He smiled and shook his head. “Like the day your shack went down.”

“Sure, but we met the sunny day after,” she said. She remembered the day she was picking through the rubble of the shack and looked up to find this gorgeous Latino watching her with a most tender expression. How the sparks shot between them that day. “The weather is only coincidental to events occurring, don't you think?” she asked.

“Wasn't raining when Pablo was born,” he said. “But it stormed when his mother ran—”

Pablo came running around the side of the house. Rico looked down and tended the barbecue.

“Is dinner ready, Mama?” Pablo asked. His hazel eyes were large and round from the exertion of play. Then he saw his father at the barbecue near the back wall of the house. He smiled a silly precocious grin that clearly expressed the closeness that this father and son shared. “Hola, Papi,” he said. “When do we eat?”

“About ten minutes,” Rico said.

“I'm going back to the street then.” Pablo started to run away. “I'm winning all the races.”

“Hey-hey,” Rico said. “Be on time for dinner.”

“Si, Papi.”

Too tall, but mentally advanced for just under eight years old, Pablo never let a little rain slow him down. He and some neighborhood children ran races up and down the block in front of the house. Long-legged Pablo usually won.

Rico watched his son scamper away. He had that deep pensive look that he got in his eyes every time he had a moment to study his son. Ciara thought of her own parenting abilities, something she had yet to fully experience. If she could be as attentive to her children as Rico was to Pablo, or, as her mother was to her, then she would have no worries about the type of mother she might be. Ciara thought of her mom, the only example she had available to emulate. She wished that someday soon she might have a chance to be the type of mother her mom was. In fact, she now longed for children of her own, lots of them. Rico's and hers would be sisters and brothers for Pablo, for whom she felt great adoration.

“You were saying?” Ciara asked.

“You know the details,” he said. “Pablo was born on a bright sunny day in a hot spell. The day construction stopped early because of torrential rain was the day I found my wife's goodbye note.”

Rico told her everything back when he first disclosed he had a son. While still living in Cuba, having to shut down the construction site due to a storm, he came home from work early and found his wife's hurriedly scribbled note saying that she had run off with their neighbor who had been, unbeknownst to Rico, her long-time lover. She told no one else and left the baby alone in his crib for Rico to find. Pablo was only two months old then. Rico's wife only stayed in the marriage for the duration of the pregnancy. Once the child was born and her body healed, she called it quits. Rico had evidently been too slow at making the decision to leave Cuba in the wake of the upheavals and change of government introduced by Fidel Castro. His wife chose to leave with the man who would take her to safety and a better life in America.

“Nothing's going to spoil our sail tomorrow,” Ciara said. “The weather will clear.”

“Besides, Pablo's looking forward to this vacation before school begins again.”

“I hope you don't let the weather dictate—”

“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “It rained a lot last year, too, when your shack on the beach went down.” Then he added, “But it hasn't rained that much this year.”

“Freak storms happen anytime,” she said. “You really don't believe rain is some sort of omen, do you?”

“No…,” he said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself.

But that's all he said. As usual when conversation became too focused, he seemed distressed. Several times recently he had made an attempt at explanatory conversation. Something always got in the way. Some problem was eating at him and he needed to get it off his chest, but did not seem to know how to begin. The longer he waited the more desperation he seemed to harbor. Surely that was the reason he decided they take a week off, sail the ketch all the way to the Virgin Islands if time allowed. Get away from distraction.

Ciara was not too worried about anything. Rico had proposed. They were to be married. But then, that had been nearly nine months back. So, what he needed to say evidently had to be said before they could think about exchanging vows.

Certainly, he was not afraid Pablo would disapprove. His son already called her Mama, almost from the day they met when he was nearly four years old. She had been the only mother he knew. The way Ciara saw it, what woman would leave a devoted man like Rico, who so cherished his family? He had proven his love by refusing to participate in the double standard tolerated among the locals. Rico had no mistresses.

In the nearly four years she had known him, Rico had been every bit the man Ciara dreamed of spending her life with. Raising a son by himself was a monumental task, but an obligation he met head-on and at which he excelled. He was committed to the life he had been dealt, committed to making it all work for him and his boy, and committed to her. Though Ciara liked to go out Friday evenings, he soon taught her about Viernes Social.

Mistresses usually accompanied men on what was known in San Juan and all of Puerto Rico as Social Friday. To be seen in public with a man on Friday evenings usually got the woman labeled as the man's mistress. Rico would have no part of it. Friday evenings were usually spent barbecuing, sometimes with neighbors, or participating in not-so-quiet evenings at home with energetic Pablo. Once in a while Pablo accompanied them to the movies or when other social activities allowed. That was respectable. Rico had teased saying he loved having a blonde on his arm, but wasn't about to jeopardize her reputation just to show her off.

Rain pelted and poured off the eaves in torrents. Rico looked up from tending the hens. “Your house or mine?” he asked, smiling his silly smile as his eyebrows drew together.

He lived in the main house up front, with Ciara in the larger of the two rear cottages. “We're closer to my doorway,” she said. “If you want to make a dash for it, I'll hold the screen open.”

Once the hens were covered on a platter and safely indoors, they gathered up the eating utensils and some food out on the patio table and ran again for the doorway.

“You really loved your shack out at the beach,” he said as he toweled off then slipped into his shirt again. “You've decorated this cottage in the same island motif.”

“Your shack at the beach,” she said, bringing glasses of cool tropical punch to the table. “I only rented.”

“Even though you were warned it was about to fall down,” he said.

“I needed the solitude to write,” she said. “It was private. Plus, the rental agency said the owner would remodel.” She teased, not having yet met Rico at that time.

“It's taken a lot to get around to doing that,” he said. “I'll begin that job once we return from vacation. No freak storm will take the new structure down.”

“What about that house you're building in the new Valle Arriba Heights? The one I helped you design.” Ciara watched that house go from a spark in her mind to blueprints. The real thrill was watching the actual house being built, one Rico had given her full reign on designing just to show that he appreciated her creativity and input. She felt immense satisfaction seeing that project nearing completion. That must have been why Rico so loved his work.

He only smiled. “Got less than a month before it's finished,” he said. Then there was that twinkle in his eyes again, like he relished some sweet harbored secret.

Rico had involved her in all aspects of the floor plan design, elevations and every last detail of that house. Since he loved what she designed and went ahead with the building of it, Ciara guessed he would invite her to be a partner in his business. With that house alone, she had learned what it took to build a house from the ground up. The idea of a partnership enticed her as she daydreamed, but she knew to direct her efforts to writing and publishing her children's books instead. Rico was of Latino origins and needed to feel in command of his life, his family. Ciara was not sure working together would be the best arrangement. But then, Rico did not exude a lot of machismo either. He had matured well beyond ego trips.

Finishing construction of the Valle Arriba Heights house could not be the reason he would delay their marrying. Too, he was remodeling the main house in which he and Pablo lived right there on Calle Delbrey in Santurce, walking distance to Condado Beach. When a freak storm had demolished the beach shack, Rico rushed to remodel the larger of the two cottages in which she lived now. He was just finishing the remodeling of the main house along with the studio cottage on the opposite side of the yard. But neither should those projects keep them from marrying. She had been happy living in the shack on the beach. Certainly, she could live amid remodeling debris, which was only temporary.

“Your construction activities must be the most excitement this old neighborhood's seen in decades,” she said. Most of the homes on the block had been standing a while. In Puerto Rico, things moved slowly. No one was in a hurry to remodel if they did at all. Things were fine the way they were. Calle Delbrey was a quiet street with yards dotted with stately old mango, avocado and other fruit trees. With only occasional car traffic, the area was safe for Pablo. People living on the long block knew one another. A woman directly across the street took care of Pablo when she and Rico occasionally attended a social event or enjoyed an evening dinner and show at one of the resort hotels on the Condado Strip.

“I always meant to remodel this property,” he said. “I've owned it since right after moving to this island.” Then his expression saddened. “This was to be my mother's place.”

“You told me,” Ciara said sympathetically. “Your family sold everything before you left so you could sneak the money out of Cuba and all of you start over here in Puerto Rico. Your mom got sick before she could get permission to leave.”

“Those were the bad years,” he said. “Rained a lot.” But his expression hinted at more. Time did not necessarily heal the wound of losing parents, but it should at least have helped him accept the tragic turn of events. Something was still fresh in his mind. Something haunted him. He reached over and nudged her by the chin, so he could look into her eyes. “You, Ciara; you gave my life new purpose.”

“You're sure about that?” she asked, wanting to make him smile.

“All the work you put into that shack near the tide pool? I used to lie on the beach just to watch you making that place livable.”

“You…!” she said with an angry smile. “You watched me and I never knew it.”

“That's one thing I'll always remember you for, Ci-Ci,” he said as he took her into his arms. “You gave me reason to go on. I lived for the next chance to lie on the beach and watch a very determined woman work on that shack.”

“You… you voyeur! You didn't even offer to help.” She laughed and playfully doubled up a fist. “I saw you out there two or three afternoons every week. I didn't know you were my landlord back then.”

“The industrious little girl in the shack, who painted everything inside and out… including her nose and freckled cheeks.”

“All the time you watched me,” she said, “you were probably hoping I'd come over and paint your walls.” He chuckled. “Go ahead, make fun,” she said. “But I did it again decorating this cottage, didn't I?”

Rico raised an eyebrow, glanced around the room. “Quite nice,” he said. “You have a way of making the best of everything.” He held her at arm's length and looked into her eyes. “You have such determination, such dedication,” he said, beginning to smile. “Evidently you didn't need all that seclusion to write your children's books. You've done just fine living in my yard.”

“I manage,” she said, sticking her nose into the air.

He drew her tighter to him. They did not have to kiss to share feelings. A loving bond was just there between them, like they were each a part of the other. She threw her arms around his neck and nuzzled her face against his cheek.

“You know the most important thing I like about you, Ci-Ci?” he asked softly.

Ciara pulled away to look into his eyes. “The most important?” she asked, half teasing. “What's that?”

His expression sobered. He tried to smile and then said, “How easily you're able to love a child who isn't yours.” He pulled her close again before she could read his expression. “Nothing can change my love for that boy,” he said.

They held together again, connected at the heart. The rain worsened. Droplets echoed through the glass blocks in the flat roof over the dining area. Ciara prayed that the rain would not rule the moment.

Pablo appeared outside the screen door. “Mama, Papi. Can I come in?”

Rico turned to face the doorway. “Go home and wash your hands and face…and change your shirt,” he said quickly.

“I already did, Papi. Can I come in?”

“Okay, but remove your sandals.”

Rico looked at his son's hands and face then motioned for Pablo to sit at the table. Young Pablo had even combed his hair. He was definitely the product of his father's loving and attentive upbringing. He knew what was expected of him and happily complied and got on with things. His puffy-cheek smile of expectation tugged at Clara's heart.

“I'm afraid if it's storming real hard,” Rico said as he served red rice onto their plates, “we'll have to delay leaving till the rain lets up.”

Ciara went into the tiny kitchen and returned to the table with a hot pot of quingombos guisados, an okra stew, and served it over chickpeas and the rice tinted red from achiote, an annatto seed powder.

“Oh, no, Papi,” Pablo said. “We haven't taken the boat out since school finished in June.”

Foil packages that had been kept warm on the side of the barbecue, contained pasteles made of pork and spices mixed with seasoned and grated green plantain bananas and steamed. On the side, she placed a small platter of Pablo's favorite tostones de platano, chips made from deep-frying boiled slices of green plantains.

“You know I've been busy with the houses, mi hi'jo,” Rico said. “We have an agreement, you and me, you remember?”

“But we love to sail. Now Mama does too.”

“Si, si,” Rico said as he halved the game hens, serving each of them a side.

“Can we say grace?” Pablo asked.

They were both surprised. Pablo always said grace whether or not they did. Why would he make an issue of saying it now?

“Go ahead,” Rico said. “You say grace.”

Pablo clasped his hands, bowed his head and said the prayer. Just before finishing, he added, “…and protect us on our vacation from the rain because Papi says bad things happen when it storms.”

Silence and the sound of rain above them filled the room as Rico glanced at her. A draft slammed the front door shut. Pablo looked up, startled, and then slowly picked up his fork.

“Y que mas, Pablito?” his father asked.

“Oh,” Pablo said, laying the fork down as he remembered. He bowed his head again. “Amen,” he added.

Rico spoke as they began to eat. “You think the rain's going to ruin our vacation, Mi'jo?” he asked.

“You don't like the rain so much,” Pablo said. “You always tell people that bad things happen when it storms. So, I don't want any rain when we sail.”

Chapter Two

“Why don't you sleep in our house, Mama,” Pablo asked. “So we can be a family, like my friend Jose next door. His mama and papi live together. A renter lives in their cottage.”

Rico smiled, raised his eyebrows to her, evidently pleased his son loved her as much.

“Mama and Papi will be married soon,” Ciara said. “Then we'll be together forever.”

“When?” Pablo asked, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

This time it was Ciara's turn to smugly glance over at Rico.

“Soon,” he said, stroking his son's hair. “Soon now.”

“Really?” Pablo asked. “And I'll have a mama for real?”

“Soon,” Rico said. But Ciara realized that again he had not mentioned when. He bent over to kiss his son goodnight.

Pablo reached up and wrapped an arm around his father's neck, then raised his other arm to her. Ciara bent down too. “I want my mama to live with us. Promise me she'll be my mama. Promise?”

“Go to sleep, Mi'jo,” Rico said, momentarily emotional. “Pray the storm goes away so we can sail. We'll talk tomorrow.”

When they left the room, just before shutting off the light, Ciara watched Pablo bring up his hands and clasp them below his chin under the covers. He closed his eyes real tight. She smiled, imagining him praying for the storm to end. Or would he pray for a mother… or both?

Strange how Pablo looked nothing like his father. If anything, even with an absence of freckles, he looked more like her with those big hazel eyes and brown hair. His complexion was also fairer than Rico's. Even his bone structure was noticeably different.

Pablo had evidently taken after his mother's side of the family although his father's big green eyes could have influenced his eye color. Ciara had met quite a few Cubans since living in Puerto Rico. She learned just because Cubans were of Spanish descent did not mean they all had black hair and brown eyes.

A lot of lore she had learned in her small hometown in Colorado did not hold true in the world at large. During her late teens, she began to write stories for children because she felt they needed to know how the world really was. Her teachers said she was getting better and better at it. Yet, the expense of college was out of her family's reach and she wanted to work anyway. Earn money. Be independent. Then she found the workaday world boring in that all jobs she found, with her lack of higher education, were clerical. Then finally, she hit upon a part time job that allowed her to pursue classes in writing. Before starting that part-time job, she opted for a vacation in the Caribbean to clear her mind of past disappointments. It was during her visit to Puerto Rico that her mother had a massive heart attack and died. After returning home for the funeral, Ciara learned her mother's life insurance policy left her with enough money to last while she started over. Her father encouraged her to set a new course. She chose to do it in the little beach shack she had seen while on vacation in Puerto Rico.

Ciara wondered if the fact that Pablo looked more like his mother might play on Rico's mind, remind him of the woman who had walked out on him. Still, if Rico was troubled by the resemblance, he never showed it.

Later inside her cottage, Ciara peered out of the louvered bedroom window and through the rain and saw the light flick on in Rico's home office. Pablo's bedroom was in the center of the far side of the house. One rear bedroom across the yard from her own was Rico's office. His bedroom was across the yard from the living room of her cottage.

Inside the half-opened jalousies, Rico's shadowy form moved about. He would probably want to finish some last-minute paperwork before leaving for more than a week. She had seen him in there on many occasions working into the wee hours. Now he would also be listening to the weather reports to learn when the storm might blow over.

The smooth terrazzo floors under her bare feet felt cool. Ciara went to the refrigerator to double check that she had readied all the foodstuffs that would be packed into coolers in the morning. She went into the living room and looked at the opened suitcase on the sofa where all her shorts and tops, swimsuits and other necessities lay neatly in place. How many times would she inventory what she wanted to take on the trip? The rain and Rico's unfounded fear of something bad happening every time it stormed must have brought on the anxiety.

She would have to help him get over that one-and-only fear he seemed to harbor before it had an adverse affect on her too. Or was her apprehension due to the fact that they were secreted lovers? That had always weighed upon her conscience.

She walked to the TV and turned it on, checked the time and switched channels until she found the news. The hippies who had settled in California and all along the West Coast continued to be a problem. Scenes flashed showing longhaired young people glutting the streets of the Haight-Ashbury District of San Francisco, bedecked with flowers and carrying signs touting, “Make love, not war.” The commentator said that more and more people were migrating west. Except for those who fled to Canada to protest or escape the draft. Those young people were from all walks of life, forsaking the lives well-intentioned parents had lovingly provided them, opting for drugs, free sex and acid rock.

Most likely, with the hippie movement happening at the end of the decade, that is what the sixties would be remembered for. Hippies and the Viet Nam war would overshadow memory of the President's assassination till some new horror claimed the limelight.

The storm would be lifting, winds dying, the weatherman was saying. Still, he warned, hurricane season was only half over. Boaters were cautioned to watch for squalls and put in at the nearest harbor should the weather become too disturbed.

The weather report predicted that after the storm passed, calm weather could be expected. That meant they would sail. Maybe she could get Rico to talk about wedding plans once they were on the boat and away from work.

She looked at the engagement ring on her finger, a huge round four carat diamond in a Tiffany setting on which he had been able to cut a deal. He knew everyone in the Cuban community on the island and knew where the deals were to be had. Not to mention everyone liked him for choosing to be the father he was and always tried to give him the best deals possible. Yet, Rico made lots of money in construction and always paid his own way. But she could not fault him for dickering for a discount on the expensive ring. She had not seen a diamond like that on anyone she knew on the island. Maybe only on the hands of snowbirds, wealthy winter visitors, who could afford to relocate to the warmer tropics for months at a time when home snow became too deep in which to live.

The incessant rain pelting the roof droned on. Ciara always thought of rain as being cleansing, restorative. She could not remember anything bad having happened to her during rainy weather. Rico's upbringing and hers were worlds apart. Maybe omens were something that had been ingrained in him from childhood. She would have to help him understand that his fears were unfounded. Even now, in whatever way she could, she would assure him that something as simple as sailing was joyful and fun, in spite of the unpredictable tropical climate.

Ciara turned off the TV and lights in her small living room and walked down the hallway past the tiny kitchen and bathroom. At the bedroom doorway, she looked at her empty bed and sighed heavily. The most disturbing aspect she learned to face when first moving to Puerto Rico was culture shock. In the local culture women remained subservient to their men. Ciara could allow only so much of that and Rico knew and accepted her American way. He teased saying she was a woman liberated and blossoming. Together they created their own culture, one in which they could lovingly express the individual people they were. That included Pablo. Or, perhaps Pablo's innocent precociousness is what promoted such liberal thinking.

Ciara was every bit a modern-day American woman. However did she learn to wait for a man to make all the moves? She wanted to see Rico in her bed when she looked at it, or wanted to share a bed they both called theirs. Why did they have to wait to be married? Certainly the living arrangement was for the sake of respectability in a Spanish culture, worlds apart from her own in Colorado and from the free sex of the hippie movement that swept the nation. Casual sex did not appeal to her anyway. But if she expected marriage any time soon, she was going to have to be the not-so-subtle American woman she could be and push for it. She did not like being kept dangling.

She loved Pablo as much as she loved Rico. For the time being, Pablo filled the empty spot in her life a child of her own would have occupied. Pablo was a bright and innocent boy. How could she not always love him? He would be a great role model for her children, hers and Rico's. She would be a real mother to Pablo and he would be a great older brother to his siblings.

Ciara hugged herself and remembered the feelings she and Rico shared as they held one another before dinner. She wanted him then and they would have made love on the spot had the opportunity presented itself. But there he was now, working in his office into the night as the Coqui, those itty-bitty island frogs, echoed their name in the dark.

She turned off the lamp and climbed into bed only to toss and turn, sleepless as the rain pelted harder than ever.

Sometime later a noise woke her. Everything was dark, except for the small night-light kept burning in the hallway socket. She rose up on an elbow and peeped through the jalousies again. No light shone from Rico's office or bedroom. The entire house was darkened. Then her front door closed. Rico had come in. Her heart quickened. She settled back against the pillows and suddenly he stood over her, unfastening his clothing. By the time he stripped, he was already excited. He slipped into bed and came to her with the same hunger she had stored up.

The storm raged into the night. Neither could sleep. Then, hours later, they noticed the wind had died down. Peeping through the jalousies, rain no longer pelted but came down in fine drizzle illuminated by the distant streetlight. Moonlight leaked through the slats and laid down stripes across the bed.

“Look,” Rico said. “Pablo's prayers are being answered.”

“So are mine,” Ciara said as she pulled Rico to her again. The thought of Rico planting his seed and that they would eventually have children together, sent her passions soaring.

“Woman, you're gonna kill me,” he said, nibbling her lips.

“We won't have a chance to do this on the boat.”

“Yeah,” Rico said, laughing easily. In the dim light, he lifted up to an elbow. “No spare room to hide away from Pablo.”

Ciara's mood shifted. She felt guilty again. “Rico,” she said softly. “I'm tired of hiding. I'm beginning to feel like a Viernes Social mujer.”

“Sh-h!” he said. “You're not that kind of woman.”

“I don't want to hide our love anymore. Pablo's suffering too.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a sigh. “I see it every day.” Then he smiled quickly. “I guess I can tell you now,” he said.

“Tell me what?”

He traced the outline of her lips, and then kissed her gently. “While we're away on this trip, away from work and distractions, we should make our plans for marriage.”

Ciara gasped. That was what she wanted to hear more than anything. She wrapped her arms around his neck and felt her body respond to the moment. He squeezed her to him as hard as he dared and she was again reminded of the desperation he, too, felt. “I want you, Rico…forever,” she said, whispering.

“Tu eres mi vida, Ci-Ci,” he said softly.

“Rico, I don't want to be your life. I want to share your life. There's a difference.” She said it tenderly and finished with a kiss that turned fiery.

He pulled away, but not far. “If I last long enough,” he said, because the comic in him could not resist. Even his Spanish accent enticed. His expression showed he was determined to respond to the suggestions her body offered. “Tonight is going to have to last us a long time,” he said.

“A whole week,” she said. She could barely speak as Rico worshipped her body.

His heavy warm breath was all over her. “I want to give you my child,” he said in a desperate whisper.

She could no longer respond with words.

Chapter Three

Singers, Rafael from Spain, and Puerto Rican born Marisol, dominated the airwaves. Wearing only his bathing suit and a thick slathering of Sea & Ski suntan lotion, Pablo played his little transistor radio constantly. Each time Rafael aired, Pablo sang along pretending to be Rafael delighting an ocean of fans. When Marisol or any other female voice aired, Pablo would harmonize with them, sometimes sounding just like them with his pre-pubescent boy's voice. Rico's smug expression said he was pleased his son was growing up so self-assured. To think his son could sing too!

The next time Ciara noticed Pablo, she found him gleefully swinging upside-down from the bowsprit. Below him, dolphins effortlessly surfed in the pressure wave in front of the boat. Timbers of the old vessel creaked and groaned in compliance with demands of the sea and wind.

She joined Rico at the wheel. “You'd better get your son back on deck,” she said, directing Rico's attention forward to the bow.

“Here, take over a moment,” Rico said as he stood on the stern shelf and peered forward over the roof of the cabin. “Luckily, there's a net hanging under him.” He smiled mischievously. “I'll snap a couple of pictures of my little monkey first.”

Ciara took the wheel located in front of the shelf astern and ahead of the rudder post. The floral print cotton shirt she wore over her shiny green bathing suit trailed in the breeze behind her. The wind roamed freely through her curly hair. She had never been on a ketch until meeting Rico and had never sailed before for that matter. Now she loved it.

Just after leaving Cuba, Rico located a boat sunk off Key West. During a leisurely dive, he found a sixty-four foot gem of the sea. Once an owner abandoned a sunken vessel, anyone wishing to bring the boat to the surface to refurbish had the right to claim ownership.

Refurbishing included downsizing both the mainsail and mizzen from more than five hundred to four hundred square feet. Smaller sail sizes provided greater manageability for one person at the helm of the gaff-rigged ketch. The engine was replaced with a newer one, as was anything else that could not be salvaged. Surprisingly, the older ketch remained in remarkably good shape in spite of having been submerged.

Once completed, Rico christened her Mercy after his mother, Mercedes. Then he single-handedly sailed the ketch from dry dock in Miami to Puerto Rico without the aid of a compass, which the boat never had. More recently, he toyed with the idea of installing a compass and trading the ketch for a newer model. He did not know too many people who could sail as he did by following the sun or stars. A compass would be necessary to clinch a deal.

Mindful to always keep one hand on the wheel, Ciara stretched and filled her lungs with salty sea air and unhurriedly yawned. She learned a lot from Rico, and about him and what made him tick and was awed by it all. She breathed deeply again. Today the sea was friendly, the trade winds refreshing. Under motor power half a sunny morning out of Fajardo on the northeast corner of Puerto Rico, they had already passed Vieques less than twenty nautical miles south on the horizon. To the north loomed Cabo Icacos. Cabo Lobos was farther northeast. A string of tiny islands and the larger island of Culebra began to appear on the eastern horizon. Wispy clouds drifted far off to the southeast.

Another song played on the transistor radio, a song about Cuba that Rico had not yet translated for her. Rico took a turn dancing a Latin beat as he sung, “Coo-ba, Coo-ba, Coo-ba, Co-o-o-BA!” She even liked the way he properly pronounced Cuba. “Coo-ba, Coo-ba, Coo-ba, Co-o-o-BA!” he sang again. He always went barefoot on board. Though most of his body was tanned and bronze, his feet and ankles were white from wearing boots and socks at the construction sites. She had to smile as his pale feet nimbly paced the Latin rhythm over the wooden planking of the deck. Then he playfully threw a hip in her direction and asked, “What do you say we drop anchor and take a dip? The sun is good and strong today.”

“And have some lunch too, Papi?” Pablo asked quickly.

Rico smiled at his growing son's insistent appetite. Nearing the shallows off Culebra, Rico sensed the air by standing in the open and feeling it with his body. Ciara saw him do that many times. When he found a pocket where the trades were milder, they dropped anchor in the sparkling clear sea. Without the strong trades, the sun felt hotter. Ciara breathed in the dry hot smell of salty sunshine.

Today was not a bombing practice day on Vieques for the Marines and no bombing was known to have ever taken place on Culebra. Though Culebra's residents were quite incited about occupation by the Marines, so far uprisings remained small. With no bombings being carried out, all the waters of the twenty nautical miles between Vieques and Culebra were presently safe.

Pablo leaned over the side. “Papi,” he said. “The water's so clear. I can see shells on the bottom. Can I go down, Papi, huh? Can I, please?”

Evidently, Pablo had forgotten that the crystal clear water distorted perception and made the sea floor seem within reach. It was not. Not even with a long practiced breath.

Pablo hurriedly pulled on his swim fins and adjusted his facemask and snorkel. A couple of quick inhalations through his nose to draw the mask tight to his face and he would have sprung over the side had Rico not grabbed his arm.

“What's the hurry?” Rico asked as he dragged Pablo away from the edge to calm him down. A child with too much eagerness was an accident waiting to happen.

“Papi, I'll bet I can name any shell I bring up,” Pablo said. His eyes were large with excitement inside the mask. “I learned it in Senorita Avery's class.” He pulled at his father's grip. Pablo had been hyperactive all morning; overjoyed that his prayers for fair weather had been answered. Being able to sail and swim one more time before school began had the same effect.

“At school?” Ciara asked.

“Not school. You know the tenant who moved out of the cottage next door? The cottage where Hurricane Ana took the roof off last year?” he asked. He pulled the mask loose and propped it on his forehead. “Senorita Avery took pictures and taught kids about the ocean.”

“Ah, si,” Rico said, easing his grip on Pablo's arm. “The lady who rented the neighbor's cottage. The lady who moved back to California.”

“I remember,” Ciara said. “I wish there had been time to know her better before she left. We might have collaborated. Her sea photography and my children's books.” She shook her head about the missed opportunity.

“Papi-i!” Pablo said, his voice whining. “Put on your flippers.”

“Pablito!” Rico said, capturing his son's undivided attention. “Even if you get down that far, you don't touch the shells. You hear? Those are live creatures down there. Many are poisonous. You hear me?”

“Si, Papi,” Pablo said. “I know. Senorita Avery said it's okay to look but we have to let them live their lives too. But can we swim now?”

“Si, Chico!” Rico said, giving in with a wave of a hand.

Pablo eased himself over the lifeline about midship, adjusted the mask to his face once again, then jumped in flippers first. Rico lowered the rope ladder over the side and then stood at the lifeline with an I told you so smirk ready when Pablo would surface again.

Pablo came up, yanked the snorkel from his mouth and sucked in another breath. He grinned knowingly up to his father. “I'll bet you can't get down there either,” he said. Before his father could call to him, he dived again.

“How deep is it exactly?” Ciara asked.

“This close to Culebra,” Rico said as he looked around, “not deep at all…a hundred feet or so. We're on a shelf. But just a few miles northwest—”

“Oh, that's right,” Ciara said. “The Puerto Rico Trench.” She flinched.

“The Atlantic Ocean's deepest point,” he said. “At minus twenty-seven thousand five hundred feet.”

She shuddered again. “I'm glad you have a keen sense of direction,” she said. “Even being safe on a boat, I don't think I'd like to sail over that and look down.”

“You wouldn't see anything,” he said, keeping sight of Pablo. “That deep, the water darkens.” Then he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and smiled mischievously. “I could take you there,” he said. “If you want to see firsthand.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said, playfully waving him off. “I feel perfectly safe among these islands on the shelf.” Not that the sea floor between the immediate islands was always shallow and, of course, they had sailed over deep water in the past. But with the unpredictable way the weather had been lately, the idea of being caught in a storm over water that deep made the thought of it much more sinister.

“C'mon,” Rico said. “Let's get wet.”

The sea was calm and currents gentle. After a good long swim, they rested and sunned on deck. They ate lunch under an awning that billowed with the continuing trades.

Pablo had worn himself out. He went below to take a nap. Ciara took over the wheel again. Rico gave her a lesson in how to manage the craft; how to read the wind, the skies, even feel the vessel's interaction with the elements through their bare feet resting on the deck and through their buttocks on the seat. “When you're really in touch with your body and the elements, you can feel the fetch,” he said. “The direction of the clouds and wind pushing the ocean.”

Within the hour, Pablo emerged from the cabin. “The fumes are making me sick,” he said.

“Then stay topside,” Rico said as he took over the wheel.

“Three's a crowd,” he said, teasing.

“Come sit with me,” Ciara said. She offered him a deck chair and pulled it close to hers. “Three isn't a crowd,” she said, tousling his hair. “Three's a family.” She turned to Rico. “Fumes from what?”

“From the motor,” Rico said. “It's an old boat. Motor fumes build up in the cabin. I should improve the ventilation.”

“If you're going to keep her,” she said, gently reminding.

The wind came up. Rico trimmed the sails. Trade winds filled the canvasses. Ciara watched the hard muscles of a polished sailor flex and bulge as he worked the rigging.

Pablo had always been awed by the hoisting of those gigantic sheets of white, too captivated to be of much help. He was too young, with arms not quite strong enough. Still, he scrambled to grab hold of the rigging and emulate his father's movements.

They had traveled by motor power till that time but Rico wanted to practice catching the wind. The large old ketch was not the best vessel for leisure sailing. The Mercy had an aft mizzen mast and sail, which negated the power of the mainsail. Yet, Rico would see any difficulties as a lesson well learned toward sailing a newer more manageable craft with compliant rigging. He had talked about buying a sloop after the houses presently under construction were completed.

Rico spent a lot of time maneuvering the vessel under sail. According to the position of the sun, they went farther east. Then they headed west again, then south, finally turning north again. The grand old lady of the Caribbean Sea scudded across the waves as Rico gave himself a lesson in managing the craft. In complete rapport with the movement and following the direction of the sun, Rico enjoyed himself. She and Pablo enjoyed themselves, too, because sailing was what they liked to do the best.

Just as Ciara removed her sunglasses and lay back to sunbathe, a cold breeze raked across her body. She opened her eyes quickly to find the sky had darkened in only an instant. The wind increased with threatening velocity. Rico kept glancing toward the sky and horizon in all directions. Then she heard it, the rapidly approaching sizzle of rain pelting the ocean surface in the distance. Quickly, the sound became a deafening roar as opaque streaks of dark gray rain raced toward them. In the blink of an eye, the downpour drenched them. Wind yanked at her hair and snapped the beach towel from her hands and carried it away.

“Papi!” Pablo shrieked over the sound of the wind. “A freak storm!” That wise child had already scooped up the life vests and bravely groped his way toward them.

“Sea storm!” Rico called out as they struggled into the preservers. Rico secured the straps of his son's vest then yelled, “Get below, Pablo!”

The wind became frighteningly furious. Deck chairs, Pablo's radio and a few loose items flew overboard as if pushed by an invisible hand. The vessel lurched port to starboard again and again like a toy boat in a bathtub. Ciara clung to the wheel to hold the vessel steady so Rico could strike the sails. Just as he made his way forward, a fine bolt of lightning slithered and seared the entire length of the main mast. The excruciating sound of timber splitting filled the air. The mast held but the sails caught fire.

“Papi!” Pablo called out, looking for his father, as he crept up the ladder inside the cabin.

“Stay below, Pablo!” Rico yelled as he ducked a piece of burning canvas falling. He flung pieces of charred sail from the deck while grasping onto whatever might keep him steady. The wicked velocity of the wind intensified. Ciara felt her entire body lifted and dropped again and again on her perch behind the wheel. The rain pelted and stung her face and skin. She pushed matted hair off her forehead and sheltered her eyes with a hand. Her arms ached from trying to steer, which was mostly now out of her control. Through the churning wet air, she could barely make out Rico fighting the rigging. They were caught completely off guard, no time for them to steal safely around the storm as it approached.

The vessel pitched again and the mizzen boom broke loose. Seeing the mizzen sail and the boom caught by the wind, Ciara ducked barely in time and shrieked to warn Rico. The boom swung loose and in an effort to avoid being hit, Rico lost his balance. He must have hit his head somehow. He lay on the deck for what seemed an eternity. “Rico!” she screamed. “Rico!” She grabbed the boom as it listed toward her again. Now she had to hold the mizzen boom securely to keep it from striking her, all the while trying to steer. Each time the vessel pitched this way or that, it threatened to dump Rico's limp body into the ocean with the rest of their belongings. Ciara looked about hoping to spot a length of rope with which she might secure the mizzen and wheel so she could make her way to Rico to help him. Then, more splitting noises said the masts were breaking. “God, help us!” she said, crying out to the sky.

“Papi!” Pablo cried out. Just the top of his head stuck up out of the cabin. His eyes were wide with fright. “Papi,” he cried when he could not see his father. He disappeared inside the cabin momentarily, the next moment creeping out on deck on hands and knees toward his father. Pablo had secured himself around the waist with a length of rope attached somewhere inside the cabin. Crawling on all fours, he struggled to drag his father away from where he lay precariously close to the edge of the deck.

Finally Rico struggled to right himself. He clutched the top of his head. Ciara strained to see through the dim light. Sheets of rain diluted what looked like blood pouring down Rico's forehead. Ciara felt helpless and near panic, but she was not about to give up now. To abandon control of the wheel at this most crucial time would be to subject them all to the ultimate disaster. She braced herself as the Mercy began to list again. Everything seemed to shift into slow motion. “You can do this!” Ciara said to herself. “Hold fast… hold fast!”

The heavy ice chest that held much of their food supplies glided across the deck like it had wings. When the vessel righted, the ice chest had disappeared into the sea.