Christmas in Transylvania

by Sandra Hill

  Marisa put her bag on the coffee table and leaned down to kiss the black curls that capped her little girl’s head. She and her daughter shared the same coal-­black hair, but Marisa’s was thick and straight as a pin. At one time, Izzie had sported a wild mass of dark corkscrew curls, all of which had been lost in her first bout of radiation. A wasted effort, the radiation had turned out. To everyone’s surprise, especially Izzie’s, the shorter hairdo suited her better.

  With a deep sigh, Marisa entered the kitchen.

  Her mother was standing at the counter, shredding with a fork the flank steak she’d slow cooked in special seasonings all day. She wore her standard daytime “uniform”: a richly embroidered apron covered a blouse tucked into stretchy waist slacks, and curlers on her head. Soon she would shower with her favorite soap from Spain, “Maja,” and change to a dress, control-­top panty hose, and medium pumps, her black hair all fluffed out, lipstick and a little makeup applied, to greet Daddy when he got home. It was a ritual she had followed every single day since her marriage thirty-­two years ago. Just as she maintained her trim, attractive figure at fifty-­nine. To please Daddy, as much as herself.

  As for her father . . . even with the little paunch he’d put on a few years back and a receding hairline, when he walked into the house wearing his plumbing coveralls, Marisa’s mother had been known to sigh and murmur, “Men in uniform!”

  Marisa’s mother must have sensed her presence because she turned abruptly. At first glance, she gasped and put a hand to her heart. No hiding anything from a mother.

  “Oh, Marisa, honey!” her mother said. Making the sign of the cross, she sat down at the kitchen table and motioned for Marisa to sit, too.

  First-­generation Cuban Americans, they’d named their firstborn child Estefan Lopez. He became known as Steve. Marisa Angelica, who came five years later—­a “miracle baby” for the ­couple who’d been told there would be no more children—­was named after Abuela Lopez “back home,” and Tia Angelica, who was a nun serving some special order in the Philippines.

  “Tell me,” her mother insisted.

  “Dr. Stern says the tumor has grown, only slightly, in the past two months, but her brain and other tissue are increasing like any normal growing child and pressing against . . .” Tears welled in her eyes, despite her best efforts. “Oy, Mima! He says, without that experimental surgery, she only has a year to live. And even with the surgery, it might not work.”

  Izzie’s only hope, and it was a slim one at best, was some new procedure being tried in Switzerland. Because it was experimental and in a foreign country, insurance would not cover the expense. Marisa had managed to raise an amazing hundred thousand dollars through various charitable endeavors, but she still needed another seventy thousand dollars. That seventy thou might just as well be a hundred million, considering Marisa’s empty bank account, as well as that of her parents, who’d second-­mortgaged their house when Steve got into so much trouble.

  She and her mother both bawled then. What else could they do? Well, her mother had ideas, of course.

  After drying Marisa’s tears with a handkerchief she always kept in her bra, her mother poured them both cups of café con leches, her special brewed coffee with steamed milk. No fancy-­pancy (her mother’s words) Keurig or other modern devices for the old-­fashioned lady. They both put one packet of diet sugar and a dollop of milk in their cups before taking the first sip. A small plate of galletas completed the picture.

  “First off, we will pray,” her mother declared. “And we will ask Angelica to pray for Izzie, too.”

  “Mima! With the hurricane that hit the Philippines last year, Tia Angelica has way too much on her prayer schedule.”

  “Tsk, tsk!” her mother said. “A nun always has time for more prayers. And I will ask my rosary and altar society ladies to start a novena. A miracle, that is what we need.”

  Marisa rolled her eyes before she could catch herself.

  Her mother wagged a forefinger at her. “Nothing is impossible with prayer.”

  It couldn’t hurt, Marisa supposed, although she was beginning to lose faith, despite being raised in a strict Catholic household. Hah! Look how much good that moral upbringing had done Steve.

  That wasn’t fair, she immediately chastised herself. Steve brought on his problems, and was not the issue today. Izzie was. Besides, who was she to talk. Having a baby without marriage. “Okay, Mima, we’ll pray,” she conceded. If I still can.

  She let the peaceful ambience of the kitchen fill her then. To Cubans, the kitchen was the heart of the home, and this little portion of the fifty-­year-­old ranch-­style house was indeed that. The oak kitchen cabinets were original to the house, but the way her mother cleaned, they gleamed with a golden patina, like new. Curtains with embroidered roses framed the double window over the sink. In the middle of the room was an old aluminum table that could seat six, in the center of which was a single red rose in a slim crystal vase, the sentimental weekly gift from her father to her mother. The red leather on the chair seats had been reupholstered twice now by her father’s hands in his tool room off the garage. A Tiffany-­style fruited lamp hung over the table.

  A shuffling sound alerted them to Izzie coming toward the kitchen. Trailing the afghan in one hand and her favorite stuffed animal, a ratty, floppy-­eared rabbit named Lucky, in the other, she didn’t notice at first that her mother was home.

  Marisa stood. “Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty!”

  “Mima!” Dropping the afghan and Lucky, she raced into Marisa’s open arms. Marisa twirled Izzie around in her arms until they were both dizzy. She dropped down to the chair again, with Izzie on her lap, both of them laughing. “Dizzy Izzie!” her daughter squealed, like she always did.

  “For you, Isobella.” Her mother placed before Izzie a plastic Barbie plate of chocolate-­sprinkled sugar cookies and a matching teacup of chocolate milk. Her mother would have already crushed some of the hated pills into the milk.

  “I’m not hungry, Buelita,” Izzie whined, burying her face against Marisa’s chest.

  “You have to eat something, honey. At least drink the milk,” Marisa coaxed.

  After a good half hour of bribing, teasing, singing, and game playing, she and her mother got Izzie to eat two of the cookies and drink all of the milk.

  “What did the doctor say?” Izzie asked suddenly.

  Uh-­oh! Izzie knew that Marisa had gone to the medical center to discuss her latest test results. “Dr. Stern said you are growing like a weed. No, he said you are growing faster than Jack and the Beanstalk’s magic beans.” At least that was true. She was growing, despite her loss of weight.

  Izzie giggled. “I’m a big girl now.”

  “Yes, you are, sweetie,” Marisa said, hugging her little girl warmly.

  Somehow, someway, I am going to get the money for Izzie, Marisa vowed silently. It might take one of my mother’s miracles, but I am not going to let my precious little girl die. But how? That is the question.

  The answer came to her that evening when she was at La Cucaracha, the salsa bar where she worked a second job as a waitress and occasional bartender. Well, a possible answer.

  “A porno convention?” she exclaimed, at first disbelieving that her best friend, Inga Johanssen, would make such a suggestion.

  “More than that. The first ever International Conference on Freedom of Expression,” Inga told her.

  “Bull!” Marisa opined.

  They were in a back room of the restaurant, talking a break. They wore the one-­shouldered, knee-­length black salsa dresses with ragged hems, La Cucaracha’s uniform for women (the men wore slim black pants and white shirts). They were both roughly five foot eight, but otherwise completely different. Where Marisa was dark and olive-­skinned, Inga was blond and Nordic. Where Marisa’s figure was what might be called voluptuous, Inga’s was slim and boy-­like, ex
cept for the boobs she bought last year. The garments they wore were not meant to be revealing but to accommodate the restaurant’s grueling heat due to the energetic dancing. They needed a break occasionally just to cool off.

  Inga waved a newspaper article at her and read aloud, “All the movers and shakers in the freedom of expression industry will be there. Multibillion-­dollar investors, movie producers, Internet gurus, actors and actresses, store owners, franchisees—­”

  “Franchisees of what?” Marisa interrupted. “Smut?”

  Inga made a tsking sound and continued, “—­sex toy manufacturers, instructors on DIY home videos—­”

  “What’s DIY?” Marisa interrupted again.

  “Do it yourself.”

  “Oh good Lord!”

  “Martin Vanderfelt—­”

  “A made-­up name if I ever heard one.”

  “Please, Marisa, give me a chance.”

  Marisa made a motion of zipping her lips.

  “Martin Vanderfelt, the conference organizer, told the Daily Buzz reporter, ‘Our aim is to remove the sleaze factor from pornography and gain recognition as a legitimate professional enterprise serving the public. Freedom of Expression. FOE.’”

  Marisa rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  “This is the best part. It’s being held for one week on a tropical island off the Florida Keys. Grand Keys, a plush special events convention center, offers all the amenities of a four-­star hotel, including indoor and outdoor pools, snorkeling and boating ser­vices, beauty salons and health spas, numerous restaurants with world-­class cuisines, nightclubs, tennis courts—­”

  “I’d like to see some of those overendowed porno queens bouncing around on a tennis court,” Marisa had to interject.

  Inga smiled.

  “I thought they always held the pornography thing every year in Las Vegas.”

  “The expo is held there, but that’s more for public show. They have booths and stuff and even an awards show like the Oscars. This is more for industry insiders.”

  “Inside, all right,” she said with lame humor.

  “So cynical! Becky Bliss will be there. You know who she is, don’t you?”

  Even Marisa knew Becky Bliss. She was the porno princess famous for being able to twerk while on top, having sex. “Are you suggesting we might learn how to do that?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it would enhance your nonexistent sex life.”

  “Not like that!”

  “Okay. Besides, Lance Rocket will be there, too.”

  Marisa had no idea who Lance Rocket was, but she could guess.

  “Anyhow, this conference isn’t for your everyday Joe, the porn aficionado. It costs five thousand dollars to attend. The only access to the island is by water. They expect to see lots of yachts and seaplanes.”

  Marisa was vaguely aware of the private islands comprising the Florida Keys: an unbelievable seventeen hundred islands, some inhabited, others little more than mangrove and limestone masses. The islands lie along the Florida Straits dividing the Atlantic Ocean from the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Okay, I give up. Why would you or I even consider something like this? Oh my God! You’re not suggesting I make porno films to raise money for Izzie, are you?”

  “Of course not. Look. This article says they’re looking to hire employees for up to two weeks at above-­scale wages, all expenses paid, including transportation. Everything from waiters and waitresses to beauticians to diving instructors . . . even a doctor and nurse. Waiters and waitresses can expect to earn at least ten thousand dollars, and that doesn’t include tips, which could add another twenty K or more. Upper-­scale professions, much more.”

  “Why would a hotel have to hire so many employees for just one event? Wouldn’t they have a staff in place?”

  “The company that owns the island went bankrupt last year, and the property is in foreclosure. In the meantime, until it is sold, the bank rents it out at an exorbitant amount. You know how abandoned properties deteriorate or get vandalized. Plus, the bank probably hopes one of the wealthy dudes or dudettes who attend this thing might fall in love with the place.”

  “You know an awful lot about Grand Keys Island.”

  Inga shrugged. “I checked it out on the Internet. Hey, here’s an idea. You could even work as a massage therapist. Betcha lots of these porno stars need to work out the kinks. The big ones would leave hundred-­dollar tips.” She grinned impishly at Marisa.

  Marisa couldn’t be offended at Inga’s teasing her about the popular misconception of professional masseurs and masseuses. “Kinks . . . that about says it all. Pfff! Can you imagine what they would expect of a massage therapist at one of these events?” She lowered her voice to a deep baritone and added, “ ‘My shoulders are really tight, honey, and while you’re at it, check out down yonder.’ ”

  Inga laughed. “I’m just saying. If you worked as many hours there, let’s say double shifting between waitressing and therapy, you might very well earn close to thirty thousand dollars. In less than two weeks! When opportunity comes down the street, honey, jump on the bus.”

  “You say opportunity, I say bad idea. Honestly, Inga, I can’t see us doing something like this.”

  “Why not? We don’t have to like all the ­people that come to the salsa bar, but we still serve them food and drinks.”

  “I don’t know,” Marisa said.

  “There’s something else to consider.”

  “If you’re going to suggest that I might find a sugar daddy to pay for Izzie’s operation, forget about it.” But don’t think that idea hasn’t occurred to me.

  “No, but there will be lots of Internet types there. Maybe you could find someone with the technical ability to set up a website for Izzie to raise funds.”

  “I already tried that, but every company I contacted said it has been overdone. There’s no profit for them.”

  “Maybe you’ve made the wrong contacts. Maybe if you met someone one-on-one . . . I don’t know, Marisa, isn’t it worth a try?” Inga was serious now.

  “I’ll think about it,” Marisa said, to her own surprise.

  “Applications and interviews for employment are being held at the Purple Palm Hotel in Key West next Friday,” Inga pointed out. “Don’t think too long.”

  “Don’t push.”

  They heard the salsa band break out in a lively instrumental with a rich Latin American beat. A prelude to the beginning of another set of dance music.

  As they headed back to work, Inga said, “I’ll drive.”

  New to Sandra’s Vangels?

  Find out where it all began!

  Read on for a look at

  KISS OF PRIDE

  the first Deadly Angels novel!

  Available now in print and ebook from Avon Books.

  Prologue

  Long ago in the icy North . . .

  OUT OF THE barren glaciers and snowcapped mountains, fjords emerged like shimmering snakes, and a god-­like race was created.

  Tall men with glorious features. Strength to survive the harsh climate. Wicked smiles to lure women to their frigid lairs. Superb lovemaking talents perfected over long winter nights. Brave fighting skills to defend their homeland.

  These seafaring warriors came to be called Vikings.

  And God was pleased. Some said these Men of the North were like angels on earth (which really annoyed some angels Up There).

  For three hundred years they reigned, until God realized how arrogant and bloodthirsty they had become, not to mention their worshipping false gods, like Odin and Thor. Then, one Viking family displeased Him mightily. The Sigurdssons. Not only did Sigurd the Vicious participate in the infamous raid on Lindisfarne, a Saxon monastery, but his seven sons offended God by each committing one of the seven deadly sins in a most heinous manner.

  L
ust. Gluttony. Greed. Sloth. Wrath. Envy. Pride.

  “I am deeply disappointed in the Vikings. I made them proud examples of a favored race.” Lightning bolts shot from God’s hands, which He raised on high, and the clouds wept.

  “Michael!” God called out, and immediately appeared the Archangel Michael, feathers flying as he rushed to His side.

  Without words, Michael could see down below to what had so offended his Lord. “Tsk, tsk!” was the best he could come up with.

  “Let it be known henceforth that the Viking race, male and female, will fade into extinction. Furthermore, for their wickedness, these seven sinners are condemned to Hell for all eternity. Take care of it for me.”

  St. Michael, who was the patron of warriors everywhere, decided to intercede on their behalf, despite his having no liking for the full-­of-­themselves Norsemen. “I agree that these Sigurdsson men have gone too far, but maybe they would change if given a second chance. On the other hand . . .” Already he was wishing he had bitten his angelic tongue.

  Still, he reminded God that Sigurd was the seventh son of a seventh son and that Sigurd in turn begat seven sons of his own. Ivak, Trond, Vikar, Harek, Sigurd, Cnut, and Mordr. Seven was a

  number of import in holy circles, sacred and magical.

  “I am touched by your plea, Michael, but this family has to be punished. After all, I banished Adam from the Garden of Eden for a much lesser sin.”

  Michael bowed his head, waiting for his orders.

  After much thought, God proclaimed, “This I say unto you, the Viking race will dwindle off into nonexistence, but not by death. No, they will blend into other cultures, losing their identity. Their pride is too great to stand alone. Hereafter, no one will worship Norse gods ever again.”