by S. M. Butler
Taking a bite, he wondered what it was like to not afford milk.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Love it. Thank you.” He suddenly remembered his breakfasts with Soli at the cemetery. Sadness twisted in his chest. On the heels of that came hot, fresh guilt. He hadn’t thought about his breakfast deal with Soli the whole time he’d been in Haiti.
Ysabeau sat beside him. He could feel her looking at him, but since he couldn’t meet her eyes, he focused on his cup.
Her lilting voice pulled his gaze up. “You have that look on your face again, Luke. What makes you so sad?”
“Some things remind me of her.” That wasn’t the whole truth. He was sad because he hadn’t thought of her. He was a sonofabitch for letting Soli go, even for a little while. That was unacceptable. What kind of a man stopped thinking about his wife?
She put her hand on his arm. “Tell me about her.”
He blinked.
“What did she look like?” Ysabeau prodded.
He searched her eyes and found them deep and welcoming, like a soft amber blanket to wrap up in.
“Soli was beautiful,” he said.
He saw the small wince, still she pressed. “Describe her, Luke.”
“Five-foot-three, black hair, dark eyes, amazing smile. She was from Bogota, Colombia and had the cutest Spanglish accent.” He winked at her. “I’m a sucker for accents.”
“Colombian! How did you two meet?”
“My tour of duty had ended and I was bored. No, that’s not exactly it. I needed a sense of, I don’t know, normalcy? A local bakery posted an ad for a barista and I thought, ‘Pouring coffee? How hard can it be?’ I worked there for a few months to adjust to regular life. The smell of baked bread and coffee helped to erase the smell of other not so nice things.” Hell, don’t go there, Carter. He grimaced, still able to bring up the gut-twisting stench of war with an inhale.
He eyed his coffee.
“I understand.”
Did she? Most people didn’t know what blood fields smelled like. But in her job? She probably did.
He went on, “Soli was going to school in the U.S. at the time and missing home. She came in one day looking for a kick-ass cup of Colombian coffee, and well, since I was a kick-ass barista, one thing led to another and soon we were in love. When she graduated and was ready to go back to Colombia, I asked her to marry me. Her family was not happy. For a while they disowned her.”
“Disowned her? That’s horrible.”
She didn’t know the half of it. He sipped his coffee. “Good stuff. Haitian brew?”
She nodded. “Not as good as Colombian.”
He smirked. “They do pride themselves on growing the good stuff. Especially Soli’s family. When we were married, she neglected to tell me that her family was connected.”
“They grew coffee?”
“Shit, no. They were one of the biggest drug cartels in South America.”
Ysabeau’s coffee cup slipped out of her finger and rattled in the saucer. “Sorry. That surprised me.”
“I get that. Surprised me too.” Especially since his SEAL team had been tasked to wipe out the drug cartels. Lieutenant Commander Mack Riley would’ve shit bricks if he knew about Luke’s in-laws. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have known if Soli hadn’t gotten sick. After the breast cancer diagnosis, her eldest brother, Pablo, sent a plain brown box to the house. In it a letter was written in choppy English telling me to give his sister the best medical treatments possible. Beneath the letter was a stack of hundreds that made my eyes pop out of my head.”
Ysabeau stared at him. “That’s incredible.”
“Incredible didn’t half cover my shock. I hate drugs, Ysabeau. I hate what they do to people, families, and kids. Up until that moment, I believed the drug cartels were Satan’s spawn. And here I was caught between a rock and my hard convictions. I detested the idea of using drug money for Soli’s treatments. But we were trying to survive on my salary, which wasn’t enough, plus we had college debt and a newborn. I couldn’t afford the chemo and radiation. My wife would’ve died without the brown boxes.”
“There was more than one box?”
“They came to the house two and three times a month for the next five years. They tapered off to a box every few months for the eight years after that. Thirteen years of medical funding in plain brown wrapper.”
Ysabeau’s eyebrows rose.
“If only our postal carrier knew, right?” He ground his back molars. Thinking about those days was like getting a knife in his gut. “It was a twisted, sick thing to look forward to those deliveries. Taking the money made me feel like I was a drug lord pimping death to kids.”
“Now I understand why you won’t take pain medications,” she said.
“I hate drugs, but those boxes were keeping my wife alive. I took the money, Ysabeau. All of it.”
The old disgust for himself chewed on his insides. He was a sorry bastard. Taking the money was one of the reasons he quit the SEALs. Mack’s face popped into his mind. What would the Lt. Commander do if he knew his best corpsman was being paid by the enemy? How could he fight with his SEAL brothers to wipe out Soli’s brothers? It was insane. Everything in him wanted to do the right thing. But what was that, exactly? From day to day, it changed.
“Sounds like it was the only thing you could do, Luke.”
That’s the way he’d worked it out too, but it didn’t make him feel any better about himself. “When I finally had a good job with medical insurance, I wrote to Pablo over and over telling him to stop. I didn’t want the money. He wouldn’t listen. Soli was the only sister in the family. Trust me, the cartels take care of their own.” Like SEALS.
A bitter taste crept up his throat. He got up and refreshed their coffee cups.
To his complete surprise, she rose too and hugged him from behind. “You are a good man, Luke Carter. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
He closed his eyes and let her hold him for as long as she would.
*
The beach was beautiful, with powdery white sand and water that twinkled turquoise. Ysabeau maneuvered her Brigitte into a spot in the crowded parking lot and cut the engine.
“Oh, look! See that fisherman?” She pointed at an older man who was unloading his boat. “He’s an old friend. Actually he’s one of Gran’s suitors.” She manually rolled her window down she called out, “Gochi!”
The dark-skinned man with a scraggly, gray beard turned toward them. A rope net spilled out of his arms like giant octopus legs. Even from the car, Luke could see the man’s muscles strain under the mottled and stained T-shirt. Luke was struck by the fact that he hadn’t seen many old men since he arrived in Haiti. The average life expectance for men must be pretty low. Other than Mr. Johnson, the last old guy I saw was…
“Holy shit,” Luke said. “I know that man.”
“Gochi? How is that possible?”
The fisherman dropped the net and walked to Ysabeau’s side of the car, “Bonjou ti moun,” he said leaning into the car. Then, noticing Luke, his long, crazy white eyebrows rose.
Ysabeau said something in Kreyòl, which Luke assumed to be an introduction.
Luke held out his hand. “We’ve met. Sort of. This kind man saved me from a horrific fall out of a tap-tap. Merci.”
Gochi’s eyebrows rose all the more at the English words until Ysabeau translated. Then he smiled and nodded his head. Reaching through the open window and across Ysabeau, he shook Luke’s hand with a firm grip. His skin was tough and callused. Scars marked his biceps and forearms. He was clearly as strong as men half his age.
Ysabeau and Gochi spoke for a moment in Kreyòl. Luke couldn’t catch a word. He enjoyed the way their voices blended together like a song. Gochi’s words made Ysabeau laugh out loud. Shaking her head from side to side, she covered her mouth with her hand as if to shove the laughter back where it came from. Luke could see her upturned lips peeking out the sides as she snuck a glance at him. He
smiled back, completely clueless about the joke.
At the end of their conversation Gochi pointed at Luke, his thick fingers resembling an antique gun.
Luke shrugged, still not understanding.
The old guy didn’t bother hiding his merriment. Walking away from the car, he was still laughing and pointing that crooked finger at Luke, antique gun blowing his head off over and over again.
“Na oue pita,” Ysabeau said out the window. “See you later.”
“Si Bondieu vie,” he called over his shoulder and bent to collect his nets.
“If God wills it to be so,” she translated. “A common expression we use.”
“All right. What’d he say about me?”
“Pardon?” She faked bewilderment, failing miserably.
“I know when someone is poking fun at me, even in Kreyòl. Spill it lady.” He tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger.
Her eyes twinkled from beneath black, feathery lashes. “He said you are clumsier than an old, blind, one-legged ox.”
“That’s descriptive.”
“It gets worse. He also said danger sticks to you like a tick chews the butt of an old dog. And I should watch out that the tick doesn’t jump on me.”
“Not quite sure what I am in that analogy.” He crossed his arms. “Did I step on his toes the day I fell out of the tap-tap?”
“Do not be upset. I told him it is my pleasure to watch over you.” Her expression went crooked with surprise as though she hadn’t expected to say that at all.
“The old guy did keep me from falling on my face. I guess I can’t be upset with a little razzing,” he said.
“He is pretty funny. Definitely my favorite of Gran’s many suitors.”
“Many suitors? I’d like to meet this Grann of yours,” he grinned.
“You will. I’m sure she’ll drop in today or tomorrow for a visit. We don’t go too many days without seeing one another. In fact, I’m a little surprised she hasn’t come by to meet you already.” She treated him to one of her extraordinary smiles. “Ready to go find a spot on the sand?”
What sort of bikini she was wearing under her T-shirt and skirt? “Hell, yeah.”
When his flip-flops hit the sand, he squinted at the beach. Hundreds of people, families, fishermen, and couples dotted the sand with mere inches between blankets. Ysabeau led him to a spot in the middle of the crowd. He pounded a green striped umbrella into the sand, while she spread out a large red and white-checkered blanket and set up two empty lounge chairs. On the blanket sat a mid-sized cooler, your typical picnic basket, and, bless her, two bottles of Bud, frosty and sweating in the heat. It was an oasis.
Once situated in the lounge chair, Bud in hand, buffeted by soft blowing breezes and muted whooshing of the waves, Luke’s body started to relax. Except for the tender ribs and lump on his head, he felt great and said so.
“You look better.” She reached up and gently touched his cheek with fingers as soft as a dream. “The swelling is going down.”
Luke struggled to keep his emotions in check. Ysabeau was being the doctor again. Cool and clinical. He felt her touch long after she’d turned away to stare at the turquoise waters.
Shoulder-to-shoulder they sat on her red and white-checkered blanket, their toes dusted with fine white sand. His mouth fell open and hung there when she pulled the T-shirt over her head. A multitude of locals packed the beach covering every square inch of sand. He saw only her. Ysabeau in a salmon-colored two piece bathing suit was the most beautiful sight on the beach. Needing to touch her, he reached out and took her hand. Gently, he caressed her knuckles with his thumb. There was so much he wanted—to touch her, taste her, inhale her coconut scented fragrance… But, he wanted more than that too. Much more.
“Ysabeau, about last night…” he began.
When her eyes met his, he saw pure terror. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered.
“I don’t either,” he admitted. “I haven’t for a long time.”
“You don’t understand. I’m no good with…dating…men.”
He rubbed her arm. “That’s where you are wrong, angel. For me, you are perfect.”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too. Maybe we just take this slow. See what happens.”
His fingers itched to pull her into his arms and shield her from her fears. He longed to touch every inch of her warm, caramel skin and heal her as she’d healed him. He wanted to kiss her neck and whisper in her ear. Damn, he was becoming aroused.
“How about a swim?” he asked, in a voice croaking like a thirteen-year-old’s. A dip in cool water seemed rather urgent at the moment.
“A swim? Sure you’re up to it?” she asked in that lilting voice of hers.
He winced at her choice of words. Yep, he was definitely rising to the occasion. “Are you going to let me beat you to the water?”
Luke unwrapped the Ace bandage from around his ribs as she untied the sarong from around her hips. The wraps fell together in a heap on the blanket. Her body was so beautiful it hurt.
“I’m winning!” He walked as fast as he could across the hot sand toward relief.
In the cool, clear water she came to him. His toes barely touched the sandy floor and she treaded water just out of reach. He opened his arms and she swam closer to rest her palms on his shoulders. There was only water between them.
Hundreds of people could have been watching, but he didn’t care. The connection between them was an electric current in the water—sizzling, sparking brighter than the sun. He wanted her. Badly. The desire both surprised and thrilled him.
“How do you feel?” she asked, her eyes searched his.
Like singing. Like dancing. Like kissing you, hard. “Fine,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Never better.”
“Four days.” She squinted. “I wish you could stay longer.”
The thought of leaving gripped his gut like a steel fist. He hadn’t felt this way for a woman in a long time and he didn’t want to let her go. He blurted out, “Come to California.”
“California?”
“San Francisco, to be exact. The ticket’s on me. Stay a few weeks, months, as long as you want.”
She shook her head. “What of my clinic? I can’t leave.”
Your clinic is dead. He didn’t say it out loud. “I can find you a new job in the Bay Area. In a hospital, clinic, private practice, you name it. I have connections. Lots of them. What do you think?”
A mixture of emotions contorted her face—pain, sadness, hope. She settled on a frown. “The clinic is my life.”
“Your life should be happy, Ysabeau. You deserve joy and sweet dreams.” He moved closer, locking his fingers with hers. “To be loved.”
“Does that happen in real life? I haven’t seen it, except in the movies. I am so tired of fighting against death. So tired of living alone.”
“You’re not alone. I’m still here.” He lifted their locked fingers out of the water.
“In a few days you’ll be gone too.”
“Come to San Francisco with me.” He pulled her closer, holding both of her arms. “Stay with me.”
Her big eyes widened. “I…can’t.” She started to kick and wiggle free. “Let me go!” She pushed against his chest breaking free from his embrace and dove under the water. Her spray choked him when she swam like mad for the shore.
*
Feeling like an idiot, he slowly swam after her. What was he thinking? Why would she want to come with him to California? Her life was here. But she wasn’t happy.
She was back on the red and white-checkered blanket, her knees pulled up to her chest. Huddled under a towel, she could have been freezing except it was ninety degrees in the sun.
“Ysabeau?” He spoke her name as gently as he could. Water ran down his skin as he waited for a sign from her. Should he sit down beside her? Take a walk?
“When I worked at GHESKIO, there was a patient. He was very sick. And scary…” She stopped talki
ng as if the words wouldn’t come. She stared at a fly on the blanket.
It gave him a moment to search his memory banks for the word GHESKIO and remembered it was the center that specialized in research and training for HIV/AIDS. Ysabeau had been a research scientist for them.
He didn’t like how pale she was. “How scary?”
She twisted the towel in her hands, as if trying to wring out the story. “Sometimes patients become attached to the staff. If a patient doesn’t have family, the nurses and doctors become his only source of companionship in those final days. Their only link to humanity. It’s very sad.”
Luke nodded. He understood her words, but needed a roadmap to see where they were going. He eased down beside her, not touching, giving her all the space she needed. “It must be horrible to die alone.”
“Yes. I did my best to make sure that didn’t happen. No one should be alone in the end.”
That was one thing he did right—Soli died knowing she was loved. He blew out a slow breath. “The patient?”
“At first, I thought this was a textbook case of doctor infatuation. I was wrong. He was…” She shrunk inside the towel, pulling back into a safe hole. “…dangerous. His aura was deep red, almost black. Pure evil.”
“Sorry,” he interrupted gently. “Aura? The glow psychics supposedly see around people?”
She nodded.
“You can see a person’s aura?”
“Always.”
He cocked his head, but he held that discussion for later.
“His attentions scared me. I started to believe it wasn’t infatuation at all, but something darker. Revenge, maybe? He was angry, so angry at the hospital. Why couldn’t we heal him? Why did we get to live, if he couldn’t? It was a fair question, to which there were no fair answers. I wondered why some patients responded to our medicines and others didn’t. I tried to avoid him, even had another doctor treat him. It was no use.”
There was a sickening squeeze in his chest. “A stalker?”
She looked up and he noticed how red her eyes were. “Worse.”
