“Oh, Mother . . .”
Vincent stared at Joaquina’s speed in the kitchen.
“You’ll love Mother’s cooking,” Amelia said. “Escabeche’s my favorite.”
“What is it?”
“Spicy fish sautéed in vegetables. A very traditional Chamorro dish.”
“Amelia, you fry the noodles.” Joaquina slapped three plates on the small rattan table.
A half-hour later, Joaquina presented Vincent with a tray of deep fried bananas.
“Looks like you’re trying to fatten me up,” he said. “That fish was good. I’m so stuffed.”
“It’s Escabeche.”
“Oh, yeah, Escabeche.”
Joaquina served more dessert. “You’re both too thin. There will be a fiesta in the village. Everyone will welcome you home.”
Amelia smiled. “It’s so good to be home again.”
Vincent forced a smile. The party wouldn’t last forever; Stan’s papers could wait.
“You’ll love the roast pig,” Amelia said. “We bury it like the Hawaiians.”
“I might get used to this.” He dug into the bananas.
“How about tuba?” Amelia asked. “Does José Cabrera still make his famous tuba?”
“Of course, what would a party be without it?”
“Tuba?” Vincent asked.
Amelia touched his shoulder. “A fermented coconut palm juice—really packs a wallop.”
“We’ll have to make some,” he said, “when we get back to our island.”
Joaquina’s brown eyes flashed. “Your island?” She thumped her chubby fingers on the table.
Vincent squirmed in his chair. Oh, oh, wrong thing to say. Won’t help get Stan’s papers.
Amelia’s eyes met Joaquina’s. “Yes, Mother, we live on a beautiful island.”
“I don’t believe—why he’s got to be twenty years older than you. Old enough to be your father.”
Vincent let out a sigh. Great, she really nailed him there.
“You’re married then?” She looked at them.
Amelia did not hesitate. “No.”
“Oh, my Lord!” Joaquina made the sign of the cross.
Vincent coughed. All the years he’d put in searching—being so close. He should’ve kept in touch with Stan. Joaquina wasn’t going to give in now.
Joaquina held her hand to her chest. “I can’t believe you’re living together and not married.”
Amelia fitted her fingers through Vincent’s. “There can be love without marriage.”
“That’s just an excuse to sleep together.”
“Mother . . .”
“You know it’s a sin.”
Amelia looked at the floor.
Joaquina’s eyebrows arched. “Living with an old man, not married, I just can’t—”
“I happen to like older men.” Amelia rose. “At least, he won’t be sent away to some useless war.”
Joaquina wiped her hands on her apron. “Always so stubborn, what will Father Quantero say if you don’t marry? And our friends, what will they think?”
“That’s not the point,” Amelia said. “We’re here to research Amelia Earhart, not to get married. Vincent has worked years on her mystery. And I think somehow it’s involved with Dad’s murder.”
“Murder? Where do you get such nonsense? Bad things happen. You two better forget all this Amelia Earhart stuff.” Joaquina dished more bananas on Vincent’s plate. “Have some more dessert. It’s not proper living in sin. There will be a wedding.”
Vincent saw the determination in her eyes. She didn’t know all about Stan or didn’t want to. Sometimes she seemed scared—maybe she did know too much. He’d better play along.
“No, Mother,” Amelia said, “no wedding.”
Vincent stirred his bananas. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe your mother’s right. Marriage might not be such a bad idea, even for an old guy.”
Joaquina’s eyes widened. She smiled, patted his forearm. “Well, you do have some sense, after all.”
“Vincent,” Amelia said, “I thought you weren’t into such convention.”
“Well, I wasn’t, but . . .”
“Let’s discuss this in private.” She rushed out the door.
Vincent gawked at Joaquina, held his fork halfway between the plate and his mouth.
“You’d better go,” she said. “We’ll plan the wedding in the morning. By the way, when you come back, your room is on the left side of the hall.”
He pushed away from the table. She’d put him in his place again. A strong woman—why was she so afraid of anything to do with AE?
He caught up with Amelia near the water’s edge. She sat on still-warm sand, stared out to sea, her arms wrapped around bent knees. Part of a full moon showed behind her. He wished he could paint her silhouette against the water. “Hi.”
She turned. “Hi.”
“Your mother’s quite a woman. Now I see where you got your fire.”
“Yes, she is, but I don’t like someone else making my decisions.” She raised her head. “And you, what are you doing? Just going along with her like a coconut floating in the ocean.”
“Hundreds of years of tradition can’t be changed overnight. I think we should respect her values.”
“I have mixed feelings about marriage, just like AE.”
Vincent put his arm around her. “I know you loved Steven. He’s still part of you. I could never be him.”
“You do understand, don’t you.”
“I try, but being around one woman all the time is challenge enough—now, there’s two.”
“Funny man.” She swatted his chest with an open hand.
He cupped her face in his hands, devoured the moonlight in her eyes. Could... would moments like that last if they got married? His passion—greater with Amelia than anyone before. He tilted her chin, pressed his lips gently on hers. Her lips parted; he drew in the moisture, savored her taste. He stroked her hair, sifted through the soft strands like they belonged to a rare waterfall. Her delicate breasts swelled against his chest, sent tremors through his loins.
She pressed closer to him
His breaths, short gasps now, came quick. His mouth sought her cheeks, her ears, her neck. He lay her on the sand, embraced their closeness. “Amelia... so beautiful, so soft. I love you.”
She eased back, pulled his face close, saw the flames in his eyes. “Well, Mr. Traditionalist, what do you think now? We should wait, right?”
“What? You’re kidding?” He saw her smugness. “No, I guess you’re not.”
Joaquina closed the kitchen curtains, went back to her pots and pans. She shook her head. They must get married. Yes, she’d see to that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vincent closed his door, sat on the soft bed, and unbuttoned his shirt. Long day. Used to sleeping with Amelia. Now, she was down the hall. Was she taking him over? She found the letter he wrote to AE—his feelings, so long ago.
He stared out the window. Amelia, moonlight—they matched. Breezes moved the palm trees like delicate brushes over drum skins. Small waves pushed against the shore. He reached for her.
Joaquina wanted them married. Amelia put her off. Did she really think like AE? Marriage was a cyclone cellar where women retreated from other failures. Yet, AE married G.P. Why? Vincent relaxed against the headboard. Questions. Never-ending memories... .
Berkeley’s large auditorium lights had dimmed. A hush had swept through the audience. Amelia Earhart stepped to the podium. A slim, graceful woman dressed in a brown tweed skirt and jacket, a bright paisley scarf around her neck.
“I am honored to be with you today.” Her voice, strong and clear.
Vincent sat in the front row, mesmerized by the pioneer aviatrix.
“I would like to talk not only about aviation, but careers for women in general.” Miss Earhart gripped the wooden stand.
Vincent leaned back in his seat. Her sharp eyes sparkled. Her short brown hair curled away from her face. Th
e warmth of her laughter—her strength and dedication.
“Women do have choices,” she said. “I truly believe this. We can be engineers, scientists, physicians, nurses—whatever we want. Times have changed. This is 1935.”
Applause thundered around Vincent. He had to meet this dynamic woman. She was the future; aviation was the future.
AE wiped her forehead with her scarf. “I believe in women’s intelligence. I see no limitations to our aspirations.”
The audience gave her a standing ovation. Vincent tried to catch her glance. Someday, he’d know Amelia Earhart—be part of her life.
His feelings had started. Every time Amelia Earhart made headlines, he cut out the articles. After graduation with an aeronautical engineering degree, he had signed with Lockheed and a year later had begun work on her secret plane. Was it coincidence . . . ?
Vincent stared at moonlight pushing through the open window. He felt for Amelia. He wanted her touch. AE had been an untouchable goddess, but Amelia was young, beautiful. He needed her, to make love—fulfill his life. He pressed his hands against his head. God, was it only one night without her?
Amelia and Vincent met in the hall just after first light in the morning.
“Hi, sleepy-head,” she said, “bad night, eh?”
“Don’t like these sleeping arrangements.”
She touched his arm. “I didn’t sleep well either.”
They smiled, walked into the bright kitchen.
“Morning.” Joaquina stood by the sink.
Amelia kissed her cheek. “Morning, Mother.”
Vincent eyed the table piled with tropical fruit. “Morning. Looks good.”
“Well?” Joaquina served them two cups of steaming coffee.
“Well what?” Amelia asked.
“The wedding, you made plans last night, of course?”
“No, we just talked.”
“Just talked, eh? Seemed like a pretty close conversation.”
“Mother...” She choked on her coffee.
Vincent tapped her on the back. “You okay?”
Amelia put down her cup, recovered her composure. “We’d like to get going on Dad’s papers today.”
“Can’t look for them now,” Joaquina said. “People will start dropping in. Got to prepare the food.” She placed the fruit on their plates.
“It’s okay,” Vincent said, “few more days won’t matter.”
“I might be able to find those papers after the wedding.”
Amelia dropped her half-eaten guava. “That’s bribery. Dad left them to me.”
“Are you forgetting where you are, young lady?” Joaquina’s eyebrows raised.
“Mother, may we discuss this some other time?”
Joaquina gave Amelia a long look. “As you wish, but I won’t drop it.”
Vincent lowered his eyes, pulled back. “Do you know Emanuel Garcia?”
“Emanuel Garcia?” Joaquina’s face paled. “Why?”
“I received a letter from him. Said he knows about Amelia Earhart on Saipan.”
“That woman causes only heartache.”
“Does that mean you know him?”
“Did,” she said, “he’s dead—never woke up after drinking too much tuba one night.”
“Damn, I should’ve contacted him earlier.”
“Happened about a year ago. Manny was a good man, except when he worked for the Japanese.”
“I remember him now.” Amelia finished eating. “Didn’t he have a Japanese and a Chamorro wife?”
Joaquina put a finger to her lips. “It’s not polite to talk about the dead. The Japanese woman wasn’t exactly his wife.”
“Where are they now?” Vincent asked.
“They disappeared several days after he died.” Joaquina lowered her voice. “I heard his Chamorro wife fled to Guam. The other woman went back to Tokyo.”
“He would’ve been a good lead.”
“Don’t worry, the natives who are left know about Amelia Earhart.”
“But will they talk?” Vincent rose from the table.
“That’s up to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Whether they like you or not,” Amelia said. “Others have been here before us. Some people talked, some didn’t.”
“Try talking to Matilde Attao,” Joaquina said. “Her mother did laundry for a white woman imprisoned at Garapan. Rumored she was a flier. Then there’s Antonio Basas, he knows everybody’s business—that old traitor.”
“Traitor?” Vincent said.
“The Japanese paid him to spy. He tells all sorts of stories. His place is a war junkyard.” Joaquina pointed. “You can take my jeep.”
“Thank you.” Vincent grabbed Amelia’s hand. “Let’s go.”
They rushed out the door.
“Is she really helping us?” Vincent whispered.
“Looks like something changed her mind.” Amelia smiled.
Amelia and Vincent arrived at Matilde’s house on the village’s edge. Four sun-stained children chased several fat ducks across the weedy, cluttered yard.
“Good,” Amelia said, “she must be here.”
A thin, middle-aged woman with watery-brown eyes answered her knock.
“Amelia! Hafa Adai, how good to see you again.”
“Matilde, I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Is something wrong?” She wiped her hands on a dirty apron. “Joaquina’s okay, isn’t she?”
“No, nothing like that, but it’s important.”
Matilde spotted Vincent.
“Oh, this is my friend, Vincent.” Amelia stepped aside.
Matilde scanned him up and down, stopped at his blue eyes. “Hello, Vincent, come inside, the sun’s very hot.”
“Nice to meet you, Matilde.” He smelled chicken frying.
“Please pardon the house, I was in the midst of cooking and cleaning.”
Vincent rubbed his brow. “Smells great.”
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.”
Matilde returned with three tall glasses of guava juice. “Now, what can I help you two with?”
“Well,” Amelia said, “Vincent and I are doing some research on Amelia Earhart and Mother said you might help us.”
Matilde’s face paled. She stopped drinking. Her voice became gruff. “All the time—your father asked about her. I couldn’t help him. I can’t help you. I know his death was a shock to you, but it’s best to leave the dead be.”
“You mean, Amelia Earhart’s dead, for sure?” Vincent said.
“I told you, I know nothing.”
Amelia set her drink down. ““Didn’t your mother do laundry for some prisoners at Garapan?”“
Matilde gazed out the window without answering.
“Come on.” Vincent touched Amelia’s shoulder. “We better leave.”
“Yes.” Matilde hurried them out.
“Okay,” Amelia said, “sorry we bothered you.”
Vincent looked back through the screen door. “I thought she was your mother’s friend.”
“She is—was. I’ve known her since I was little. Never seen her act like that.”
“Someone got to her.” He kept looking. “She just made a phone call.”
“Must be a powerful person—to scare her like that.”
“At least we know he’s here, now.”
After they drove away, a dark sedan pulled into Matilde’s yard.
Vincent and Amelia parked in Antonio Basas’ cluttered driveway. Walking to the house, they dodged rusted aircraft and ship parts, strewn about the overgrown yard, like the sky let loose a metal rain.
“Some museum.” Vincent examined a small propeller near the front porch.
“All us island kids used to be afraid of him.”
Vincent rapped on the weathered door. “Antonio!”
Amelia peeked in a window. “Doesn’t look like he’s home.”
“What a collection.” Vincent stood behind her
. “I’ve got to talk with him.”
“He’s probably at one of the waterfront bars, or off fishing. He knows where more fish are than anyone else on the island.”
“We’re not batting so hot.”
“If he’s on a binge, he might be gone several days. Why don’t we check out some war sites, then come back.”
“Fine.” Vincent scratched his beard. “This place stumps me.”
“You mean Antonio’s?”
“No, the whole island—even your mother puts us off. It’s like AE’s still here, or her ghost.”
“Maybe she is . . .”
They drove up the rugged east coast of the island. Steep cliffs plunged into the sea that pounded against the protruding rocks.
“Good.” Vincent stuffed another rice cake into his mouth.
Amelia puffed out her cheeks, made a fat face. He laughed, stuck out his chin, and reached for a piece of dried fish.
“Watch out!” Amelia braced her hands against the dash.
He rammed a foot on the brakes, stopped a few inches from a wooden barricade on the dirt road. “That was close.” He read the sign. “RESTRICTED BY AUTHORITY OF U.S. NAVY.”
“Weird,” Amelia said, “this was never here before.”
“Navy’s up to its old tricks.”
“What do you mean?”
“Special training—infiltration, a new offensive, maybe.” He backed the jeep around. “Let’s go back.”
Amelia’s face twisted. “Really ironic—the road block right here. If these cliffs could speak, they’d tell a tragic story.”
Vincent looked at the raging water below.
“This is called Suicide and Banzai Cliffs.” She sighed. “Japanese command post was in that large cave over there. Dad told me about it. After Saipan was lost, most of the Japanese civilians jumped off these cliffs rather than face defeat.”
He shook his head. “I know their military commanders spread the word that the Americans were monsters, murderers. The civilians had no choice.”
“It was horrible. They stood their children in a row and pushed them off, youngest to oldest. Then the husband told his wife to jump and finally he ran off, backwards.”
“Their ‘Death Pact’, but such a waste.”
Amelia Page 14
