by Nicki Chen
“There we go!” the girl exclaimed.
“I’d need a strapless bra.”
“Seduction Lingerie. It’s across the street, in Pilioko House. All their apparel comes straight from Paris.”
Diana turned to get a sideways view of herself in the mirror. “I love this dress.” She smoothed the silky skirt over her hips. “I’ll take it.”
Before she left, the young woman had one more suggestion. “If you want some highlights,” she said, “my boyfriend’s salon is the best in town. Jean-Philippe’s. Tell him Kate sent you. And come back soon. I have plans for your wardrobe.”
Crossing over to Seduction Lingerie, Diana thought of the strapless bra she’d worn to her high school prom. White and utilitarian, it had only one purpose: support. Not that she’d needed much in those days. She opened the door to the jingling of a bell and stepped into a cloud of jasmine and lavender. Looking around, she saw displays of silk and lace lingerie in pale pink and green, aqua and gold.
A delicate-boned woman in a mini-skirt and pearl earrings asked her something in French. “Thirty-two B,” she said, guessing. “Strapless.”
The woman gathered an armful of bras and matching panties and led Diana to a curtained room with hooks on the walls between posters of Notre Dame Cathedral and the vineyards of Bordeaux. On first glance, the bras looked too flimsy to do the job. They were cleverly designed, though. Trying them on, one after the other, Diana couldn’t help admiring the feminine curve of her body, the creamy tone of her skin next to pale blue or set dramatically against midnight black. Best of all was the pastel apricot bra and panties set.
She laughed softly as she got into the car they were borrowing from Tom Appleby. She’d paid more for the lingerie than she had for the dress, and somehow that didn’t bother her. Not today. Not in Vanuatu. She looked up at Jay’s lime green office building, and that made her laugh, too.
She took her sketch pad and pencils out of the glove compartment. So many images fluttered through her head, and all of them made her smile. She might as well capture a few of them on paper while she waited for Jay. She could start with the little Chinese girl sitting by herself on the curb across the street, building a tower with spools of thread. Or Kate on her high stool, crossing her long legs and filing her nails. But no. She couldn’t resist starting with the Aussie tourist in the floppy hat who had climbed inside the cannibal kettle and smiled for her husband to take her picture.
“Hey,” Jay said sliding into the passenger’s seat. “What were you drawing?”
She held her sketch up for him to see.
He grinned and nodded. Then he took a sheet of yellow lined paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “My secretary drew a map to the Gamboas’ house. Just keep on this street, past the police station and then up the hill on Rue du Condominium.”
“I hope we like the house,” she said, considering for the first time that the opposite might also be possible. Gamboa had sent them a copy of the floor plan. And from Manila, everything about it had seemed fine. It was all on one floor, the master bedroom across the hall from a smaller room that would be perfect for guests and later for a nursery. In her mind’s eye, Diana saw hardwood floors in the bedrooms, a shade tree in the yard, an expansive view of the ocean or the lagoon. “It has a view, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Jay said, tapping the window. “Turn this way. De Gueiros Street.”
“I mean, just look at all these hills.” She turned the wheel and started up de Gueiros. The scene in her rear-view mirror was like a postcard, the bay and the little offshore island with its rows of native-style tourist bungalows framed in the brilliant red of a flame tree. “All the houses in Port Vila must have a water view, don’t you think?” They rounded another corner and drove up a small hill until suddenly they were leaving the town behind and entering a jungle—the bush, as they called it here. Huge rubber trees and acacias shaded the road. Then, as soon as her eyes were used to the shade, they were back in the sunshine again.
Jay smoothed out his map. “We veer right here at the circle,” he said. For another half mile or so, the road was almost flat. As it started uphill again, Jay told her to slow down.
“There,” he said. “That’s their driveway.”
She pulled in behind Gamboa’s car and stopped. “Are you sure?” A bit of wild grass and bushes not much wider than a parking strip was all that separated the house and the smallish front yard from the road.
“Yeah, this is it.”
She frowned and opened her door, only to be assaulted by exhaust fumes and the sound of a vehicle rumbling past. She ran to catch up with Jay and tapped his arm, but he gave a little not-now shake of his head and rang the bell. The sound of the buzzer briefly obliterated the growl of an old truck straining to make it up the hill.
Maritess Gamboa answered the door. She frowned into the light, ignoring the tabby that was rubbing against her leg. “Oh, Mr. McIntosh.” She nodded at Diana. “Come in, please.”
For a moment Diana was taken aback by Maritess’s terse greeting and pinched face. She looked so different from the lively, happy woman Diana knew from D-TAP parties.
They stepped out of the sunshine into a darkened entry, blinds still closed, a neglected philodendron sitting limp in the corner. Maritess led them through an arched passageway. “Johnny insisted on getting up,” she said over her shoulder. “I told him I could show you around.”
All grace and speed and cool indifference, the cat ran ahead of them, bounding across the living room floor and coming to a stop beside his master’s footstool. He gave the stool a perfunctory rub and then wrapped his tail around his body in a pose designed to look elegant.
Johnny Gamboa’s chair was situated in front of a window, the curtains drawn, an array of jars and small bottles on the table beside him. He lifted his right leg off the rattan footstool with both hands and pushed himself up. “Jay,” he said, smiling crookedly. “Good, ah . . . good to see you.”
“You remember Diana.”
“Welcome,” Gamboa said, offering Diana his left hand. He used to be a good-looking man, dark eyes, thick black hair. Now his face drooped on one side and a wide stripe of silver hair ran from his right temple to the back of his head.
“Sit down. Please. Maritess, um, some tea . . . and ah . . . cookies.”
Diana sat down and then popped back up again. “I’ll go with her.”
Compared to the simplicity of the floor plan, the décor was a riot of details—crocheted doilies and faded brown drapes, curio shelves, magazine racks, a knitting basket. The menthol odor of Tiger Balm mixed with coconut oil and garlic was hard to ignore. The living and dining rooms, separated by a buffet and a planter, were every bit as spacious as she’d envisioned. She hadn’t expected the tile to be so dark, though. Despite flecks of white and gray, it was basically a black floor.
Maritess pushed open a swinging door, and they stepped into the kitchen. At least it was brighter—lime green counter tops, white cabinets, flowered valances on all the windows.
The smell of hot coconut oil was thick in the air. “May I help?” Diana asked from the doorway.
“We’re waiting for the tea water to boil. Jasmine is making cheese lumpia. You like?”
“Yes, I do.”
The woman who was deep-frying the lumpia smiled a greeting, and Diana smiled back.
“I’m so sorry, Maritess,” Diana said, “about your husband’s illness.”
“Stroke.” Her voice broke. “A massive stroke,” she said, collapsing into a kitchen chair and staring at the table. “Only fifty-one years old. In perfect health. Played golf. Went swimming at the beach. Everything. Better than me.”
The kettle whistled, and she hurried over to snatch it from the flame. “Jasmine,” she said, “be sure to drain the lumpia on some paper towels. And don’t forget the napkins.” She filled the teapot and put it in the middle of a tray already heavy with cups and saucers, sugar bowl and creamer. Then she picked up the tray
, and before Diana had a chance to help, she elbowed the door open and strode toward the living room.
The perfect hostess, Maritess set the tray on the coffee table. She knelt beside it, checked the color of the tea, and poured, adding warmed milk and the requested number of sugar cubes to each cup. Then she rose, straight-backed as a nun genuflecting before the altar, and presented each cup and saucer to her guests and husband.
Diana stood behind her, still trying to find a way to be useful. Finally, she gave up and sat down beside Jay. She crossed her legs, and, as they ate warm, cheese-filled lumpia, they listened to Gamboa as he struggled to describe his rehab. It was going well, he said. Good progress. He tried to smile, and she and Jay nodded and did their best to encourage him.
By the time the maid brought in a fresh pot of tea, Gamboa’s mouth was drooping badly, his cup rattling on its saucer. Maritess slid a pillow behind his neck and lifted his feet onto the stool. He lay back and gave them a crooked little smile. “I’ll just . . . wait here,” he said to his wife, “while you . . . uh, show them . . . uh . . .” She squeezed his shoulders and bent down and kissed his good cheek. Then she opened the French doors that led to the patio and waved Diana and Jay ahead of her.
The moment she stepped outside, Diana felt a stab of disappointment. The curved slab of concrete had pebbles imbedded along the edge. It was everything the floor plan had promised. So why had she been picturing herself on a veranda, leaning on a rail, looking down on a grassy yard and a blue lagoon?
Maritess paused in the doorway, waiting for the cat. “Make up your mind,” she told him. “Is it out or in?” He looked both ways and sniffed. Finally, he strolled onto the patio, and she slid the door shut. “Johnny still likes to eat breakfast out here,” she said. “We used to sit out after dinner, take in the view, drink a brandy. For our health,” she added with a sarcastic shake of her head as they walked to the edge of the patio. In the distance, beyond a large scraggly field that ended in bushes, trees, and a handful of houses, a sliver of water flashed silvery-white. “The second lagoon,” Maritess said, pointing. “Very pretty.”
“Yes,” Jay agreed. “It’s a beautiful view.”
The cat rubbed against Diana’s leg, and she reached down to pet him. Closing her fingers softly around his tail, she opened her mouth to say a word or two in praise of the fresh air and got instead a nose full of diesel from another truck struggling up the hill. “What’s your cat’s name?” she asked, raising her voice over the cough and roar of the truck.
“Jasper. We got him from the Van Winckels.”
Continuing the tour, Diana followed Maritess through the bedrooms and bathrooms, nodding and making polite comments, even though she’d already made up her mind. In Manila, she’d gone along with Jay’s suggestion that they leave the house they were renting in Makati and move into the apartment on Roxas Boulevard far away from all her friends. She’d never lived in an apartment before, and she hadn’t foreseen how frustrated she’d feel being cooped up in a box sixteen stories above the ground. She wasn’t going to let him talk her into something she didn’t like this time.
When they were ready to go, Jasper followed Maritess to the front door. She picked him up and draped him across her shoulder. “Poor Jasper. He has to stay here in Vanuatu.” She scratched him behind the ears. “Yes, you do,” she crooned. As she swiveled around, Jasper raised his chin from her shoulder and blinked at Diana. “I think he likes you. I haven’t promised him to anyone yet, you know.”
As soon as they were back in the car, Diana was sorry she hadn’t at least asked to hold him. She imagined the pleasure of his weight in her arms, his fur, the warm, fluid drape of his body. She got in the car and fastened her seatbelt.
“Well?” Jay asked. “What do you think?”
“I think we should take him.”
“I mean the house.”
“The house? No way. It’s too close to the road, the floor is too dark, and the lagoon’s so far away you have to squint to see it.”
“If you don’t like it,” he said, patting her hand as they backed down the driveway, “we’ll find something else.”
They’d barely left the Gamboas’ house when the sun sank below the horizon, changing the look of everything. Now the fence posts seemed to have sprouted not branches but arms and legs, as though at any moment they would run off in search of their heads. The huge banyan tree beside the road rose up, dripping tangled vines and casting great elliptical blue shadows over the road.
There was still a modicum of light as they circled the roundabout, but a moment later they were enveloped in darkness, heading down a road choked on both sides and over their heads by the tree limbs. “Where the heck are we going?”
“The same way we came. Back to town.”
She heard a smile in his voice. And then they were out of it—looking over a landscape of silhouetted trees and a scattering of houses, yellow lights winking from their windows, and Diana relaxed again.
31
“Hurry, honey.” Diana leaned out the door watching for the real estate agent, hoping she’d be early so they could unwrap the houses. That’s how she imagined it, as though the houses were tied up in wrapping paper with bows on top—mysterious and wonderful. You’d think from the way she felt about this imagined house that they’d be buying it, not just renting. Regardless, the house would be theirs for the next two years. She’d been an expat long enough to know that a rented space was as close as she would come to a home away from home.
She jingled her keys and stepped outside. They were living at Cloud Nine Apartments now, in a garden apartment. The patio looked out on a lawn edged with a flowerbed and small frangipani trees. No water view, but it was only temporary.
“Hey, Jay. It’s almost nine o’clock.” Come on, come on, she whispered, shifting her weight, tapping one heel and then the other. She was wired this morning. She touched her cheeks. Happy. And beautiful. That’s what Jay told her last night. You’re so beautiful.
Bette Ferguson was waiting for them in the parking lot, one elbow hanging out the window of her weathered white Mercedes. “Over here,” she called. The car door swung open, and her foot dropped to the pavement—slim ankle, high-heeled sandal, coral-painted toenails. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. McIntosh,” she said, jangling her bracelets as she extended her hand. “May I call you Jay and Diana?”
“Please.”
“We’ll go to Seaside first,” she said as soon as they were settled, Diana in the front, Jay in back. “Contrary to its name, Seaside is not by the sea. It’s on the lagoon side of town.” She turned around, lifting her oversized sunglasses, and smiled at Jay. “In Port Vila, things are seldom what they seem.”
They rode east, away from the bay. Even with the windows open and a pine-scented deodorizer hanging from the mirror, the car smelled of tanning lotion, perspiration, and forgotten sandwiches. The lagoon was a large body of aqua water, probably two miles long, half a mile wide. It was sheltered and serene. Not a bad place to live.
“So, Bette,” Jay said, leaning forward. “What brought you to Port Vila?”
The real estate agent made a face. “My former husband. The big investment counselor. Vanuatu’s a tax haven, you know.”
“Yes,” Jay said. “So I’m told.”
“The scumbag brought me out here and left me, sailed away with a skinny blonde on her ex-boyfriend’s yacht. Now he’s back in L.A., looking for another meal ticket. And I’m out here selling and renting real estate. Which I love,” she added.
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Then Bette did a sharp right onto Captain Cook Avenue, drove a few hundred feet, and jerked to a stop in front of a wood-framed bungalow nestled between a giant mango tree and two Norfolk Island pines. “Here we are,” she said.
Nice. Diana smiled over her shoulder at Jay.
“Just wait till you see the garden.” Bette jumped out and waved for them to follow her around the side of the house.
The yard facing the lagoon w
as rimmed with flowers. In the corner, dozens of orchids hung from a big acacia tree. “And now, for the best part: Erakor Lagoon.” She took off across the grass, somehow managing to walk normally despite wearing high-heeled sandals that sank into the sod. “Only a few steps down to your own private beach.” She opened a wooden gate in the concrete block wall. “Follow me.” Her heels were already clicking down the stairs. “You’re gonna like this.”
The lagoon was calm as a lake, not a single boat or swimmer in sight.
“It’s a fabulous property for swimming and water skiing. Don’t you think so?” Bette took Diana’s hand. “You do ski, don’t you?”
“Water ski?” Diana looked at the motorboat tied to the dock. She’d never even considered the possibility. “Not yet,” she said. “I suppose I could learn.”
“That’s the spirit,” Bette said. “How about you, Jay?”
“Yeah. When I was in high school. My friend had an eighteen-foot Chris Craft. Twin Evinrudes.” He started up the dock toward the speedboat. “It could pull two skiers at once. We skied a little bit in college too. My, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “My um . . . friend’s friend had a nice little boat.”
Oh god, Diana thought as she watched him bend over the boat as though there were something fascinating between its curved sides. He must have gone water skiing with his first wife. Twenty-year-old, bikini-clad Celeste.
The image stayed with her as they toured the house—a nice enough house, cozy with a restful colonial air. She had the feeling that Jay was avoiding her eyes. He lingered behind her as they walked into the kitchen. Then he ducked into the pantry, leaving Diana as the target of Bette’s sales pitch.
“Just look at all these cupboards.” Bette threw some doors open in the upper cabinet, slammed them shut, and pulled out a drawer. “I wish I had this many in my kitchen.” She glanced at the pantry. When Jay didn’t come out, she turned and pranced into the dining room. “Ceiling fans in every room.” Her rings glittered over her head. “Romantic, don’t you think?”
