Lies Are The Coward's Coin: The Broken Billionaire Series Book 2

by Nancy Adams

  “Where next?” she asked as we stepped along the pavement.

  “The costume shop,” I announced.

  “Costume shop?”

  “Yes, we have to dress traditionally for carnival day. Everyone does.”

  “Then let’s go.” She grinned wildly, gripping my arm even more.

  It was in a back alley that led off the main thoroughfare, and when we entered its narrow crags, Sarah rejoiced in the poky yet cozy little passageway, crammed with all sorts of shops selling musical instruments, cigars, wine, and rum, as well as a bicycle shop and several trinket sellers, all of which fascinated Sarah immensely, and other shops that had found themselves lost in the past. As she had back in the market at New Providence, she would dart from shop to shop, slowing down our progress to the costume maker. But I didn’t have the heart to hurry her up and once again basked in the sunshine of her enjoyment.

  Eventually, we did make it to the little costume shop and stepped inside the cluttered arena of masks and playful outfits. Typically, Sarah was awestruck and shot about the place. She’d admire one costume, call me over, and then, before I’d even had a chance to inspect what she held out, would bolt off to another. The old man who owned the shop slowly emerged from the general mess at the back of the place, as though he were a part of it, awoken and tearing himself away. He stealthily moved toward us, taking me by surprise when he dropped a hand on my shoulder. I jumped and turned sharply to him.

  “Hola, señor,” the old man said in a lazy drawl.

  He had a crooked back from years of sitting hunched over a sewing table, and this meant that he gave the impression that his head grew out of his chest. He was an ancient thing, at least seventy, and had scared me as a boy when Holman would take me to his shop. Above his bespectacled old eyes, with their droopy bags hanging underneath, were two extremely bushy gray eyebrows that resembled patches of dry moss.

  “Hola, Señor Carlos,” I said slowly and clearly, the old man being a bit hard of hearing. “We’d like to hire two costumes for the festivities.”

  “Ah! The festivities,” he muttered, holding up one finger, seemingly remembering for the first time that there was indeed a carnival soon. “You find what you like, you bring me, we agree price, we adjust, you leave, we good.”

  “Gracias, señor,” I put back, before returning to the racks with Sarah.

  Looking along the aisles, she picked out a blue velvet headscarf, initially taking it for an ordinary scarf. But as she began playing with it around her neck, the old man announced, “Headscarf.” He pointed to his head and repeated the word. Sarah attempted to tie it around her head, and the old man snickered to himself, unimpressed by her efforts.

  “No no no,” he said, gently taking the headscarf from her hand and beckoning her to bend forward.

  She did so and he began applying the scarf appropriately. Once he’d finished, she lifted her head and faced me. It was a marvel. The whole of her red hair was covered by the blue scarf, and this accentuated her beautiful oval of a face, the creamy skin, teardrop gathering of freckles under the right emerald, her smoothly sculpted cheekbones supported by delightful little jaw of rounded marble. On the front of the headscarf, just above the center of her forehead, hung a large bow that appeared so fitting to the totality of her face that it felt that it had always been there among the pretty garden of her countenance.

  “Cuban style,” Señor Carlos remarked.

  In the end, we picked nothing comical, no gorilla suits or neck-breaking headdresses. Sarah kept the blue velvet headscarf, mostly on my insistence, and then picked out a traditional dress of white-and-blue horizontal stripes, tight bodice that complimented her hips and bosom, neckline exposing just the top of her breasts, puffed shoulders, skirt that sprung out of the hips like the waters of a fountain, and hem flaring out at her feet, meaning that if she were to run, she would have to carry the thing along with her.

  For myself, I decided on tight beige pants, white shirt with frilly lapels running down the center, a tall, frilly collar that gently gripped my neck, frilly cuffs on the end of each arm to complete the set, and a pair of brown Cuban heels making me two inches taller. To complete this, I wore a partial black face mask, covering my eyes and nose, and a black fedora with red band adorning my head. “A real Cuban,” Señor Carlos remarked when he’d laid the hat upon me like a crown, having used a chair to reach. There was no need for adjustments, the clothing appearing made for us, and we shook on a quick deal. We then changed back into our own clothes while Señor Carlos packed the costumes for us, before once again stepping out along the narrow thoroughfare, the sun breaking down through the narrow canal of light blue above us.

  SARAH

  I forgot about Dad. I forgot about the Miller case. About Theresa. Troy. Even my sisters were rarely in my thoughts. I was being swept along on a tide of Josh, and the swelling inside told me that this feeling must be love. It must be. Because it was so strong that it masked everything else. Everything that had felt so dear to me not even a few days ago was fading and being replaced by his image. Out here in the Caribbean, in Cuba, surrounded by a world so much farther away from home than the physical distance would imply, I was someone else. Someone who lived in the moment, one dazzling moment after another. It may as well have been another galaxy the way I felt out here. The Sarah that packed her bags at home, with her little sister Kay helping her select clothes, had remained in that room. Out here I felt like someone else, and I hate to say it, but if in that moment Josh had offered me that Dior again, I don't think I would have turned it down.

  The day after the costume shop, Josh drove us to the beach, and we spent the day by the sea before picking up my dress from the makers. When I tried it on in the shop and walked out the booth, Josh gasped at my sight. The cut was very similar to the Dior cut he’d selected for me: tight bodice, pleated skirt dropping just below the knees. But it was more the fabric I’d selected that dropped his jaw. I’d found white with little purple flowers on it that matched those we’d seen everywhere, including the villa in New Providence. I came out of that booth wrapped in a little piece of our vacation.

  The only down point of the day was that earlier my father had texted to say that he was disappointed in me. I merely looked at it for a second, understood its general nature, and then switched off my phone. I was on vacation. Looking back now, I understand that I was being drawn into something not just by Josh, but by the general luxury of it all. To be able to do these things, to not care, to spend your life within an Eden of childhood, all thrills, no consequences, and utter luxury, was mesmerizingly intoxicating. That young, carefree girl of a thousand presents that I once was had been awakened by it all. She was alive and well, and she wanted her pony back!

  On the morning of the carnival, I awoke rested and full of energy. My eyes sprung open at about seven with the first signs of the day’s proceedings, the scraping sounds of barriers being placed along the edges of the roads outside the hotel, which was along the main course of the celebrations. When we’d returned from the dressmaker yesterday evening, we’d been amazed to find that the part of the street housing the hotel had been completely transformed, an avenue of bright, multicolored banners strung across the road, flags from every vertical pole, a multitude of colored streamers coating everything, and papier-mâché models of different Cuban heroes dotted along the ground or hanging from somewhere, a few from folklore, others from the revolution.

  Jumping out of bed, I raced to the window and parted the heavy curtains. I proceeded to watch the beginnings of the thing down below, people organizing stands and platforms, temporary constructions of all designs being put in place now that the road was formally closed. Soon the place would be alive with a patchwork of writhing bodies.

  A knock on the door took me away from the street scene.

  It was Josh and he didn’t wait for my answer, merely walking straight in. He wasn’t dressed yet—well, not formally—and was barefoot in sweatpants and T-shirt.


  “The men outside wake you too?” he asked as he joined me by the window.

  “Yeah,” I replied, turning back to the street. “I was too excited to sleep, and their noise gave me the excuse to get up.”

  He placed his hand gently round my waist, and I reacted in instinctive fashion, laying my head upon his shoulder. We stood watching the street, the construction teams going busily about their work like ants, and drifted into daydream. Even the simple act of standing in front of that window with him made me content, and if I could hold that feeling of gratification in my heart forever and risk feeling nothing more from life, then I would. It was me and him now, Josh and I. Nothing more. He would forever be attached to my name—Josh and Sarah, Sarah and Josh. We were now hyphenated, chained to one another. With this thought playing gleefully in the fields of my head, I softly kissed his neck, and the movement of jaw muscle that I spotted told me he was grinning from the touch of my delicate lips.

  We ran downstairs to breakfast, filled our plates as fast as we could, ate with relish, scrambled back upstairs, washed, changed into our costumes, and met back up on the landing, nothing but the next hours of our lives held within the fingers of our minds. The moment we met, Josh gazed at my face, admiring my work with the headscarf. Before we’d left the shop, Señor Carlos had taught me how to tie it, but I was afraid I’d gotten it wrong.

  “Is it as good as he did it?” I asked, worried that that was the reason he was gazing at me for so long.

  “It’s perfect,” he uttered softly. “I was just startled by how beautiful you look, was all.”

  A gale of red swept across the planes of my cheeks, and a gentle smile fluttered its wings.

  “That’s very sweet.” I blushed.

  “It’s true,” he insisted.

  He didn’t have his mask on yet—the hat, yes, but not the mask. I asked him if he wanted to put it on, not because I was really bothered, but because I really wanted to get my mind away from things that made my skin blemish. He lifted the mask from a pocket and handed it to me. I came around the back of him and, with trembling fingers, tied it to him. As I did, I savored the smell of his aftershave—light, not overpowering, a little spice and something sweet coupled with the faint natural odor of his polished skin. I admit I took longer to tie the mask than I should.

  Holding hands, we raced down the stairs and toward the exit, Josh suddenly pulling up at the door and tipping his hat elegantly at the doorman, who smiled at the American’s pranks. Already the street was awash with people, knots of them getting larger all the time as more joined the groups, until one swallowed the other, like some sort of social osmosis. We walked along, Josh leading me by the hand, struggling a little with the Cuban heels, my own heeled shoes not the easiest, my legs only feeling the light echo of their former injuries. We made quite a comic scene at times as one of us would trip and the other would have to catch them.

  “Do you mind if I have a few drinks?” he asked.

  “I’m not your wife,” I stated. “We’re on vacation.”

  He turned to me and winked from behind the mask.

  “We sure are,” he affirmed. “We sure are.”

  He took us into a narrow bar with tall ceilings, the long room disappearing back very far, the dilapidated bar stretching along the whole left-hand wall. Fans dangled several meters from the ceiling, flapping air about above our heads. There were already many people in there, and the bar was already busy. All but a few small tables with stools had been removed, and the place was prepared for the day’s festivities. Josh led me to a little round table and sat me down.

  “What would you like to drink, MIss Dillinger?” Josh asked as he headed to the bar.

  “Something light,” I replied.

  “I’ll get you a beer with lime.”

  I watched him smooth himself into the crowd that grew out of the bar like moss. A pang of jealousy then decided to throw a stone in my general direction when I saw several attractive females immediately gobble Josh up with their eyes. One minute they’d been involved in trying to get the barman’s attention, the next they were caught in a trance and ogling my boyfriend. One of them even went so far as moving her position among the throng so that she was closer to Josh, sidling in his direction. When she’d maneuvered her way next to him, she’d bumped his hip with her own and a second stone caught me. But I grinned at her displeasure when he merely looked sideways at her, smiled, and, as she’d opened her mouth to talk to him, turned away from her, ignoring everything she said and did after that. The look of thunder that cast itself across her former sunny day of a face amused me a lot, and I was still grinning when he brought the drinks over, two bottles of beer with wedges of limes stuffed in their necks.

  “It’s only a light beer,” he remarked as he handed me mine, its ice-cold touch stinging my palm a little.

  I went to place it to my lips but didn’t know what to do with the lime. Observing this, Josh placed his finger on it and pushed it into the bottle. I took a swig and found it surprisingly refreshing, the lime complementing the beer and sweetening its bitter taste enough to make it amusing. As for Josh, he slugged at his beer with obvious glee, old friends reunited.

  I sipped my beer and glanced around the place. The cracked plaster walls were covered in old black-and-white photographs representing the history of the city. All over were jazz musicians, carnivals of the past, tanks rolling through Havana, Castro in some, Che Guevara in many. The ones I really liked were of the bar itself, pictures of the very place I sat in, but filled with people from another time, many or most of them probably dead, happy smiling teeth facing the camera, women dancing in the background, unaware that they’d been captured forever in their moment of glee, to stand for all time upon the wall of the very bar they’d once enjoyed so much flamboyant freedom in.

  “This place is awesome,” I remarked to Josh.

  “It sure is. Most of the bars are similar to this, really long and narrow, pinching people in the middle, pressing everyone together between the walls. I guess it’s—”

  The sudden beat of a drum cascading from the back of the place stopped him dead, and he looked over my head toward it.

  “The band’s starting,” he informed me.

  And at that moment a loud wail of trumpets, bass guitars, and drums rippled through the place and appeared to bring more vitality to the people. The conversations became more frantic, and some of them began peeling off to join others in front of the band where they danced. The music had an effect similar to that of a predator among prey, injecting everyone with added energy.

  “You wanna dance?” Josh offered. “It’s gonna be a long day of dancing so we may as well get things started early. Plus, you can swish your skirt about.”

  I agreed and we left our beers, squeezing our way through the static crowds until we found what we were looking for: dancers! We immediately impressed ourselves within a group of people similarly dressed in traditional Cuban attire. They applauded us on our costumes, and we then began to stomp and dance with them, the girls showing me how to swish my skirt about in the traditional way, using the hem as part of the whole routine. We laughed and we roared as we moved about. Occasionally people would whisper in my ear, but I couldn’t hear a word of what they said. I’d just nod and say okay. It never seemed to matter that I hadn’t heard, though, because this always appeared enough for them. Eventually I became thirsty, as well as my legs needing a small rest, and we returned to our beers.

  When we arrived back at the table, however, we found two men in our chairs, and Josh explained about my injured legs, although he made them sound much worse than they actually were, as I hardly felt them at all. The two gentlemen were only pleased to give up the seats to a frail señorita! On sitting down, we also found that our beers had been swiped. This produced no more consternation in us than a simple shrug, and Josh went off for another two. On returning, he came bearing a tray with two beers with limes and two shots of a clear liquid which was obviously rum.

/>   “Just one to get us started,” he said as way of an excuse. “Get the carnival blood racing.”

  He loaded the drinks onto the table and returned the tray to the bar, which the barman was apparently most insistent upon. When he returned, he lifted his shot of rum up to me and ushered me to do the same with mine.

  Looking into my eyes, he said, “To an amazing carnival experience. May it be eventful, but not batshit crazy! May it be exciting, but not over the edge! May it be sumptuous, but not leave us penniless! May it be our first, but not our last.”

  We clinked the little glasses together, before each sinking the vicious liquid, my body wincing the moment it collided with the back of my throat. Then we kissed, the burning fumes of the liquid joining from both our mouths and bringing color to our cheeks. The moment we parted, I felt it necessary to grab ahold of my ice-cold beer and take a long draft to erase both the burning sensation and the taste of the rum. The alcohol quickly spread through me and everything went loose, as though I were held in warm, rippling water. It went to my head without the slightest protest, and the rest of the day whirred by in frantic fury, keeping pace with the beat of the drums that appeared to sound from everywhere.

  SARAH

  We drank a few more beers at the bar, danced a little longer, taking regular rests when my legs required it, and eventually left for the carnival raging outside. Walking out the door, we entered a storm of people, noise, and color, the festivities thundering everywhere on the cluttered streets. My eyes darted up the facades of buildings strung with so many decorations that they no longer resembled buildings at all but great masses of streamers, flags, and banners, confetti raining down from the sky like a summer shower. Any space that could hold some form of decoration did, and any space that could hold a human also did. They jostled away in their droves, spilling from windows, hanging off crowded balconies, on the roofs of houses, as well as the roofs of parked vehicles, climbing up anything they could and hanging from it, the buildings alive with human life. As for the street, it was a dense forest of bodies, an ebbing, flowing sea of colorful, gyrating humans. In the road, carnival dancers in multicolored costumes made from feathers and anything else of dazzling color or beauty swirled batons and danced, shaking their hips and butts as they moved along. Then there were the trucks dragging trailers packed with human activity, bands playing away, people dancing, drinking, urging others to join them from the crowd, each trailer with its own unique theme, some with jazz bands celebrating the county’s jazz history, others saluting the women of the cigar industry, many of them so bizarre that I couldn’t put my finger on what they actually represented at all. I watched as some people burst from the thronging sidewalk and hopped over the barriers, heading for the trailers, those already on offering them their hands, pulling them up on top so they could join the dance.