The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  Carly dug into her pocket for a coin. She placed it in the man’s hand but waved away the fruit. Almost before she had finished, Julian cupped his hand beneath her elbow and guided her to a path flanked by tall, leafy plants. “And did you know the blue morpho is poisonous?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It is true. Though intended for predators, its venom is so strong it can kill a human being.” She shivered visibly and he laughed. “You do not need to worry. These rare and beautiful butterflies do not sting. You will die only if you eat one.” He laughed again.

  “Their feeding habits are especially interesting. They suck in the juices of everything from the bodily fluids of dead animals to fermenting fruit.” He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Strangely, it is when they become inebriated and wobble in flight that they are most easily caught.” He paused again, his dark eyes fixed on hers. “For you see, their beauty makes them valuable. Their wings can be used to grace exquisite pieces of jewelry for the wealthy or to decorate masks for carnivalgoers. Not even the most precious gemstone can duplicate the color of their wings.”

  His tone was beginning to frighten her. It was as if he knew he was tormenting her by describing in detail the eating habits of this poisonous, beautiful butterfly. She drew in a deep breath to calm herself as he went on.

  “It is also strange that, in some species, morpho caterpillars are cannibalistic.” He shrugged, half-smiling. “Can you imagine such a thing in nature? But it gets even more intriguing. If disturbed, the blue morpho butterfly secretes a fluid smelling of rancid butter.”

  “A warning to its predators,” she said.

  He shot her an admiring glance. “Exactly.”

  As they continued to walk, he moved on to other oddities having to do with the flora, fauna, and climate zones of the area.

  Carly brushed away another mosquito, concentrating on his words instead of the nervous twinge in her stomach. Trees now obscured her view, but to her reckoning, they were heading away from the harbor.

  As he spoke, he lengthened his stride.

  She halted, glanced back the direction of the village, also obscured by foliage, and then turned again to meet Julian’s gaze. “I’m not comfortable with this. We seem to be heading away from … the ship. And the town.” She laughed lightly, as if she knew better. “Let’s go back.” She laughed again, nervously, and turned away from him.

  He reached for her arm. “Oh no, you do not understand. This is—how do you Americans say?—a shortcut. You must be patient. We are almost to our destination.”

  She stepped backward. “This doesn’t feel like a shortcut. I’d like to return to the ship—the way I came with the others. Let’s go.”

  “I think not.” His fingers tightened around her forearm. He took a step forward, but she dug in her sandals and held her ground.

  “I want to go back. Now.”

  “I’m sorry. It is too late.”

  “What do you mean ‘too late’?”

  He jerked her forward without answering.

  “Please, let me go.” She forced herself to breathe, to keep her wits about her. How could she have been so naive?

  She pulled away from him, throwing her weight backward.

  He looked at her, amused. “So you think this is child’s play?”

  She was too frightened to think of a smart-mouth comeback. She tried to swallow; her mouth felt like cotton.

  Still smiling, he twisted her arm.

  She yelped. “Please,” she cried, praying for the pain to stop.

  He twisted harder and jerked her toward him again. She stumbled, then caught herself. She bit into his upper arm and tasted blood. He grunted and ground his opposite hand against her face. Her neck bent backward, and searing pain shot through her. He cut off her air supply, and she melted to her knees.

  “Ah, you are a lively one. When I read your profile, I thought you might be.”

  Carly gasped for breath, then whispered, “Profile? What profile? What do you mean?”

  He said nothing else until they reached the coconut trees. Bile stung her throat as he dragged her into the underbrush. Even if he released her, her knees were shaking too hard to run.

  Two men waited in a clearing. Julian shoved her toward them. She spit at his face as he stepped away from her.

  “Adios,” Julian said, wiping the spittle from his cheek. His voice was low, menacing, and what he probably thought was seductive. “Adios. Until we meet again …” He hummed a few bars of “Bésame mucho” as he walked away from her. He turned, laughed, bowed, and then he was gone.

  “Not on your life,” she called out. “You can’t get away with this. I’m an American, protected by—”

  Her words were cut off by more laughter.

  An hour later, wrists bound in front of her, Carly stood silently on a dilapidated dock as one of the men untied a faded blue fishing boat. Around them was a lava-rock-strewn beach ringed with palms. The second man held a pistol against her temple. The tide was coming in, and the boat rocked against the waves.

  Carly pressed her lips together, drawing in deep, silent breaths. She saw only one chance for escape. And she planned to take it. The man with the gun gave her a small shove toward the boat.

  She stepped in, twisted hard to the left, then immediately to the right. The boat rocked abruptly, upsetting her balance. She flipped overboard. Water rushed around her as she sank. She panicked, her arms immobile, her clothes soaking up water and becoming heavier by the second. For a moment she couldn’t think.

  A sound above her brought her back to action. She wriggled eel-like through the water, heavily, awkwardly, until she was beneath the boat, the only place she wouldn’t be seen.

  She waited, utterly still, her lungs ready to explode. She needed air … and fast.

  Heart racing, she propelled herself toward the shelter of the dock. Muffled gunshots exploded around her. She came up for air, gulping wildly.

  A hand closed around her neck. She struggled, clawing at the clamped fingers, as her head was forced underwater by a second hand. The water’s rippling surface teased just inches above her nose.

  So close, but unreachable.

  Beyond the two shadowy figures above her, she could see the bright, shimmering tropical sky mocking her.

  She tried one last time to reach the surface.

  Then her body went limp and her bound hands floated upward as if in supplication.

  I thought my first assignment would be a dream job. A Caribbean Sea–adventure cruise, fewer than three hundred passengers, hidden ports of call most world travelers only fantasize about. Lazy afternoons basking in the sun, sipping lattes at sidewalk cafés, going on jungle treks under the watchful care of a naturalist. Capped off with an overnight stay at a luxury spa. A perfect recipe for adventure and pampering.

  And as my editor, Tangerine Lowe, pointed out, a great way to mend my broken heart.

  Or so I thought. As is too often the case, expectations and reality can miss each other by a mile. A hundred miles. Make that a million. Or more.

  From the morning I boarded, the Sun Spirit—a rusting ship with a stabilizer that tossed us around like beans in a beanbag—limped along the Central America coast, seasick passengers hanging over the railings, their faces as green as the Caribbean. We had missed two ports already with no explanation from the captain. Someone overheard a crew member say that the ship’s parent company, Global Sea Adventures, couldn’t pay the port fees or cover the cost of taking on new supplies. Now there were rumors that the GSA was headed for full-blown bankruptcy. Belly up, which isn’t a comforting visual for a cruise ship.

  My name is Harriet MacIver, and I am a travel writer.

  I am afraid to fly, which complicates my job somewhat, but we’ll get into that later. For now, suffice it to say that I specialize in rating cruise ships of all kinds, from bare-bones adventure cruises to hoity-toity five-star, five-diamond ships longer than a football f
ield—or two. Around the globe. From the Amazon to the Antarctic, from Easter Island to the Antilles.

  At least these are the destinations Tangerine mentioned just before she said, without missing a beat, “By the way, you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on my Carly while you’re in Costa Rica, would you?” But that’s another story.

  Travel writing wasn’t my first career choice. But achingly sad circumstances changed everything. When loneliness settled into my heart and threatened to take up permanent residence after Hollis was killed, I sniveled my last snivel, tossed aside my box of Kleenex, and set off to sell myself to my local newspaper, the Town Crier. Some of our locals affectionately call it the Town Liar, but you never heard it from me.

  I’d known Tangerine, editor in chief, since our stint on the PTA board when our now-grown children were in grade school, so we go back some. Tangi and I were often on the opposite sides of issues, but, well, that’s to be expected in a small town like Bender’s Point. For instance, I wanted to use our bake-sale profits to send the year’s perfect-attendance winners on a hot-air-balloon ride; Tangi thought we should give the money to the students so they could start a school newspaper. Come to think of it, just a few weeks after we voted her idea down, she set aside space in her garage and started the Town Crier. We all thought she was nuts, likely reacting to some midlife crisis because her husband had just left her for his floozy secretary. But after some fits and starts, she began turning out a good little paper. It won all kinds of awards, which went to her head, according to some of our more envious peers. But word got around, and soon subscriptions were pouring in via the Internet and snail mail from all over the country and one province in Canada.

  Critics caught wind of her work, comparing her to Garrison Keillor and her paper to his news from Lake Wobegon. One major difference: Garrison’s news is made up; Tangerine Lowe’s is not. She has even been interviewed on NPR, much to the dismay of our town’s mayor and his cohorts who think NPR is run by communists.

  So when I trotted into Tangi’s office with my travel-column idea for the Crier, she went for it. Her eyes glistened as I talked, and I could see that she was ready to go for an even larger readership. Maybe international attention. Another NPR interview. She didn’t even ask whether I could write. Nor did she glance at the highlighted journalism classes on my yellowed and wrinkled college transcripts. She didn’t ask if I could sound as folksy as the other Crier reporters. Or how I was going to get myself on an airplane after what had happened to Hollis.

  Instead, she pulled out a world map and started plotting my trips, a half smile that looked suspiciously like greed playing at her lips, eyeglasses propped on top of her spiked, flame-hued hair like eyes on a fuzzy orange bug. After a minute she looked up, a flicker of affection warming her gaze. “Cruises,” she said, “will be your specialty.”

  So she understood about my fear of flying. This wasn’t like her. Everyone in Bender’s Point knew what a hard-nosed, no-nonsense, unfeeling woman she had turned into. I grinned. “Cruises are good.”

  She glanced down at the map again and narrowed her gaze at Central America. “Costa Rica will be your first assignment,” she said. “The weather’s mild, the people friendly, the political climate safe for Americans. I recently heard about an upscale spa experience that’s included with an adventure cruise package—Global Sea Adventures out of Nassau. You could rate the whole deal—cruise, jungle tours, aerial trams, spa, the works.” She smiled. “We’ll put you on the Internet. Website with flash media. You’ll be the Dear Abby of the travel world. Plus, the trip would do you some good. Give you new vistas. How about it?”

  I blinked, astonished. A second later a nagging doubt flitted around the edges of my mind. Hollis always said that if it sounded too good to be true, it probably was. “What else have you heard about the spa?” I pictured something nefarious. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Maybe she was going for the sensational to draw even more attention to the paper. I would be the bait. (This was still before the oh-by-the-way-would-you-mind-watching-Carly bit.)

  I almost chuckled at the nefarious spa thought. I’d obviously been watching too much FOX News.

  Tangi shrugged. “The spa is run by a health-nut guru. He specializes in gourmet vegan cuisine and an exercise regimen suited for your, uh, individual body type.”

  She had the grace not to glance at my expanding middle. When I’m depressed, éclairs turn into the singing sirens of the frozen-foods section at the Village Market. And since Hollis’s passing, the sirens seem to commandeer my cart even as I valiantly try to steer to fresh produce.

  “And there’s yoga, of course. It’s ubiquitous at spas touting the sort of good life that caters to the upper crust. This spa’s called La Vida Pura. The pure life.”

  I gulped, picturing myself in a leotard, or whatever it is they wear. “Of course.”

  “You’ll need to rate their exercise program right along with the rest of the cruise package.”

  I stifled a laugh. I get short of breath just bending over to feed my cat, Gus. And yoga of all things. Pointy hands above my head? Face reflecting some sort of ethereal ecstasy? I could see it all now: Silvery-blond bun atop my head. Round grandmotherly face. Laugh lines firmly set. Holding a graceful pose even as my arthritic joints ache, humming while I converse with the universe. We were getting close to Granny Clampett does Club Med. “I might have to skip the yoga lessons,” I said.

  “The Town Crier can’t pay you much. Expenses only.”

  It was more than I’d hoped for. “Add enough to cover Gus’s fare, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “I’ll watch Gus for you.”

  “He bites.”

  Tangi barked out a laugh. “So do I. We’ll get along fine.”

  “No, he’s gotta go with me. Seriously.” Since Hollis died, I’ve needed Gus to drape his warm body over my ankles at night. When I dare to wiggle or stretch my feet, he pounces on them, but my complaints are halfhearted. I need the feel of life in the bed beside me. “Where I go, Gus goes.”

  “I don’t think they charge for animals you bring along,” Tangi said. “You just stick him in a little carrier—”

  “Big carrier. He’s over twenty pounds. A ferocious-looking feline, all muscle and fur.”

  She grinned, enjoying the visual. “Big carrier, then. Tuck him under the seat in front of you, and away he goes. I honestly don’t know how the folks who operate the ship will feel about it, but I’ll find out for you.” She paused. “It’s fairly loosely run. Small adventure ship that’s going after the spring-break market by offering condensed-credit courses on ecology and oceanography. A few fluff classes to round it out—snorkeling, scuba diving, kayaking, that kind of thing.”

  Kayaking? With college kids? I pictured the thing spinning—with me in it. I’d seen it happen on the Travel Channel.

  This didn’t sound like the sort of exotic travel the public was panting to read about. “Carly needs the credits to graduate? The cruise is this May, right?”

  Tangi looked at me without blinking for a minute, then she laughed. “You always were a quick study. Yes, she needs the credits—and some time away. She’s been wound tighter than a yo-yo ready to spin. I want her to relax and have some fun—plus get those six credits she needs.” She paused. “And you remember, of course, how she tends to, well, seek her own adventures—no matter how heavily supervised?

  I’d always adored Carly. Something about her quirky ways, even in third grade, had lassoed my heart. And my son’s, too. He was a world away, but he was still half in love with Carly. But through the years Carly had given her mother plenty of reasons to hide her gray with Clairol Hot Lava number three.

  “Of course,” I said, hoping she’d grown up some by now. “I’ll be happy to keep an eye on her.”

  As if knowing I couldn’t resist, Tangi stood and reached across the desk to shake my hand. “Welcome aboard, Harriet. I’m glad you came to me with this.” She paused as I pushed myself up
from my chair. “You’ll be ready by the sail date, yes?”

  I patted my hair, straightened my skirt, and gave her a wide smile. My passport was current, but I had some work to do on a travel wardrobe. Sensible trekking clothes were in order and, of course, whatever it was I needed for my yoga lessons. And a photojournalist’s vest with all those little Velcro pockets. I’d always wanted one of those. “You got it, Tange. You tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. With Gus.”

  For the first time in months, I almost forgot my grief.

  So here I am, Harriet MacIver, recently widowed, nothing on my résumé but loving wife of thirty-six and a half years to Hollis MacIver and mother of two grown sons and a daughter who no longer need me.

  I thought travel might force me to look—to live—outside myself instead of dwelling on my loss. I was still mad at God for taking Hollis from me, especially in such a tragic way. Not that it would have been easier if slow-moving cancer or even a heart attack had taken his life. It’s just that accidents are so abrupt. One second you’re thinking about taking something out of the freezer for dinner that night. The next, a black-and-white police car pulls up in front of your house and two men get out and walk slowly to your door. You see their faces, and you realize what they have come to tell. You also know life will never be the same.

  And it wasn’t.

  The ship dipped and rolled, pulling me away from my thoughts of Hollis. The stabilizer still hadn’t been repaired. But somehow I’d developed a growing affection for the rusting hulk. It had seen the world, and then some, and like some people I’ve known, it was a bit worn around the edges. But then, aren’t we all?

  Through the porthole window, the Costa Rican coastline disappeared into a twilight haze as the Sun Spirit headed south to its next destination.