Pages of Passion

by Girard, Dara

  As the water cascaded over her body she felt renewed and she couldn’t think about anything else except the man asleep in her bed. She thought about Michael by the pool, at dinner, watching her sing, and she let herself imagine a future with him. Soon another song came to her and she began singing a current rock hit, like a giddy schoolgirl, then she switched to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” letting her voice echo in the small space. She sang so loud that she didn’t hear the door open at first until a deep baritone joined her. Suddenly Michael appeared in the shower. Her voice died away.

  “Did you forget the words?”

  “No. I didn’t know you could sing.”

  He grinned. “I can do a lot of things. Come on,” he said and started to sing again, his deep, rich voice beautiful to listen to. He motioned to her to join him and she did, their voices twining together in perfect harmony. Soon they blended more than just their voices and the shower lasted over an hour.

  “The ship stops at St. Barnaby today,” Michael said as he sat on the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist. “Do you want to go ashore?”

  “Yes,” Noreen replied, tightening the towel that wrapped her petite frame while she selected clothes from her closet.

  “Great, we can have breakfast on the island.”

  “I’m going to change,” she said then disappeared into the bathroom.

  Once the door was shut, Michael swiftly searched the room. Last night he hadn’t cared about what she had to hide, but in the clear light of day, he had to find out what was going on. When he’d seen Arlene dancing with Arnold “The Shark” Smith, a known participant in a notorious organization, he knew this delivery was more complicated than Darren had anticipated. It seemed that Harris hadn’t only changed his type of woman, but also his M.O., and if Arlene was carrying what he thought, she was in real danger.

  Michael rummaged through the room with the quick, practical movements of a professional, making sure that nothing would look out of place. Arlene was very organized and that further solidified his impression of her intelligence. She was a woman who would pay attention to details, even on vacation. Michael didn’t find anything suspicious. He then went to the closet and opened the suitcase she hadn’t wanted him to see. Inside he spotted two postcards, each with Harris’s return address and a brief note telling him how much she missed him. Michael had a strong impulse to throw them overboard, but pushed them aside instead. They weren’t his concern right now.

  He carefully opened the false bottom he’d located and sighed with relief when he saw it was empty. Typically Harris would have had something stashed there. So that was good. She didn’t have Darren’s property. He opened a zipped compartment and pulled out a small box. He lifted the lid and saw an antique ring with a large rare gemstone. Harris didn’t usually deal in gemstones; that was something Obsidian did or someone he knew was even more dangerous. Unfortunately he now had proof that she was a courier. His heart sank as his suspicions were confirmed. But he couldn’t let her make this delivery. He was convinced that she didn’t know how dangerous it was. Or did she?

  “Sorry, Angel,” he muttered to himself. “But I can’t let you do this.” He then carefully dismantled the ring by loosening the gemstone, and removed the interior contents, a tiny vial, and put it in his jacket pocket.

  “Why don’t we eat on the ship?” Noreen called out to him.

  “Uh, whatever you want, Angel.” Michael replaced the ring and put the box back. He knew his actions were against protocol, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to see Arlene go down. Not after what she had done for him. Once this was all over he was going to get her away from Harris and this mess. She wouldn’t end up like the others.

  “I thought we could save money that way,” she shouted.

  “We don’t need to save money. If you want to eat on the island, I’ll pay.”

  “Then let’s do that.”

  “I’ll have to go to my cabin to change.”

  “That’s fine. Just wait for me and I’ll come with you.”

  “Okay.” Michael put everything back the way it was then quickly changed into his clothes, so that by the time Noreen came out of the bathroom he looked as though he’d been waiting for her. And she’d been worth the wait. She looked stunning in a bold animal-print skirt and a lacy white rayon sleeveless top with tiny eyelet trimming. Yes, she was definitely something he wasn’t giving back.

  St. Barnaby was the perfect island for travelers. It had been created specifically for cruise ships and sported a wide variety of unusual palm trees and an assortment of exotic flowers and plants. Along the beach, a large number of shaded beach chairs were staggered, and vacationers departing the ship were greeted with a steel-pan orchestra that serenaded them upon their arrival. Off to the side, the ship’s entertainment committee stood by to direct passengers who wanted to go on one of the many island excursions they sponsored, or provided transportation for those passengers who wanted to participate in the many water sports available.

  Noreen and Michael ended up in the marketplace, where a cacophony of sounds greeted them. There were souvenir vendors every where, assaulting them with their wares as they tried to make their way to the traditional shops toward the center of the island.

  “Please, Miss, you haffi buy dis for your lovely husband,” one vendor called out to her.

  I wish, Noreen thought, offering the woman a smile and a polite refusal.

  “Com, sir,” another vendor urged Michael. “Dis pretty lady can do well with dis woven bag…”

  As they navigated themselves through the stalls, Noreen couldn’t believe the amount of carvings she saw everywhere (they all looked the same to her), hand-painted silk tops and skirts, and handmade pottery decorated with mother-of-pearl and exotic seashells, which the island was known for. Luckily, Michael’s big frame provided her ample protection from the onslaught of vendors. Once they reached the town center, they were greeted with the wonderful aroma coming from the food vendors dotted here and there.

  Everything smelled so good; Noreen was tempted to try it all. After having breakfast at the island’s only indoor restaurant, the Seaside Cove, she and Michael settled for a tropical fruit drink made from fresh pineapples, mangoes, strawberries, coconut milk and ice. Afterward, the pair decided to visit one of the island’s souvenir shops, which catered to tourists and sported everything from string bikinis to water flippers, along with exquisitely designed coral jewelry—providing ample opportunities to empty one’s wallet.

  Noreen preferred this venue. She wasn’t adept at bartering with the sellers on the street. She always felt guilty and found herself spending too much and buying items she didn’t need.

  Noreen was thrilled to find a little market nearby with a very jovial, toothless man who tried flirting with her. She searched his shop and picked up a small bottle of Vitamin E oil.

  “What’s that for?” Michael asked when he found her studying the bottle.

  “For you. It will help your scars.” She went to the cashier.

  Michael took out his wallet.

  “Put it away,” Noreen said.

  He hesitated. “I thought you said it was for me.”

  “It is, but I’m buying it.”

  “No, you’re not.” He looked at the cashier. “How much?”

  “Ignore him,” Noreen said before the cashier could respond. She turned to Michael. “Put your money away or I’m not getting it.”

  He took a few bills out and handed them to the cashier.

  Noreen began to walk away. “Fine, you can put it on yourself.”

  “Wait.” Michael snatched back the bills from the startled man and shoved them back in his wallet. “Okay, you win.”

  She smiled with triumph and gave the grinning owner her money and a generous tip. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t see why—”

  “It’s okay,” she said, taking her change. She looped her arm through his. “You’ll thank me tonight.”

  They left
the market and walked to the island’s only art gallery, which also offered antiques. Noreen immediately fell in love with a series of watercolors depicting charming sights on the island. She gasped when she saw a particular signature. “It’s by Winslow Homer. Oh, I would love that.”

  Michael studied it with a frown and called the clerk over. “How much is this?”

  She gave an amount that made Noreen shake her head. “Never mind,” she said. She could afford it but didn’t want Michael to know. However, he didn’t seem prepared to walk away. He said something to the woman in French and Noreen watched the clerk wither a little and then scurry away.

  “What did you say to her?” Noreen asked.

  “I called her a thief.”

  “Why? If that’s an original it’s worth every penny.”

  “Exactly, but it’s not an original. Winslow Homer never painted anything on this island. The painting is a fake as are half of the items in here. You didn’t notice?”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m still learning. I didn’t know you were so knowledgeable about things like that.”

  This time Michael looked uncomfortable. “I’ve picked up a few tips while traveling. It’s a kind of hobby.”

  Noreen glanced at the clerk and nudged Michael toward the door. “We’d better leave. You’ve made her uncomfortable.”

  Michael shot the woman a look of disdain. “So what?”

  “Let’s not make any more of a scene,” Noreen whispered then led him outside while the clerk rearranged the price label in the glass jewelry display.

  “I want to show you something,” Michael said, once they were outside. “It’s off the regular tourist route but I think you’ll like it.”

  “So you’ve been to this island before?”

  “I’ve been many places,” he said, with a note of mystery.

  Noreen looked at the crowded market and the safety of being with the crowd. Then she turned to him, ready for an adventure. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Ten

  Michael rented a motorcycle and drove down a two-lane road. Soon the tourist attractions faded away into small dots while colorful whitewashed brick houses and brightly decorated food stands came into view. He parked on the side of a remote beach. Noreen heard festive Caribbean music coming from a small stall and the aromatic smell of spicy food. Palm trees and the sound of lazily lapping waves filled the air in rhythm to the music while boats bobbed up and down in the distance.

  Noreen snuggled closer to him. “Yes, this is nice.”

  Michael pointed. “Ah, you see that? A boat’s just coming in. You know what that means?”

  “No.”

  “Fresh seafood. Come on.”

  Noreen held back. It looked like a private family gathering. “We can’t just barge in on them.”

  “They won’t mind. It’s a local custom. You select the food and they cook it.”

  Michael took Noreen’s hand and led her toward the group, who greeted them like old friends. Michael talked to the fisherman about his catch while Noreen stayed to the side, watching the women, who were appropriately dressed for the day’s activity. Their heads were tied with colorful bandanas and their full skirts, hiked up into their waistbands, exposed their legs.

  “Ever had fish cakes?” a rather robust woman asked.

  “Yes. Do you want me to help you?” Noreen asked, eager to be of service. When the woman looked doubtful, Noreen surprised them by jumping in. She grabbed the pot where the saltfish had been soaking in water overnight to remove the salt that had been used to preserve it. She then put the saltfish in a pot of water to boil. A razor-thin woman with fine features handed her several peeled potatoes, which she added.

  “Where are your seasonings?” Noreen asked.

  “Dis gal know what she a do!” the third woman exclaimed and handed Noreen the items she would need. Noreen added a little parsley, thyme and onion to the water. While waiting for the items to cook, Noreen enjoyed sharing some of the many recipes her Panamanian grandmother had shared with her. The four women laughed together and before long Noreen didn’t feel like a tourist but a fellow resident.

  After about thirty minutes, the thin woman took the pot and drained the saltfish and potatoes through a sieve. The saltfish and potatoes were put in separate bowls and Noreen volunteered to mash the potatoes while the other woman attended to the fish. Once the two mixtures were ready, the robust woman took over and combined them in one bowl, and added finely diced onions, a clove of garlic, two sprigs of chives, diced hot red pepper and two beaten eggs. The thin woman filled a cast-iron pan halfway with vegetable oil.

  Using a wooden spoon, Noreen scooped up some of the mixture and rolled them into balls with her hands. She then rolled the balls in a little flour until they were covered and dropped them into the pan to deep-fry until crispy brown.

  The thin woman laughed as she watched Noreen. “Mabel. Come an look at dis little one. She fast.”

  Michael walked up beside her, impressed. “Either you learn fast or you’ve done this before.”

  “My grandmother was from Panama and she taught me. I can’t believe I remember.”

  He playfully pinched her bottom. “We’re going to eat well today.”

  She bumped him with her hip. “Do that again and you won’t be eating at all.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender, making all the women laugh.

  Later, Michael and Noreen sat on wooden benches and enjoyed a feast of fish cakes, curried mutton, steamed green bananas, cassava dumpling stew, banana fritters and deep-fried crawfish while looking over at the water and enjoying the company of the island regulars. After eating, they walked along the beach, Noreen collected some small shells, which she put in her handbag, and then they rested under a palm tree. Michael rested his head on her lap and closed his eyes. Unlike in the taxicab, she didn’t feel awkward or surprised. Being with him felt like the most natural position in the world.

  She stroked his forehead. “It’s all so beautiful, Michael.”

  “Miguel,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  He turned and looked up at her, his hazel eyes clear. “That’s my real name. Miguel Armando Vargas. Just for this one passing moment I want you to call me that.”

  “Miguel,” she whispered then bent down and pressed her lips to his. “Why did you change your name?”

  “I didn’t,” he said quietly, a look of pain fleeting through his eyes. “But there are reasons I had to.”

  She tenderly cupped the side of his face. “I’m listening.”

  He stared up at her for a moment then lowered his lids. “I was born in Guatemala. When I was five my mother put me on a bus and said, ‘Te quiero mucho,’ basically ‘I love you,’ and I never saw her again.” He took a deep breath. “I went to live with my grandparents in New Jersey. They died when I was seven. I lived with an aunt until I was eight then an uncle until I was nine. Finally I was sent to my cousin Undy in Texas.”

  “Undy?”

  He smiled. “Yep. That’s the name he gave himself. He took one look at me and sat me down in his living room and said, ‘Miguel, you’re in the South now, and in the South you’re one of three things—black, white or Mexican. Now, we’re not Mexican, not that I’ve got anything against them, but I don’t feel like educating nobody. You’re too dark to pass for white so you’re going to be a black brother because that’s where I’ve got my connections, so your name is now Michael Vaughn.’”

  “And you didn’t mind?”

  “Do you think I had a choice? Besides I didn’t really know what he was talking about so I went along. I was just glad to have a family and some place to stay. I idolized him. He was smart, smooth and ran three businesses. He helped me get into college, but I was restless and he knew it so he got me my first job and I never left.”

  “As a travel writer?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Did you ever go back to see your family?”

  “Twice. Once to bury my moth
er then to bury my father. Nobody ever explained why they sent me away. For a while I was angry with them and that’s why I didn’t stay in touch, but I think the reason they sent me away was because they wanted something better for me. Once I got past the anger I let myself remember them without pain. My father used to smell of tobacco and rubber and my mother of ginger and nectarines. I remember her eyes were brown and her teeth shining white.”

  “That’s a lovely memory,” Noreen said softly. “The only thing I remember about my mother is the back of her head. I don’t remember her ever looking at me.” When Michael didn’t say anything, Noreen felt safe to continue. “She didn’t say anything when she left. I have no words to remember her by. One day she was there and the next day she was gone.”

  Michael looked up at her with sadness. “And you never found out why?”

  A bitter smile touched Noreen’s lips. “She was young and had better things to do.” She paused. “I think her absence affected my sister more than it did me. She’s always lived her life as though she were chasing something, as if she is grasping for happiness. She’s desperate for attention no matter where it comes from.”

  “Maybe that’s why she writes romance novels.”

  Noreen blinked. “What?”

  “You know happy-ever-after and all that stuff. She wants to believe that it exists.”

  Noreen nodded. She’d briefly forgotten that she was Arlene. “Right. That’s probably it.”

  “I guess that’s something your sister and I have in common. She writes fiction and I live it. I think that’s why you’re so good for both of us. You’re real. You’re true. You say, ‘Hey world, here I am. Take it or leave it.’ I admire that.”

  “I don’t deserve that kind of praise.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Noreen was quiet then said, “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

  Michael sat up and pulled her onto his lap, nuzzling her neck. “I want to share a lot of things with you.”