Paradise Burning

by Blair Bancroft

  Blast! What was she thinking? We nothing. There was no we.

  Bradley Blue, Jr., gave an indignant wiggle, and Mandy realized she’d tightened her grip to the point of discomfort. “Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s your own fault, young man. You’re so full of charm, you’ve got me totally sold on babies.”

  “That’s odd,” Claire said. “Phil just drove up, and it doesn’t look like she has customers with her. She’s good about bringing prospects, but . . .” Claire’s voice trailed into a silence pregnant with unspoken thoughts.

  After rapid analysis of what Claire had not said—laid against all the gossip Mandy had heard—it wasn’t too difficult to figure Claire Blue was not likely to be a bosom buddy of her husband’s former wife. Undoubtedly, they got along with the aid of polite professionalism and good manners, but social calls were few and far between.

  “Shall I leave?” Mandy asked.

  “Heavens, no,” Claire scoffed, “we haven’t even had lunch yet. Maybe Phil stopped to see the new construction and thinks she’d better check in with me lest I get dark ideas about her motives.” Claire’s tone was not as insouciant as her words.

  “I thought Phil was happily married to some wealthy politician,” Mandy ventured.

  “She is,” Claire growled. “I think.”

  There was also some family connection, Mandy mused. Uncle. That was it. Phil, the real estate broker, had recently married Brad Blue’s uncle, Garrett Whitlaw, making Brad Blue’s ex-wife his aunt. With her back safely to Claire, Mandy allowed herself a grin as she coaxed Bubba into his playpen. She recalled her surge of jealousy when Peter first told her about his search for hookers. Logic and love seemed to be totally incompatible.

  And there she went again! Love had nothing to do with it. Maybe she should consider being one of those modern women who stayed single and used a man only long enough for stud service.

  Appalled, Mandy stared blankly at Bubba, who was expressing his displeasure at being returned to his playpen by pounding a small plastic truck against the padded floor. No way. Never. For Amanda Armitage, it was all or nothing.

  Sure, girl. And at the moment nothing’s exactly what you’ve got.

  The front door crashed in. Phillippa Tierney Whitlaw stood there, panting from the unaccustomed exertion of stairs, and glared across the room, her nut brown eyes coming to rest, with loathing, on young Bubba. “The goddamned thing came up plus!” she wailed.

  Stunned and speechless, Mandy and Claire stared at the customarily immaculate Realtor. Phil’s sleek and stylish hair looked as if it had been combed with an eggbeater. The jacket of her beige designer suit was unbuttoned, the collar of her cream silk blouse askew. Her lipstick was gone—chewed off, Mandy guessed—and her mascara had made irregular smudges beneath eyes that were huge with shock or fright.

  Mandy recovered first, hastening forward to steer Phil to one of the wicker chairs in front of Claire’s desk. When Phil had sampled the ice water Claire produced from the model’s refrigerator, she straightened up and muttered an apology. “I’m sorry, Claire, but I didn’t know where else to go. I thought you’d be able to understand. Maybe have some advice.”

  Mandy and Claire looked at each other over Phil’s head. “Uh, maybe I’d better go,” Mandy repeated weakly. Truthfully, her researcher’s instincts were quivering and she wanted to stay exactly where she was, though she had a horrible suspicion she’d be indulging something as base as blatant curiosity about a near-stranger’s private business.

  “No, it’s all right,” Phil said. “Word is, you’re good at keeping your mouth shut. I hear nearly every woman in town has tried to pump you about your boss, and you haven’t given out Word One. But I’d appreciate the same treatment,” she cautioned. “This is not something I want broadcast about town.”

  “Of course not,” Mandy and Claire echoed in unison.

  “I’m pregnant,” Phil declared.

  “But that’s wonderful!” Mandy cried.

  Phil glared.

  “Oh, my God!” Claire breathed.

  “Yeah, right,” came Phil’s caustic response.

  Mandy got a grip, snapped her mouth shut and mentally took a step back. She had no place in this discussion.

  “And you haven’t told Garrett,” Claire stated.

  “I just found out.”

  There was a short pause. “Home pregnancy test?” Claire queried. At Phil’s morose nod, she added briskly, “Then you should see a doctor, get a professional opinion. And if it’s true, you shouldn’t panic. There are lots of ways they can monitor pregnancies in women your age. You really shouldn’t have a problem with it at all.”

  “Claire!” Phil’s tone was just short of a howl.

  Shock broke Mandy’s vow of neutrality. “Don’t you want it?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Phil’s whispered words wobbled, choked by tears.

  “You don’t mean that,” Claire said.

  “You may recall,” said Phil in a voice suddenly rock steady and as tart as dry ice, “that I’m the woman who chose running my father’s business over being married to Brad. That doesn’t say much for my maternal instincts. Not to mention that Garrett is old enough to be a grandfather,” she ended on a hiccup, raising the ice water for another frantic gulp.

  “Jamie’s nine years older than Bubba,” Claire said, “and he absolutely loves him. Slade and Melanie will probably be thrilled.”

  “Not only are Slade and Melanie in college,” Phil retorted, “but all they’re going to see is their inheritance going down the drain.”

  “You know perfectly well the ranch could support a baker’s dozen,” Claire snapped. “You’re making a crisis out of what ought to be a happy surprise.”

  “Surprise? Garrett will probably have a heart attack!”

  “I doubt it,” said Claire. “If nothing else, it’ll probably bring in quite a few votes.”

  “Claire!” Phil’s pale lips quirked in incipient hysteria.

  “Face it, Phil,” Claire persisted, “fathering a baby at his age will make Garrett Mr. Macho of Calusa County. He ought to be reelected in a landslide.”

  “It’s embarrassing,” Phil groaned.

  “Well . . .,” Claire ventured, moving on to practicalities, “you’re not going to like being pregnant. In fact, I suspect you’ll hate it. The middle months won’t be bad, but you’ll hate being sick and you’ll hate being huge. It’s just not in you to tolerate anything short of perfection. But you’ve got to remember nine months isn’t so much to endure for the end result. You’ll love that miniature Garrett/Phil combo. And Garrett will surround you with so many nurses and nannies you’ll be able to do exactly as much work as you want to do. For God’s sake, Phil, nobody’s going to expect you to stay barefoot and pregnant.

  It’s just nine months to endure, in return for pleasure for the rest of your life.”

  “Yours aren’t teenagers yet,” Phil responded gloomily.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Phil, you ought to be thrilled.”

  “They just need love,” Mandy interjected earnestly. “Lots of love.”

  Phil’s head came up; she reached for a tissue from the box Claire kept in a needlepoint container on her desk. After vigorously blowing her nose and wiping her eyes, she made a startling about-face. “I can do that,” she declared firmly. “I was terrified of the whole thing, but I guess Mandy’s right. It comes down to love. I know you think I’m cold, Claire, but I love Garrett, I really do, and I can love his child. And mine. And you’re right that I won’t have to worry about being the picture-perfect stay-at-home mom. We all know I’m not cut out for it. But”—Phil was obviously reassuring herself more than her listeners—“the love requirement I can handle.”

  Mandy and Claire flashed encouraging smiles. Until Phil groaned, “Oh, God, I still can’t imagine what Slade and Melanie are going to think.”

  “They’re going to think what they thought when you and Garrett announced you were getting married,”
Claire retorted. “That there’s life in the old boy yet.”

  All three women dissolved into chuckles, although Phil’s laugh was a bit watery.

  “I made enough tuna salad for an army,” Mandy said to Phil. “Would you like to stay for lunch?”

  “Yes.” Phil sighed, wiping away a final tear. “Yes, thanks. I’d like that very much.”

  She should be working. Mandy sat slumped on the sofa on Peter’s deck, gently rocking and watching a blue heron stalk a small black lizard that was sunning itself on the far end of the massive deck. Since Peter had fallen into the habit of feeding leftovers to the giant birds, it wasn’t at all unusual to find a variety of feathered beggars on the outer portion of the rear deck. This one, apparently giving up in disgust when no handouts appeared, had reverted to catching his own.

  “Problem?”

  Mandy gasped. The heron whooshed away on a great rush of wings, the lizard scurrying into the safety of the carved scrollwork in the deck’s railing.

  “Sorry,” Peter apologized, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Why aren’t you working?” Mandy demanded.

  “And it’s a pleasure to see you too,” Peter mocked. “Come on now, Mouse. You took a long lunch and worked about five minutes after you came back. So what’s up?”

  “And how would you know, up there in your skydome?”

  “Oh, I know more than you think,” Peter intoned, very wise.

  Silence stretched. The heron, spotting the source of his customary goodies, swooped back, followed shortly by a snowy-plumed egret and an equally large bird Mandy had never seen before. It was, she concluded after several moments of incredulous examination, the ugliest bird she had ever seen in her life. Nearly as large as the great blue heron, its long orange-red beak curved inward like a scythe below a face only a mother could love. This was a creature that made the Ugly Duckling look beautiful. “What on earth is that?” she asked.

  “Ibis. The American stork,” Peter added with a noticeable smirk.

  Stork. It would be a stork. Mandy leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes.

  “Is that the problem?” Peter asked, his voice as smooth as silk, his ability to read her mind seemingly undiminished by the years. “You’ve fallen for Baby Bubba, haven’t you?”

  “No,” Mandy lied. “It’s . . . I ran into someone who’s unhappy because she’s pregnant. I could understand it if she had several children already or couldn’t afford it, but . . . well, that wasn’t the case. So, yes, I felt bad about it.”

  “Because you want one of your own.”

  “I suppose,” Mandy muttered.

  “I know how you can get one,” Peter offered blandly.

  If he had a mustache, he’d be twirling it. “Gee, thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Always happy to oblige. Ready, willing, able, and all that.”

  Was it possible, Mandy wondered, for a woman to file a sexual harassment suit against her own husband?

  She got up, grabbed her purse from the office, and went home. She could do her research on her laptop in the RV almost as well as she could in Peter’s posh accommodations.

  And, besides, in the RV it was easier to breathe.

  Why she woke up in the cold darkness of six in the morning Mandy never knew. She squinted at the steady red glow of the digital numbers, winced, rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Gradually, she realized she was as wide awake as if she’d already consumed her second cup of coffee. Adrenalin was flowing. And for absolutely no reason. Sure, she had some problems preying on her mind. One, in particular, rather large, rugged, and persistent. But this wide-awake, there’s-something-you’ve-got-to-do feeling seemed unrelated to her personal crisis with Peter.

  What? Mandy silently demanded of the unresponding air. It’s pitch black out there. Cold. Damp. And full of critters. Dammit, I don’t want to get up!

  In the end she crawled out, pulled on jeans, sweater and denim jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and staggered down the steep steps of the RV. At the bottom she paused, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. Something was wrong. She shined her powerful flashlight in a slow arc around her. Nothing. No critters. No humans. Just grass, trees, and RVs. The night was cold, crisp, and quiet.

  Imagination on overtime. Again. Mandy took a trudging step forward and abruptly stopped. The recorder. Foolish to think she was going to need it, and yet . . . Mandy questioned her sanity as she climbed back inside and picked up the recorder in its fancy leather case.

  The night was cold, the residents of Calusa Campground peacefully sleeping in their warm, cozy beds. And here was Mandy Armitage, creeping through the dark on a ridiculous dead-of-night wild goose chase.

  By the time she reached the river, there was a hint of predawn light to the east, but not enough to see fifty yards upriver. Mandy eyed the aluminum johnboats with disgust. The cold was going to rise up through the soles of her shoes and the seat of her pants, transforming her into a shivering mass of flesh long before she got to Nadya’s favorite fallen tree.

  Are you nuts? screamed her common sense. Alligators. Water moccasins. For all Mandy knew, there was probably a Calusa Nessie lurking in the black water below.

  Although the eastern shore was now being haloed with iridescent light, she didn’t pause her rowing to look. The last thirty feet she navigated by sound—the gulping, wracking sobs of a woman pouring the agony of her soul into the cold damp gloom of night. Appalled, Mandy threw the anchor line into the exposed roots of the overhanging bush and scrambled up the bank.

  The figure on the tree trunk was huddled under a blanket that enveloped her from head to toe, but Mandy had no doubt it was Nadya. There was nothing to do but sit down, wrap her arms around the Russian girl, and hang on tight. They sat, clutching each other for warmth and comfort, while pearl gray streaked the slate of low-lying clouds and Nadya’s sobs finally diminished to an occasional sniff. Mandy fished in her pockets until she found a tissue, which she offered to her mysterious acquaintance.

  “Oh, good Lord!” Mandy gasped as she got a clear look at Nadya’s face.

  “Yuri,” the Russian girl said with a shrug as if a single name explained the blue-black bruise spreading across one side of her tear-blotched face. “Karim . . .” The Russian girl frowned, then pantomimed a roundhouse punch.

  “Karim hit you,” Mandy interpreted.

  “No, no, no! Yuri . . .” Nadya punched her fist toward her own chin.

  “Yuri hit you.”

  “Da! Karim . . .” Nadya pantomimed a second blow, this one from the opposite direction.

  “Karim hit Yuri?”

  “Ah, da!” Nadya actually managed a watery smile.

  Mandy’s guilt blossomed into what felt like personal responsibility for the sins of the world. She’d messed up big time. Her fears allayed by Garrett Whitlaw’s reasonable explanation about the house on the far side of the river, she’d given up too easily. Trusted logic over gut-feelings. Typical Amanda Armitage—logic trumping what really mattered. And Nadya had suffered for it.

  “Karim hit Yuri because Yuri hit you?” Mandy punctuated her question with appropriate air punches to make sure Nadya understood.

  “Da,” Nadya confirmed. The Russian sprite pushed back the blanket. The silver light of dawn was kind to her desolate face, softening the spreading bruise, the tear-ravaged features. The huge blue eyes tugged at Mandy’s heart. Dear Lord, Mandy wondered, what strange working of the universe had brought her out of a sound sleep, prompted her to bring the tape recorder? Whatever was going on here on the far side of the river, an explanation was sorely needed.

  Mandy took the recorder out of its case. The Russian girl’s eyes widened. “Gavarityeh feesyo,” Mandy commanded. “Everything. You understand? Who you are, where you came from, why you’re here. You understand what I’m saying?”

  A spark of hope leaped into the Russian woman’s eyes. “Yes,” she said in decisive English that cut like a whip through the crisp mornin
g air. “I understand.”

  Mandy started the tape. Nadya Semyonova drew a quivering breath and began to speak.

  Major Karim Shirazi leaned his right shoulder against the support beam at the top of the back porch steps, drawing in deep breaths of cool night air, free from the heavy scent of liquor, tobacco smoke, and sex. Behind him, the house was silent, the last customers departed, the girls—all but Nadya—tucked up in their beds, alone. Misha had returned to his high-priced waterfront condo in Manatee Bay, and Yuri . . . Yuri was possibly easing his pain with vodka. No matter. He was safely shut up inside.

  Karim stood straight, stretched his arms through the crisp night air toward the blaze of stars overhead. They were not as clear as in the sky of his homeland, but they were the same stars. He reveled in the cool winter night. This was one of the few times he’d felt truly comfortable since coming to this abominable place of steaming jungles and creatures that went bump in the night.

  Almost . . . almost he felt like a man again.

  Enough to make him generous. He would give Nadya all the time she wanted at her precious river. Even a woman had a right to lick her wounds in private. Later—Karim smiled into the darkness—later he would be most happy to offer his own brand of comfort.

  A stupid pig, Yuri. Damaging the merchandise, keeping Nadya from working. He’d put the fear of Allah into the miserable Russian pig, but the truth was . . . Karim peered into the darkness toward the path to the river. Not a sign of the slim white wraith that was Nadya. His Nadya. The truth was, if he had not hit Yuri, he would have killed the customer who started it all by demanding perversions Nadya was not willing to perform. Sick, very sick. But Misha must never know of his sympathy for the little Russian, or Misha would kill him. Right after killing Nadya.

  If they give trouble, beat them first, Misha said of the girls in Karim’s charge. If necessary, chop off their heads. That worked well in Europe. Why not here? The well-dressed, middle-aged Russian gangster had sketched a careless wave of his hand. Finding replacements was easy, he said. No need to tolerate disobedience.