At seven-thirty that evening Gaby typed the last of her description of Mrs. F. Schmidt Bonney’s masked ball costume, exclusively designed for her by Jean-Louis Sherrer of Paris, and directed it through the newsroom word processor to Jack Carty’s attention. Then, in the Times-Journal’s fourth floor restroom, she repaired some of the damage working in the rain all day had done to her hair, put on new lipstick and eyeshadow, and stood back for a last look at herself.
The jade-green cotton gauze dress she was wearing was dressy enough for dinner with Dodd. Beneath the jacket, thin spaghetti straps held up a tight bodice with plenty of décolletage, and the tightly cinched waist and flared skirt flattered her legs. There was something about the way she looked that kept her staring at her reflection in glass office doors all the way to the elevator.
She noticed that even in the way she moved, there was a subtle, indefinable something that hadn’t been there before. She watched her own willowy reflection, bemused. She’d never been sexy, if that was the word. It wasn’t sexy. But something softened, glowing, was there.
Her mother’s ancient Cadillac was still giving her trouble in spite of its recent, horrendously expensive session in the repair shop. Worse, as she left the building and started toward the parking lot, it began to sprinkle. Gaby prayed for a quick start on the first few tries as she looked in her pocketbook for her keys. A shadow loomed up beside her in the semidarkness. She lifted her head.
She wasn’t frightened, but a warning struck somewhere in her consciousness. “Elena?” she said doubtfully.
The shadow almost fell into Gaby’s arms. “Oh, Mees Gabriela,” Elena Escudero cried. “I have to leave you because bad t’ing happen to your house—tenemos mucho miedo, Angel and me! But the iyalocha she fix him, is better now, no?”
It was raining in earnest now, a warm summer shower. Gaby peered at her former tenant. “You’re right something happened to my house.” She was still angry. “You and Angel took all the things out of the apartment without even telling me. A lot of that stuff wasn’t yours.”
“But is going to make much better, promeso!” Elena took Gaby’s arm, pulling her away from the car. “Thees bilongo put on your house by thees crazy bruja.” She began dragging Gaby purposefully toward the street. “Thees crazy girl who is doing these things to you, she don’t know what she making. But is all fixed up now. You come with me, we tell you all about it.”
Gaby pulled her arm out of Elena’s grip. This was all so typically latino, she thought, the half excuses, the promises to explain when nothing was ever really explained, the effusive, affectionate appeal to one’s patience and good nature. “Who?” she demanded. “Who’s going to tell me all about what?”
“Pleese, Mees Gabriela, Angel and me no can stay in that house!” Elena was actually wringing her hands. “I bring your things back right away. Was a mistake when my cousins came to your place, they didn’t know my things, your things, they only mixed up, you know? They carry everything away, those idiotos, make me unhappy so I cry.” She grabbed Gaby’s wrist and again pulled her toward the street. “There somebody want to talk to you. Explain everything.”
“No, wait a minute.” Gaby was exasperated that Elena had ambushed her in the newspaper parking lot. What was wrong with calling her at home? “Listen, Elena, the police want to talk to you about that Santería mess at the house.”
The small woman took Gaby’s other hand. “Mees Gabriela, pleese, all t’ing fix up right away, you see. You no get married so soon. The iyalocha tell you.”
“The iyalocha?” Gaby drew back. “My God, what has she got to do with this?”
“There, there,” Elena said, pointing.
A dark car was parked under the streetlight. For a moment Gaby’s heart leaped into her mouth. Then she saw it was not the Cadillac limousine she dreaded but a late model Buick. Uncertainly, she allowed Elena to propel her toward it.
The rear door of the car opened as they approached. The next thing Gaby knew Elena was pushing her from behind. A hand reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder. Gaby half fell, was half dragged into the back seat.
The door slammed behind her.
And all again was in darkness: Such a dream
As this, in which I may be walking now.
PEDRO CALDERÓN DE LA BARCA
Chapter 16
Like most illusions, it was very real.
The marina, with its floodlit rows of sleek power cruisers and luxury sailing yachts against the velvet backdrop of the night, was a maze of pontooned walkways, masts, and softly blinking lights. To anyone who didn’t know it was merely a fantastical dream, they might have been somewhere in Miami, or even Fort Lauderdale.
Gaby stumbled along in the wake of the iyalocha. If she hadn’t known that this wasn’t real, she would have been worried about wandering around like this late at night, especially with unreliable people like a Santería priestess and her chauffeur-bodyguard. But a hazy excitement, a suspenseful feeling of something about to happen, pulled her along in spite of herself. From the very beginning, Gaby had been told to be patient, that all would be revealed.
It had taken hours. And she was still waiting.
At first, she hadn’t intended to cooperate, especially after having been dragged into the iyalocha’s car, and she told them so. But Elena Escudero’s tearful pleadings and several potent rum drinks made Gaby see that there was no harm in joining—for a few minutes—a rather mysterious, if enjoyable, party at the iyalocha’s temple in Calle Ocho, complete with a live salsa band and a crowd of elegantly dressed people.
Things after that were slightly confused. Gaby tried not to worry about it. After all, what difference did it make, being swathed in azure-and-yellow silk gauze that was probably as transparent as it looked, instead of her own somewhat sticky, hot clothes?
Had she been foolish? She remembered something about a dinner date with Dodd. The loud, strangely euphoric party had left her wondering what day it was. She wasn’t even certain when she’d changed clothes.
The genuinely warm, supportive people had made it difficult to complain. Everyone was so happy. They’d made it very clear they wanted Gaby to be just as happy, too.
“Nothing bad, all good,” the little priestess had promised her as the silk Santería robe had been settled on Gaby’s shoulders. “Love, be happy, all good t’ings come to you. Bad t’ings over now. Everything be fixed up, you see.” Ibi Gobuo’s small hands had patted Gaby’s breasts and arms, settling the silk, adding strings of beads and shells around her neck. “Chango, he wait for his beautiful Oshun,” the old woman told her fervently. “You make him better. Happy, too.”
A wet sea breeze jingled the rigging of the big sailing yachts. Over the chatter of hundreds of ratlines the iyalocha walking ahead of her invoked her African gods: O Oshun, illa mi ille oro Illa mi ile oro vira ye yeye oyo ya...
Gaby slowed, uncertainty returning, but the iyalocha’s driver gave her a discreet shove from behind to keep her moving.
The priestess carried a paper bag with an open bottle of rum in it. From time to time she interrupted her incantations to put the bottle to her lips, then spray the liquid between her teeth and into the air. The sea wind occasionally flung a good part of the rum back at Gaby and the man behind her, but Ibi Gobuo never paused.
Mala ye icu oche oche oye ogua ita locum ocha deguallo oro mama kena oro...
“Are we going to another party?” Gaby asked, hopefully.
The one they’d just left had been filled with wonderful-looking people, whose skin color ranged from creamy beige and cocoa-colored to ebony black, magnificently dressed, and so friendly Gaby had somehow had the confused impression the party was for her. She stumbled slightly at the step up to the last dimly lit walkway. The hulls of giant luxury power cruisers, like sleeping whales, rose above them.
The chauffeur, trailing behind, seemed to melt into the darkness in his black windbreaker and dark clothes. But Gaby and the wizened Santería priestess were as bright as
carnival figures. Ibi Gobuo wore tissue of gold and a blue velvet turban with a long white egret feather. Gaby’s caftan of hazy blue and gold did not conceal the fact that she had nothing on underneath. Her long shapely legs were perfectly outlined when she moved, and the silk gauze clung to her hips and breasts, revealing pink, thrusting nipples.
The iyalocha stopped, spraying the last of the rum into the air. The wind caught it and settled it over the three of them in a pungent mist. “How about a boat ride?” Gaby suggested, seeing where they were.
“Ella es muy borracho,” the man behind them said, disapprovingly.
The iyalocha turned to face Gaby. “You be very beautiful mundele.” Her wizened face was ecstatic. “You make Chango very happy.”
The priestess patted and smoothed Gaby’s hair. Blue and metallic gold ribbons had been twisted into tiny plaits to which were attached strings of seashells, fake pearls, and slightly wilted marigolds. The iyalocha gave the braids a final push with cupped hands, and the seashells and pearls rattled.
“Goddess of the rainbow.” So much emotion suddenly pouring out of the mummylike priestess was alarming. Her eyes glistened. “Like beautiful Oshun, orisha of love.”
Embarrassingly enough, Gaby was in no condition to remember what came next. The sea breeze wafting across the open water penetrated the thin silk and made her shiver. She’d been told that in order to experience fully the good things that were coming, she had to hold an image of Oshun in her mind. That didn’t seem unreasonable. She’d immediately thought of someone like Crissette Washington.
The iyalocha waved her hand. “Da la candelaria a ella,” she ordered.
The man behind them produced a small votive candle from his windbreaker, lit it with his cigarette lighter, and handed it to Gaby. The old woman quickly took Gaby’s arm, steering her toward a short wooden gangplank.
“He is here now!” The glint in the old woman’s black eyes seemed to be ecstatic, unshed tears. “Your lord waits, beautiful lady of the rainbows.” The egret feather nodded vigorously. “Go to Chango!”
“I don’t think—” Gaby began, but the other woman gave her a push.
And don’t fall on the steps.”
Reluctantly, Gaby started down the gangplank. Midway, she turned around to say good-bye, but the iyalocha gave such a hoarse, anguished cry that she quickly turned back.
There was suddenly a deck under her feet. The smell of sea water and the sound of waves lapping the hull were all around her. She cupped her hand over the candle flame to keep it from going out, beginning to feel tired. In the middle of the deck was an opening that yawned downward. She crept down steep narrow steps and found herself in a cramped hallway chilly with air-conditioning. She carefully closed the door to the stairs behind her.
The big cruiser suddenly rocked on a swell and she fell against the wall, nearly extinguishing the candle. She was, she thought a little worriedly, wandering around in somebody’s boat in the middle of the night, not exactly sober. If someone found her she supposed they might call the police.
Chango, she thought. Ghosts in the attic. Minotaur waiting in the middle of the maze. It would take her longer to turn around and find her way back to Palm Island than it would to go straight ahead and see what lay at the end of the hall.
Sliding her free hand along the wall, she followed it until it became an open door. She turned into it.
The room, too, was candlelit, and large enough to be called a stateroom, with wood paneling and thick, springy carpeting underfoot. It had a bed—the real bed of a luxury yacht, and not a cramped bunk—and the bed was hung with red silk panels that drifted like flame-colored smoke, curling and falling back as the cruiser rocked gently on the swells. Everywhere was the scent of perfume and flowers, gardenias and sandalwood. Tuberoses, musk. Under the floating scarlet silk, Gaby knew, was Chango.
...imbe imbe lorde imbe ma yeye imbe imbe lorde imbe imbe layeye imbe imbe loro via ye oyo...
Echoes of the priestess’s chant drifted like the flower scent in the air. Gaby put down the candle on a table and leaned over the silk-draped bed.
She no longer wondered why she was there. Or why someone had told her, “Go to him, mundele, and make him happy.” It was the very thing she longed, in her heart of hearts, most to do. Was this dream, then, the only way it could be done? For certainly, in reality, she would never have come to James Santo Marin alone.
She rocked on her heels as the huge boat moved, and the light of the candle wavered with her. She supposed she could see how they would think he was one of the Santería gods. Chango, they’d told her, was beautiful, mysterious, all-powerful. She had only to look at him, even sleeping, to know he was all of that. He looked as if he truly gathered thunder and lightning around him as he dreamed.
It was madness even to think about loving a man like this, she decided as she sat down on the edge of the bed, but she couldn’t help worshiping him with her eyes. He was tenderness and fire. He lay sprawled on his back, his bare feet with their finely sculpted bones and long toes nearest her, then long, strong legs lightly covered with a fine brush of dark hair.
The yacht rolled, and Gaby steadied herself against the bed with one hand. Muscular thighs joined narrow hips, leading to the soft black hair where the thick shaft of his sex lay ruddy, semierect. The eroticism of his body amazed her. Not all of it was breathtakingly graceful; he was sexually put together like a bull.
The flat planes of his belly stretched up to the rib cage, and her gaze roamed over his chest with its strong patterns of muscle under golden skin. A gold small chain with a Saint Christopher medal encircled his neck. She bent over him and braced one hand on the pillow by his head. His face was a mask of stark cheekbones, long arrogant nose, lidded eyes with their thick black lashes. She leaned closer. The fierce mouth that could open to snarl, shout, argue—or smile—was still, tense lines softened, indents at the corners relaxed. There was also what she’d noticed before, the strained skin under his eyes, thumbprints of exhaustion, dark as bruises.
Gaby sighed. He was a sleeping god. He was the man, incomprehensibly, she loved.
She had to kiss him. She had to touch her lips to that cruelly enticing mouth. She had to hold him in her arms because he was a dream that she knew with inexpressible sadness could never come true.
She leaned down, the shells and pearls in her hair rattling softly.
Like a bolt of lightning, something shot into Gaby’s line of vision and closed, hard, around her throat. The next instant she stared into cold black eyes.
“Don’t move,” he murmured, “or I’ll fracture your windpipe.”
There wasn’t any danger of her moving. She couldn’t draw enough breath to move or utter a sound. James pulled himself up, still holding her by the throat, muscles bunching and coiling in his bare arms. He propped his body on one elbow, jerking her to him so that he could look into her face.
She saw his eyes widen disbelievingly, taking in her beribboned hair, the gold chains and beads around her throat, her naked pouting breasts under transparent gauze.
“Gabrielle?” She knew from the stunned sound of his voice he thought he was dreaming.
He let go of her and sat up, red floating silk tangling in his arm and shoulder. He jerked at it, cursing. A crimson panel came loose and fell on his head. “Jesus!” He tore at the streamer furiously. “What is this stuff? What the hell’s going on?”
Gaby rubbed her throat gingerly. “I’m here because you want me.” She paused, trying to remember what she’d been told. But she hiccupped. “I’m supposed to be Oshun.”
“What?” His snarl ripped into the red-tinted darkness.
She smiled at him tenderly. “And you’re Chango.”
He pulled the fallen silk from his shoulder and tossed it away, still staring at her. “My God.”
“Goddess,” she corrected him. “I’m the—”
“Shit!” He tried to swing his long legs out of the bed but she sat blocking him. “Gabriela, tell me, is
anyone with you?”
She thought for a long moment, trying not to hiccup again. “No, I think they went away.”
He allowed her to push him back against the pillows. The scent of his hair, she found, breathing it in, was warm and musky, like his skin.
He was still scowling. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She lowered her mouth to the tight line of his lips and rubbed them, her mouth opening to let her tongue trace a warm, wet line of desire. She felt a tremor run through his powerful, naked body. “I am Oshun,” she repeated, liking the sound of it.
The carved nostrils flared, suspiciously. “Gabriela, what do you think you’re doing?” He tried to sit up again. “Christ, you smell like a distillery! You must have taken a bath in it.”
She giggled softly, remembering the iyalocha spraying the night, with whole mouthfuls of the stuff and the wind blowing it back. “Actually, it was a shower.”
She let the tips of her breasts, the tight hard points of her nipples, brush his chest. Her long legs slid sinuously between his and brought his flesh into intimate contact with hers. She heard him gasp, and smiled with her new-found power as she felt him grow and stiffen against her.
Reluctantly, he wrapped his arms around her. His dark eyes blazed into hers. “Look, Gabriela, I want you to start from the beginning and explain how you—”
“Yummm,” she interrupted, boldly loving him. She pressed her soft, warm mouth to his, stroking his lips tantalizingly with her tongue.
He pulled back, holding her slightly away from him. “Will you listen to me? I’ve just had a damned tough flight tonight. I’m beat. I don’t need—”
A choked sound breathed from him as she lowered her face to his throat and nuzzled his damp skin. Her hands slithered down his sides, fingers spread, molding his ribs, his hips, his whole powerful body as far as she could reach.
With all the rum she’d drunk, Gaby thought happily, with the iyalocha’s commands and incantations, reality was altered, at least for a time. She was free to do what she’d never dreamed of doing. And what she would never do, she was sure, for any man. It was glorious.
Miami Midnight Page 18
