First Things First

by Barbara Delinsky

  Feeling absurdly light-headed, she dodged the raindrops and made for the outhouse, where she checked to see if her underpants were dry—they weren’t—and drew on the huipile anyway.

  Had she been held captive and naked for a full year, she wouldn’t have appreciated the dress more. It fit her well, if not as loosely as some of those she’d seen. The neckline embroidery fell gently to the upper swell of her breasts. Her waist was undecipherable, but her hips filled the fabric with room to squat—she experimented, then prayed she wouldn’t be doing much squatting because her thighs and calves ached so—and the hem skimmed the tops of her knees, leaving her legs bare. She half wished she had more of a tan to show off against the white, but her busy days back home hadn’t left time for sunbathing. What little color she’d picked up since she’d arrived was pink.

  Well, she reasoned, pink was feminine, too, and it matched several of the threads used in decorating the huipile. Tucking her chin in to study the embroidery more closely, she marveled at the skill it entailed.

  “Chelsea? Are you still there?”

  Smiling, she opened the outhouse door and sprinted into the hut.

  “I was wondering if you’d fallen in,” Sam said worriedly. “There isn’t a problem, is there? You look great!”

  “Thanks. I guess I got caught up admiring this thing. Did Julia really embroider it herself?”

  He was ushering her toward the front room but his eyes didn’t leave her for a minute. “Uh-huh. The women all do their own stitchery. It may be a forgotten art back home, but here it’s alive and well.” He gave a half bow as he eased her onto the bench by the table. “Dinner is served, Senorita.”

  She gave a shy smile as he lowered himself onto the bench opposite her. She almost wished he’d sat closer—there was plenty of room on her bench—though with a round table and a long bench only one person could comfortably rest his elbows. And, of course, there was the matter of sanity. A small matter. Actually, a moot one, since facing Sam was nearly as delicious as sitting next to him. He was delicious, all right, she decided, then looked at the food before her.

  “Looks … interesting. What is it?”

  “A kind of pork stew with black beans and all kinds of other lovelies in it.” He extracted a tortilla and made to dig in. “Go ahead. Tell me what you think.”

  Chelsea followed his example and reached for a tortilla, then, again following his lead, used it to scoop up the thick stew. There was a certain irony in her ignorance of the eating style, she mused; had she met Samuel Prescott London, she’d probably have had to let him lead her through small forks and medium-sized forks and large forks.

  “Mmm. Not bad,” she said, thoughtfully licking her lips. “Actually, it’s pretty good.” She dipped the tortilla a second time, using it as a spoon to carry the stew to her mouth.

  “You picked a good night to come. Chicken and pork are the two major meals here, but we don’t have them all the time. Often dinner consists simply of frijoles—beans mashed into a stew—which isn’t to say that it’s not good. You build up an appetite when you’ve been working all day, so anything tastes good, but pork or chicken, even venison when someone’s lucky enough to get it, makes things special.”

  “I take it the Maya still grow everything themselves.”

  “Just about. There’s a certain pride to it.” He grinned. “A couple of times I’ve driven into Cancun and brought back full meals for everyone from one fancy restaurant or another. It wasn’t that I wanted the food—I’ve eaten French and Italian and Polynesian enough to last a lifetime—but I thought it would be a treat for my friends here. And I wanted to see their reaction to it.”

  When he paused, deep in thought, she prodded. “Well? How did they react?”

  He snapped from his reverie. “Much as I’d expected, actually. They smiled and laughed and finished every last bite and complimented me and thanked me profusely.”

  “And …?”

  “They were smiling and laughing with every bit as much enthusiasm over their pollo pibil the next day. The first time it happened, I was surprised, which goes to show what a snob I was. The second time I was relieved.” He grew thoughtful again, though this time he shared his thoughts. “I wouldn’t want to change a thing about these people. They’re beautiful. I mean, really beautiful. They’re not ambitious or grappling, and they wouldn’t begin to know about selfishness. They’ve chosen this way of life. Chosen it. They’re happy. And healthy.” His jaw flexed. “They don’t have tension headaches or high blood pressure or nervous breakdowns.”

  Something about the way he’d spoken at the last prompted a soft inquiry from Chelsea. “Is that what happened to you?”

  He gnawed on the inside of his cheek for a minute before answering. “I didn’t get as far as the breakdown, but I was on my way, I think. I had the headaches and the high blood pressure. I was a jumble of nerves behind a polished facade.”

  “Why? What caused it?”

  He sighed, took another mouthful of stew, then rested his arms on the table. “I was driven. I had to make good at everything I did. But ‘good’ is relative. You attain it only to find that it’s not what you thought, that something else is better, so you push yourself on and on. I didn’t seem to have a touchstone, someone or something to put it all into perspective, someone to tell me,‘Hey, man, enough.’ And I didn’t have an outlet for the tension roiling around inside.”

  If all of her future patients were as intelligent, as perceptive, Chelsea mused, she’d be collecting unemployment. “But now that you know what you need, isn’t it possible you could find it at home?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ll go back and get caught up in the same rat race again. It’s a treadmill. You slow down or lose your footing and, bam, you’re off.”

  “But would that be so bad? ‘Off,’ for you, may be higher than most other people ever aspire to—unnh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” She promptly took Sam’s side. “We all have dreams and aspirations, most of which are instilled in us from birth. It’s hard to change basic perceptions of success.”

  “Precisely. I’d have to totally overhaul my life, and when it comes to the business, at least, there are other people involved.”

  “You could always sell out—”

  “But it’s my business,” he cut in, and Chelsea watched with slow-growing horror as his features transformed. “I started it from scratch and built it to what it is today. Sure, David’s done his thing, but the biggest and the best of the projects we’ve taken on have been won through sheer grit on my part! The business wouldn’t die if I left, but it sure wouldn’t stay ahead of the others. I’m telling you, there’s a war goin’ on out there, and only the smartest and the fittest survive!” His voice, which had risen steadily, suddenly dropped. “Chelsea? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Sam,” she whispered, stricken. “You should see yourself. The tension’s back. All of it. I can see it around your eyes and on the bridge of your nose. Just like in that picture I saw. You were all but gritting your teeth when you talked just now, and … and … look at your hands!”

  He did. Very slowly and consciously he unclenched his fists. Then he closed his eyes and hung his head. “You see? I can’t go back. Nothing would change. It’d be suicide.”

  She ached for him, and for herself. “Maybe if you found that touchstone …”

  He shook his head for a minute, then suddenly snapped it erect. “Hell, I’m getting morose in my old age. This was to be a celebration dinner. Your arrival is definitely worth celebrating.” He met her gaze, hesitated, then slowly smiled. “Better?”

  “Much,” she said. “The other man scared me.”

  He accepted the dichotomy. “I thought I scared you.”

  “What you do to me scares me … like getting me to go around with frizzy hair, to eat pork stew with a tortilla for a spoon, to sleep in a hammock … I’m not sure if that’s going to work, Sam. If I’m sore now, just think of what it’ll be like to tip ont
o the floor every few minutes!”

  He laughed then, and he was once again the Sam she adored. “You’re just hung up on that backyard-swing variety—no pun intended. These hammocks are different. Larger and deeper, but more giving. They envelop you like a cocoon. Trust me, Chelsea. You won’t have any problems. Especially after you’ve had a glassful of that liqueur I was telling you about.”

  “You’re planning on getting me drunk?”

  “Me? I’d never do a thing like that, especially since tomorrow’s a work day. You’ll have your first lesson on how the Maya live …as a matter of fact, shouldn’t you be writing down all the things I’ve been telling you?”

  “I will,” Chelsea said in a teasing tone that deftly masked the guilt she felt. “I’m going to let it all—” she gestured appropriately “—stew around in my mind for a bit. Once I’ve digested it, I’ll make notes. If I have questions, or can’t remember something or other, I can ask you.”

  “Please do,” he invited, then glared at her dish. “Now eat! The entire population of this pueblito is looking forward to meeting you tomorrow, and if you show up looking skinny—”

  “Unnh! Slim. Not skinny. Slim.” They shared a chuckle, then dipped into the stew. But Chelsea was thinking about the “entire population” Sam had mentioned. “How many of them are there?”

  “Twenty-six by last count, though there’s another expected any day now. Hey, don’t look so scared. They’ll love you. They wanted to meet you tonight, but I told them you’d melt in the rain—”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did.” Quite nonchalantly he continued eating, talking between bites. “I think the men actually believed me. They remembered how we found you crumpled on the ground this afternoon.”

  “I wasn’t melting,” she argued, thrusting a tortilla at a particularly large piece of pork. “I was just … just frustrated and angry and tired and sore. I was convinced right then that I was lost forever in the jungle and that it was only a matter of time before wild beasties would come out and devour me limb by limb.”

  Sam threw back his head and laughed. It was such a hearty sound that it dissolved Chelsea’s crossness, which had been half put-on anway.

  “Are there beasts out there?” she asked cautiously.

  “Some, but not this close to the settlements, and in any case they don’t attack unless provoked. You weren’t trying to steal some mommy monkey’s baby, were you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So you were safe.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Of course, you have to keep an eye out for rattlesnakes. The ancient Maya worshiped them. Did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” she stated with distaste.

  He finished chewing what was in his mouth, then gestured with a tortilla. “And another thing. Watch out for garrapatas.”

  “¿Garrapatas?” She mimicked his pronunciation, though she was feeling slightly wary and purposely exaggerated the roll of her ‘r’s.

  “Mmm. That’s a type of tick that lurks in the growth at the side of the road. Don’t brush against them if you can help it. They come right off when you take a bath, but, man, do they itch.”

  “Thank you for the warning.” She curled up her lip. “Are there any other things you’d care to tell me about?”

  “Just the rats, but they do their foraging at night and are usually gone by sunup.”

  Chelsea dropped her tortilla in the remains of her stew. Had it been a fork, it would have rattled against the plate. “Rats. That’s great. On second thought, a hammock must be nice. You can pull it around yourself and pray.”

  Sam reached out and gently touched her chin. “I’m teasing you, Chels. It’s not all that bad. For what it’s worth, I haven’t suffered a single bite in all the time I’ve been here.”

  “Very reassuring.”

  She didn’t know if he caught her sarcasm because he was looking at her dish, his own being quite empty. “Are you done?”

  “I believe so.”

  He reached out. “May I?”

  She shoved the dish forward. “Be my guest.” Then she couldn’t resist. “Of course, God only knows what kinds of germs I’ve got. There was a rash of flu last month, and some fellow at the bar last week was coughing in my face, and you can never tell if you’re carrying some other kind of ugly disease.”

  Sam was already dipping into the dish. “I’ve kissed you, so I’m already exposed. I’ll take my chances.” With that, he put a huge chunk of stew-laden tortilla into his mouth and chewed with relish.

  Elbow on the table, hand beneath her chin, Chelsea took pleasure in watching him. He looked almost boyish, eating enthusiastically, grinning at her from time to time. But he was manly as well, always manly. She wondered if every woman found him such, or whether she was just … smitten.

  She was still pondering that question when he gathered the empty dishes together, piled them outside the front door, and went to fetch the liqueur. She wasn’t sure where he’d stored it—perhaps at the bottom of his trunk—but he returned not only with a bottle but with two glasses, and pillows stuck under each arm. He dropped the pillows by the wall and nudged them with his foot until they were propped up, then sank down and motioned for her to follow. She’d no sooner seated herself beside him than he’d poured the liqueur and offered her a glass. She took it, staring at its dark contents.

  “Is this something else I should be wary of?” She raised the glass and peered distrustfully through the liquid at the bottom. “There isn’t a worm in here, is there?”

  He laughed. “No worm. That’s mescal, from the maguey plant. This is xtabentun.”

  “Xtabentun.” She tugged a tidbit of information from the file in her mind. “In ancient days it was given to virgins before they were sacrificed. Since I’m not a virgin, I guess I’m safe. What’s it made of?”

  “It’s a derivative of honey. And it’s flavored with anise. We cultivate the honey here. You’ll see it for yourself tomorrow.”

  “Oh God. Bees.”

  “Not to worry. They’re stingless.”

  “I don’t know, Sam. At the rate I’m going, even a stingless bee might raise welts.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he soothed, relaxing back against a pillow.

  With care Chelsea sampled the xtabentun. In spite of a slightly bitter aftertaste, it was suprisingly good. She nodded her approval, then took a less guarded sip. Taking her cue from Sam, who looked exquisitely comfortable, she lay down against the pillow he’d set for her, stretched out her legs and propped the glass on her stomach.

  “Tell me what you did when you first got to Cancun, Sam. I know you stayed at the Camino Real; that was the only stop anyone in Boston knew of. Did you go there with the intention of staying a week and flying home, or had you planned all along to move inland?”

  “When I left Boston, I only knew I had to get away. My reservations were for a week. The hotel was able to give me a three-day extension, but even then I’d barely begun to relax.” He raised his glass to his lips, took a measured drink, then turned the glass in his hand. “Relaxation doesn’t come easy when you’ve never really had any practice at it. I used to prowl around Cancun looking for something to do. I had to have something to do. Lying on the beach wasn’t accomplishing anything—so my mind said, even though I was physically exhausted and could have used five straight days of sleep.” He gave a soft snort. “I’m afraid I didn’t get much out of Cancun. I’ve been back for several hours at a stretch since, and I do like the place. Maybe when we drive in to pick up your things, we can see a little more.”

  “I’d like that,” Chelsea said. “I’m afraid I gave it about as much of a chance as you did. I was so preoccupied with finding my luggage, then finding you … I don’t think I took even five minutes to just sit and relax. I’m not a relaxer, either, so I know what you mean.”

  “You’ll learn,” he responded smugly, and for a minute Chelsea wondered if he intended to force-feed her the techniq
ue, but she didn’t want to think of it. She wanted to think of him. He seemed very relaxed at the moment, and very open.

  “Did you know where you were going when you left Cancun?”

  “Only that I didn’t want to go home. I decided to drive to Merida, maybe see if it had something for me that Cancun didn’t.”

  “Did it?”

  “In a roundabout way. The city itself is much larger. It was interesting enough, but what really intrigued me were the little villages I saw on my way there, pueblitos like this one. Then I happened to bump into Rafael—Professor Paredes—and we hit it off and started talking. He knew all about the Maya and got me hooked. It was at his suggestion that I moved to one of the villages, but at the first one I was sharing a hut with a family of six, and at the second, the family my hut belonged to returned from visiting relatives in Belize. So I came here. And stayed.”

  “The Maya welcomed you from the first?”

  “They did in each of the places I stayed. Maybe it helped that I insisted on paying rent, but I think it was more than that. I learned their language. I did my fair share of work. I think they saw me as a friend, rather than a spectator. And what I got in return, well, no amount of money could have bought that.”

  Chelsea tipped her head on the pillow until she faced him. Their voices were quiet, the air intimate. She felt surprisingly relaxed and wondered if the xtabentun was responsible. There was a certain lethargy to her limbs. She doubted she could have stood up and walked away if she’d tried.

  “What did you get, Sam? How did it come about?”

  With his cheek nestled in the pillow, he let his gaze flow into hers. “It was like culture shock. One day I was wearing designer shorts and shirts, the next I wore no-name pants and a guayabera. I locked up my suitcase and haven’t opened it since. I think I needed it that way, cold turkey.”

  “Was it hard?”

  “Was it ever! For a couple of days I didn’t really know what was going on. I couldn’t do anything but sleep, and when I woke up I walked around like a zombie, not knowing what to do, not having the strength to do much anyway. The Maya I was with at the time just let me be. They saw I was fed, but they didn’t ask a thing of me. In time, partly out of boredom, I guess, I started chipping in with the work. It was the best medicine in the world. Being outdoors all day, using muscles I hadn’t known were there—”