by Rachel Woods
“You’ll see,” he promised, guiding her between two bushes, pushing aside the wide waxy leaves to expose a large clearing.
Supervising the tree house construction, John had pretty much lived in the rainforest since they’d arrived in San Ignacio two weeks ago. Due to the pregnancy, John was more than overprotective, but Spencer often trailed behind him to the construction site, abandoning the comfort of the casita to be by his side as he directed the vision. John had delegated the day-to-day management operations of the resort to his assistant manager while he devoted all his time and energy to the tree house project. Each day, he gave it his blood, sweat, and tears as he worked side by side with architects and local artisans. There had been stratospheric highs and rock-bottom lows as his ideas and plans came to life.
“Okay, here we are,” John announced.
“We are?” Spencer asked. “And where exactly is here? The middle of the jungle?”
“Look up.”
She followed his directive; above her, a broad canopy of dense trees obscured her view of the sky; bits of sun managed to sneak through thick, broad leaves, sending down shafts of light, auras glowing and dancing amidst the hanging vines.
“What am I looking at?”
“To the left,” he said.
Spencer turned her head, eyes darting as she tried to discern what John wanted her to—
A wooden railing caught her eye, and she followed the stairs as they ascended to what looked like a small house nestled high in the trees.
“Is that what I think it is?” She looked at him. “It’s finished?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Finally.”
She squealed and then clapped her hands. “Oh, can I see it?”
John laughed. “That’s why I brought you here.”
Laughing, she took off toward the wooden stairs. Jungle vines twined and swirled along the railing as she hurried up the steps, climbing higher and higher into the heart of the rainforest. Behind her, John followed, his pace more measured, yelling at her to be careful, watch her step, and wait for him.
Approaching the last three steps, Spencer slowed to catch her breath and to wait for John.
Together, they took the final steps to the porch, a wide swatch of wooden planks where banana leaves and more jungle vines wrapped around the support beams and meandered onto the porch, giving her the feeling of being ensconced in a living, breathing terrarium.
“These doors are beautiful,” Spencer said, stepping closer to examine the carvings of native birds and tropical fauna.
“A local Belizean artist did all the carvings,” he explained. “He hand-carved the porch railings, too.”
“Were these handmade?” she asked, stepping to a group of rocking chairs flanking the wood double-door entrance.
John nodded. “A friend of my mother’s made the rocking chairs.”
After fawning over the artistry of the railings and support beams, Spencer said, “Come on, let’s go inside.”
Moments later, John opened the doors and stepped back to allow her to enter first.
“This is the Honeymoon Tree house,” he said. “It’s fifteen hundred square feet. It has four rooms. Large bedroom; large bathroom with an oversized claw foot tub and also an outdoor shower.”
“This is so beautiful!” she said. “I want to live here! I think you should build us a tree house to live in. Ten thousand square feet spread across the rainforest.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, chuckling, leading her to the bedroom. “I was thinking about having hibiscus petals on the bed with a welcome note. Nothing too obtrusive. Just a personalized note from me.”
“That’s a good idea,” Spencer said. “Like if they’re on their honeymoon, you could say Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Whoever, I hope you enjoy your stay, yadda, yadda, yadda. Or, if it’s an anniversary trip, you could say Happy Fiftieth Anniversary.”
“Yeah, but no matter the reason,” he said. “I want to write something personal. I came up with a standard greeting. You read it and tell me what you think.”
“I’m sure it’s okay,” she told him, twirling about the room, giggling and squealing each time her excitement got the best of her, which was every other second.
“I don’t want it to sound trite,” he said. “Or too hokey.”
“What did you write? Welcome to the Honeymoon Tree house! Enjoy your stay!” she said. “That’s good enough. What people will appreciate is that it’s handwritten. That’s the important thing. A handwritten note is a personal touch that shows you really care and—”
“Spencer, will you just read it and tell me what you think, please?”
A bit startled by the tension in his tone, she faced him. “Why is it so important for me to read a welcome note?”
“Because…” John looked away. “I just want you to read it.”
“Okay,” she said, noting his mood had changed. He seemed jittery and slightly nervous.
Crawling onto the bed, she grabbed the note. “Nice paper.”
“Yeah,” he said, his tone clipped though not curt. Clearing his throat, he said, “Can you just read it?”
“All right, all right,” she said, opening the note, realizing his nervousness was making her nervous. She folded her legs beneath her and then read out loud, “I love you very much, and I want to spend the rest of my life…”
Her heart started to pound, and she read the rest of the words silently in shock and disbelief.
“Keep reading,” he said.
She couldn’t. She was speechless, and the words were a blur from the tears.
“Spencer…”
Blinking, allowing the tears to fall, she glanced up at him. “John, is this real? Are you serious about this?”
“Will you please keep reading?”
Swallowing, she wiped her cheeks with trembling fingers and made an attempt to continue. “I love you very much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you and…”
She let the note fall and dropped her face in her hands.
A moment later, he gently removed her hands
On his knees in front of her, he said, “I love you very much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I want to know if I can be your husband.”
“You want to be my husband?” she whispered, flabbergasted as she stared at him, dizzy with confusion. “Are you asking me? What are you asking me?”
“I want to be your husband,” he said. “And I want you to be my wife. I’m asking you to marry me.”
“You want to marry me?” she asked, still in disbelief, still not sure she’d heard him right. “You want me to marry you?”
Spencer couldn’t believe what he was asking her. She could not believe John wanted to marry her. She knew he loved her as much as she loved him. But marriage? She’d never expected he would marry her. They’d never even talked about marriage.
Marriage was a huge leap of faith.
Marriage came with the turmoil of possibly becoming “that wife.” She’d promised herself she wouldn’t become “that wife,” and the only way not to become “that wife” was to not get married. The problem was, she wasn’t so sure about that vow against marriage anymore. Maybe she wouldn’t end up like her mother. Maybe she would turn out to be a “good wife” instead of “that wife.” Maybe John wouldn’t force her to devalue and marginalize herself in order to keep him.
Spencer wanted to be with John forever and had planned to do so; she hadn’t thought marriage was an option for them, but now that John was proposing, she was really starting to like the idea, really starting to fall in love with the reality of being Mrs. Sione D. Tuiali’i.
“Oh, wait, I forgot something.” He stood, dug into one of the pockets on his shorts, pulled out a small box, and opened it.
The flawless brilliance of the emerald-cut diamond nearly blinded her, and she let out a squeak.
“I want to marry you,” he said. “I want us to be husband and wife. So, will you marry me?”
“John, I want us to be husband and wife, too,” she said, nodding and smiling. “Yes, I will marry you!”
30
Houston, Texas
St. Paul Baptist Church
ONE MONTH LATER
Trembling with barely disguised excitement and anticipation, Spencer stood in the bridal chambers of the church. Moments ago, the room had been filled with a dozen or so people, all of them caught up in the anxious, happy chaos of the impending nuptials as hairstylists and makeup artists made last-minute touch-ups and attendants helped the bridal party into their dresses.
Now it was quiet, hushed and peaceful. Fifteen minutes ago, Shady had herded everyone out to give Spencer a bit of privacy, a chance to reflect on her last moments as a “free woman.”
A few feet from the full-length mirror in the corner, Spencer stared at her reflection. This was how John would see her, walking toward him. But, as she did, she was well aware that their guests would have the side view and would probably be secretly searching for telltale signs of her pregnancy. Turning to the left side, then the right side, and then to the left again, she scrutinized herself from various angles. Despite being thirteen weeks, the bump was only barely noticeable, nothing obtrusive or distracting. Not that she was trying not to look pregnant. Even if she’d been twenty-six weeks, she still would have walked—or waddled or whatever—down the aisle, ecstatic that everyone would be able to see the love she and John had beautifully manifested growing within her.
Sighing, Spencer walked closer to the mirror for another hair and makeup check. Satisfied, she turned, walked to the dressing table, and picked up her bouquet. Frangipani, of course. A symbol of her devotion to John. I’m taken. She’d made that promise to him more than a year ago, and despite their devastating breakup and the miserable two months they’d spent apart, the flower represented not only their love but the endurance of their commitment to, and feelings for, each other.
Spencer glanced at the clock above the door.
Shady had promised to be back in thirty minutes. Spencer had fifteen minutes of reflection left, but she didn’t need any more introspection. She was ready to become Mrs. Sione D. Tuiali’i. Her heart pounded as she rehearsed the bridal procession. When Shady returned, they would walk downstairs to the vestibule, right outside the main sanctuary of the church, where they’d wait for the cue to enter. Once the bridal entrance music began, an attendant would open the doors, and she would walk down the aisle, escorted by Shady, who would give her away, since their father couldn’t be bothered…or found.
Twenty-one steps, Spencer thought, staring at her bouquet of frangipani flowers.
She and John and their wedding party had rehearsed the ceremony several times. During each rehearsal, she’d counted the steps she took, and each time it had taken twenty-one steps down the center aisle of the church to the altar where John would be waiting.
Twenty-one steps to a life of happiness and love with John.
Nothing from the past could hurt her now. She was protected from her sad childhood marred by neglect and abandonment. Protected from her disastrous mistakes.
And protected from Ben Chang.
John was going to protect her. Life with him wouldn’t be perfect or without challenges, but their love would prevail, and more importantly, there was nothing that could potentially tear them apart.
Tears welled, but she blinked them away, worried about ruining her makeup.
She was happy and flabbergasted. Like a pendulum, her emotions swung back and forth between joy and disbelief, hysteria and trepidation, exhilaration and shock.
She was excited and ecstatic to be marrying John because he was the man of her dreams. But her euphoria was tempered and subdued by the realization of her former stance against marriage and her irrational fears of becoming like her mother and turning into “that wife.” She’d never wanted marriage to some dream man or soul mate, and yet here she was, moments away from becoming Mrs. Sione D. Tuiali’i.
For so many reasons, she didn’t feel she deserved this moment. She wasn’t sure she could be Mrs. Sione D. Tuiali’i, wasn’t sure if she was the right woman for John—a sentiment shared by most of John’s family.
Especially his mother.
Carmen Camareno had made her dislike of Spencer no secret. Disgruntled and disgusted, Carmen had voiced her displeasure of the upcoming nuptials to anyone who would listen and had found many supporters, naysayers who also believed Spencer was about to trick a good man into a bad marriage.
Spencer didn’t care what anyone thought.
She loved John and he loved her.
Only their love mattered.
A knock on the door broke into her thoughts. She jumped as a jolt of nervous energy went through her and was quickly followed by a sense of peace and a giddy joy.
“Come on in,” she called out and then dashed to the mirror to make sure her mascara hadn’t run. Hearing the door open, she said, “Shady, can you do me a favor and tell the makeup artist—”
“Well, well, well, don’t you look gorgeous…”
31
Houston, Texas
St. Paul Baptist Church
Startled by the unfamiliar female voice, Spencer spun around. Confused, she stared at the woman standing in the doorway, a slender, good-looking woman with sun-kissed tan skin and thick, glossy black hair that swirled around her shoulders in cascading waves. Dressed in skintight black—leggings and a sleeveless tank that showcased toned biceps—and combat boots, she smiled and folded her arms.
Was she one of John’s Tongan relatives? Maybe, but Spencer didn’t think so. None of his Pacific island family members had been able to make the wedding ceremony, which was why they planned to honeymoon on the island where John had spent his late teen years.
“Do I know you?” Spencer asked, her apprehension growing. “Are you—”
“No, I’m not,” the woman said, uncrossing her arms, allowing them to fall at her sides as she stepped into the room. “I’m not at all what you’re expecting right now.”
“What are you talking about?” Spencer took a step back, the apprehension exploding into full-blown fear as two men entered the room wearing black combat fatigues. With grim expressions as dark and deadly as the guns they aimed at Spencer, the men took positions on either side of the woman.
“What are you doing?” Spencer stumbled back again. “What do you want?”
“Don’t get hysterical, okay?” the woman instructed as she closed the door and then locked it.
“Do you want money?” Spencer asked, trembling, trying not to scream, terrified one of the men would shoot her. “Just let me—”
“This is not a stick up, black beauty,” the woman said, facing Spencer again. “You’re about to be taken.”
“Taken,” Spencer whispered, her heart dropping. “Taken…where? Why? What are you—”
“No time for questions right now,” the woman said. “We need to get going before Shady comes back. But, first, you’ve got to write a note.”
Her confusion increasing, Spencer stared at the woman. “A note?”
“Doesn’t have to be a heartfelt essay,” the woman said. “Just a few words to let Sione know that you’ve changed your mind about marrying him.”
“What? No!” Spencer protested, shaking her head and glancing from the woman, who maintained the carefree smile, to the men and their guns and back to the woman.
“Look, I don’t have time to try to forge your handwriting, okay?” the woman said, annoyed. “So, you need to write the note to Sione, tell him you had a change of heart so he doesn’t call the cops, or worse, mount his steed and go charging off to save you.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Spencer said, seized by a sudden hysteria. “Leave me alone! Get away from me! Help me! Please! Someone—”
“Shut this bitch up!” the woman commanded.
Immediately, the man on the right lunged at Spencer. Screaming, she tried to sidestep him and run to the door, but an ar
m snaked around her neck. The other man had grabbed her from behind, she realized with a sickening dread as his hand clamped over her mouth.
Panting, trying to breathe through her nose, she resisted the urge to struggle, as fear for the baby’s safety consumed her. She couldn’t think of just herself. The little one took priority. She had to protect her baby. Nothing was more important than making sure her baby stayed safe, which meant she could not antagonize these people. She couldn’t do anything to make them hurt her, or worse.
If that meant she had to do what these people wanted, even though she didn’t know why, or who they were, or where they planned to take her, then she would give in to their demands.
Thoughts and fears battled for her attention, but she forced herself to stay calm. For right now, she would have to do what they told her to do. But she knew she would have to find some way to get away from them. She couldn’t let them take her away from the church, from the place where her family and friends were, and where John was, waiting for her to walk down the aisle. She had to get word to someone that these people were trying to take her. If she could just figure out a way to—
“Take her over to the dressing table,” the woman ordered.
The man restraining Spencer forced her toward the table. As he dragged her, Spencer stared into the mirror attached to the table, terrified by her wild, hysterical eyes. The man pushed her into the chair and then pressed the barrel of his gun against her temple, igniting fresh terror within her.
“Get the paper and pen,” said the woman.
The man standing to the left of the woman, with the mustache, slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket, removed the requested items and passed them to the woman.
“Okay, black Barbie,” said the woman as she walked to the table. She slapped the sheet of paper and the pen down in front of Spencer, who jumped, her heart racing. “Here is what is going to happen, okay? I’m going to dictate, you’re going to write, and my friend Gustavo is going to keep his gun pointed at your head so you don’t do anything stupid, like scream for help, got it?”