Long-Lost Wife?

by Barbara Faith

  “That be Ambrosia’s cousin, Henry John,” Samuel said. “He be an innocent. Not...” He made a circular motion on the side of his head. “Not like a crazy person, Mr. Alarcon. More like a child. Never hear tell of him doin’ anything bad.”

  Maybe not, Luis thought, but he had to make sure, so he approached Ambrosia and asked her about Henry John.

  “He be dead goin’ on three months,” she said. “Barracuda got him when he was net fishin’. Liked to have bit his leg in half. My sister did all she could, but he got an infection and died real quick.”

  “I’m sorry,” Luis said, and meant it.

  Because if it wasn’t poor Henry John, then whoever it was who wanted Annabel dead was still here on his island.

  That scared the hell out of him.

  Chapter 13

  Luis doubled the guards on the beach and ordered that every inch of San Sebastián be searched again. Armed with an automatic pistol, he scouted out all the places where a man or men might hide. The only place he didn’t search was the sea caves below the cliff that were flooded because of the high tide.

  “Nobody be hiding in there,” said Samuel, who was with him. “But if they were, they be drowned and washed out to sea by now.”

  “You’re probably right.” Still, Luis hesitated. It was true that when the tide was in, the sea caves were impossible. But when the tides were out? Yes, then, at least for a few hours, the caves would be the perfect place to hide. He couldn’t search now, but he would come back at low tide and have a look.

  “Let’s climb up and check the area around the cliff next,” he told Samuel. “There are a lot of trees up there, dense undergrowth, places where a man might hide.”

  But they found nothing, only a few cigarette butts left behind by his men who had searched here.

  He went to stand at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the beach and out beyond to the sea. There were no ships on the horizon, no sailboats or cruisers. Only the endless sea, as deep and clear a blue as the sky. Yet someone had come here to his island. Where was he? Who was he?

  He looked toward the three small islands and decided that tomorrow he would search there. Meantime he would double the guard both inside and outside the house. He had to find the man who wanted Annabel dead. He had to.

  That evening when the sun was low over the water, when the sky turned the color of flamingo feathers and the sea was streaked with gold, Annabel and Luis sat together on the terrace sipping champagne from crystal tulip glasses.

  She had taken special care of her appearance this evening. Instead of her usual braid she had washed her hair, dried it in the sun on her balcony, then brushed it so that it lay softly about her shoulders. She’d put on a long cotton dress in shades of pale turquoise and blue, perfumed her skin, and added just enough makeup to make her eyes look, she hoped, exotic and mysterious. She wanted tonight to be special.

  Luis stood when she came out onto the terrace. For a moment he didn’t say anything, but when he came toward her, he took her hands and drew her closer.

  “You look very beautiful,” he said. “It’s as if you’re a part of all this, of the sea and the sky and the sunset.” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them, and led her to the chair next to his so they could watch the sunset together.

  They sipped their champagne, not speaking, until in a burst of glory the sun slipped into the sea.

  It was then Annabel said, “I have something to tell you.”

  Luis put his glass down, suddenly apprehensive. He hoped his voice was calm when he asked, “What is it?”

  “It’s about us, Luis. About my not remembering.”

  “Someday you will.”

  “I hope so.” She took a sip of the champagne, then set the glass down. “I know that because I’m your wife and that we’ve been married for almost eight years, I must have loved you.” She touched his hand. “But I have no memory of that love, Luis.”

  “I know.” He held his breath, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, caught by the intensity of her gaze, the open honesty in her eyes.

  “It’s very hard,” she went on. “Not remembering my life before I awoke in the hospital in Nassau is very hard. But the hardest part is not remembering you. I want so much to remember everything—the day we met, our first dance, the first time we kissed. But I don’t, Luis. I don’t remember anything at all about our life together and that makes me sad.”

  “We’re together now.” His voice choked with all he was feeling. “That’s all that matters, Annabel.”

  “Is it?” A look of loss and of sadness crossed her face, then she smiled and the look faded. “But that’s not what I want to tell you. I want to tell you that even though I don’t remember—our marriage or our love—I... I’ve fallen in love with you all over again.”

  “Annabel. Querida...” He wanted to say more, tried to say more, but he was too filled with emotion to utter a word.

  “Isn’t it strange,” she went on, “falling in love with one’s own husband, I mean. It’s like starting all over again with everything new and fresh and wonderful.” She looked at him with eyes that were filled with love. “And it is wonderful,” she said softly. “Loving you, Luis. Making love with you. I hope and pray I’ll get my memory back someday, but if I don’t, I think now that I’ll be able to live with the new todays we have, with all of the days yet to come.”

  She touched his fact. “I love you, Luis. I know now that I must have always loved you.”

  The last rays of reflected sun touched her face like the soft strokes of color on canvas; her eyes were luminous and filled with love.

  He stood and brought her up into his arms. Unable to speak, he held her, his face against the cloud of her hair, and thought of all the things he should tell her now, that he had to tell her. And he would, he told himself, but not yet. And so he only said, “I loved you from the first moment I saw you. I loved you then, I love you now.”

  Darkness crept in over the sea while they stood there, holding each other, loving each other. And still he did not tell her the dark secret that lay buried in his heart.

  There followed then a time of bliss, a time for loving and a time of peace. She was aware of the guards both in the house and out-of-doors, but she was no longer afraid. Luis was her husband. He loved her, he would take care of her.

  But a few days later, perhaps because she had let down her guard, the nightmares returned. She would awaken weak with fear, too frightened to go back to sleep. And though Luis was with her to calm her fears and gentle her back to sleep, the nightmares left her hollow-eyed and nervous.

  When at last they began to fade, they were replaced by dreams that were in their own way more disturbing than the nightmares because they were of Luis. Were they only dreams, she asked herself each morning when she awoke, or was she beginning to remember?

  Though she had told Luis about her nightmares, she did not tell him of her dreams. Instead she said, “I’m not sleeping well, Luis. Do you think it would be all right if I took one of Dr. Hunnicut’s sleeping pills?”

  He shook his head and with a smile said, “Let’s try one of Dr. Alarcon’s injections first.”

  “An injection? I don’t...” She grinned. “Oh,” she said. “Yes, perhaps that would help.”

  They made love then, and afterward, exhausted and sure that tonight she would not dream, she fell asleep in his arms.

  But the dreams came, in disjointed flashes, like the previews of coming attractions.

  “Wear the black dress.”

  “But—”

  “The blue is too revealing. It makes you look cheap.”

  “Cheap? But I—”

  “The black. Don’t argue. I know what’s best for you. Put it on.”

  “Red wine with boeuf bourguignonne.”

  “I—I really prefer white wine.”

  “Red,” he said to the waiter. “A Bordeaux, I think.”

  “Did you read the Gabriel Garcia Márquez?”

  “No,
I—It...it’s in Spanish and my...my Spanish isn’t that good.”

  “It would be if you applied yourself.”

  Books. Stacks of books, so many books, piling up all around her, closing her in, surrounding her. And music, deafened by the soaring sounds of a hundred violins, by the blast of horns and the clash of cymbals, sopranos and tenors singing in a language she didn’t understand. Flamenco guitars and French horns. “Listen,” he said. “Listen and try to learn.”

  Wearing party gowns she didn’t like to parties she didn’t want to go to. “Try the oysters, ” he said.

  “I don’t like oysters.”

  A painful sigh. He put one on his fork and handed it to her. It was slippery and wet. She took it and made a face.

  “Dios, ” he said. “Will you ever learn?”

  Tears and recriminations.

  Finally, “I’m going to leave you.”

  “I’ll never let you go.”

  “I will! I will!”

  “You’re behaving like a child.”

  A child...

  She was crying when she awoke, and she told herself it was only a dream, not a memory. For how could it have been a memory? Luis wasn’t like that. He was thoughtful and loving, he’d never tell her how to dress or how to behave. It was only a dream.

  There were other dream-memories. Her wedding day. She wore a simple white dress and a wreath of daisies in her hair.

  “Do you, Luis...?”

  “Do you, Annabel...?”

  “I now pronounce you...”

  A proper kiss. The murmured words, “You’re mine now.”

  Her wedding night. A nightgown with a high neck and long sleeves. Shyness. Fear of the unknown. His impatience.

  Dreams. Only dreams?

  One morning she asked, “What kind of a dress did I wear for our wedding?”

  “White, I think.” He put down the copy of the Miami Herald that had come in that morning on the supply boat and with a smile added, “And you had daisies in your hair. You looked like a wood sprite and far too young to be married.”

  Daisies in her hair.

  “I was twenty-one.”

  “A young twenty-one. Some women are mature at eighteen. You weren’t.”

  “No,” she said. “I was very frightened, very unsure of myself.”

  He looked at her, startled, and she said, “I...I’ve been having these dreams, Luis. About before, when we were first married.”

  He held his breath and in a careful voice said, “Perhaps you’re starting to remember.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well...” He cleared his throat. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  And again that voice inside his head said, Tell her! Tell her now! For if she’s starting to remember, if it all comes back to her before you tell her, she will never forgive you. And God help him, she had so much to forgive.

  This was a second chance for him. Because of the accident, as terrible as it had been, Annabel had no recollection of the past. He had a God-given opportunity to make up for all the mistakes he had made in the past. And he would.

  Annabel wasn’t the girl she had been when they married. She was a woman with opinions, likes and dislikes of her own, and he would respect that, respect her enough to allow her to be her own woman.

  In every way there was he would show how much he cared, how much he loved her. It was not often a man was given the opportunity to start over. It had been given to him, and this time, as God was his witness, he would be different.

  He would be the man she deserved; the man he should have been eight years ago.

  She dreamed again that night, and awoke in the morning restless and disturbed.

  Luis left early. “I want to have a look at the sea caves before the tide comes in,” he said.

  She longed for a walk, needed fresh air to clear the cobwebs out of her mind. There were guards patrolling the area; surely it would be all right.

  Almost two weeks had passed since whoever it was had tried to drown her. There’d been no other attempts on her life. She was tired of being cooped up in the house. She wanted to walk, climb a hill, maybe lie in the grass, look up at the clouds and try to remember. She didn’t want Samuel or Moses along. Rob would be a silent companion as well as a guard.

  She had breakfast on the balcony of her room, and a little after ten, when she knew that both Ambrosia and Meadowlark would be busy in the kitchen, she called Rob and together she and the black Lab slipped out a side door.

  Instead of taking the path that went down to the beach, she headed for the trees that surrounded the back of the house and led up to the cliff. It would be a good walk, and when she reached the cliff she’d see a part of the island she hadn’t seen before.

  With Rob at her side, Annabel cut through the trees and the overgrowth of brush. It was wild and beautiful here. Poinciana trees bloomed in dense clusters of color, cacao pods hung from small evergreen bushes and passionflowers bloomed. There were banana trees and wild orchids, shrimp plants and orange trumpet vines.

  Rob raced on ahead, chasing an errant butterfly, a squirrel or a bird, as happy to be roaming free as she was. She saw no guards and supposed they were down at the beach with Luis. That meant she’d have the whole morning to herself. Maybe in the quiet she’d be able to sort out all of the things that were bothering her.

  The trees grew thicker when she started to climb. The brush and tangled vines made walking difficult. The air was hot and humid here in the shadows, with only patches of sun shining through the trees. She had an uneasy feeling that she shouldn’t have ventured out alone, that perhaps, after all, she should have told Ambrosia she was going to climb up to the cliff. It wouldn’t have hurt to have had Moses with her.

  No, she told herself, she was being foolish. She was perfectly all right, and besides, she wanted to be alone. Didn’t she? Soon she would be out of the shadow of the trees, up where she could see the sea and there would be a cooling breeze.

  Rob trotted along beside her, but suddenly he stopped, ears pricked up, tail pointing. She stopped, too. “What is it?” she whispered nervously. “What do you hear?”

  There was a rustle of sound in the bushes ahead of them. She stepped closer to Rob just as a rabbit ran out of the bushes. It stopped as though startled, then darted back into the vegetation. Rob barked, and though Annabel called out, “Rob!” he ran into the bushes after the rabbit. She doubted that he would catch the small animal and had a hunch that, if he did, he’d simply chase it round and round until he tired of the game and came back to her.

  But she wished he hadn’t left her.

  She continued climbing, and now that she was close to the top she could smell the sea, and that made her hurry her steps. She stopped once, thinking she heard something, then went on because it was probably just another animal. That’s what she told herself, an animal, not a snake.

  At last she stepped out of the tangle of vines and bushes into a clearing. The air was cooler here and she went forward, out to the very end of the land, onto the cliff overlooking the sea.

  It was higher here than she had thought it would be. The waves below came thundering against the rocks in great, crashing blows, then swirled in a foam of whirlpool currents.

  It was as beautiful as it was terrifying, and suddenly, for a reason she could not explain, she felt uneasy. She did not think she was afraid of heights, but in spite of the beauty of this place she wished she hadn’t come.

  She backed away from the edge of the cliff. Was there a rustling noise? A footfall? She said, “Rob?” and turned just as a man stepped out of the undergrowth of tangled vines and bushes.

  “Well, well, Annabel. Here you are at last.”

  She stared at him. “You! But...but you’re dead. You died in the explosion.”

  “Dead?” He smiled and shook his head. “Oh no, my dear. I’m quite alive.”

  He took a step toward her and she saw the gun in his hand.

  L
ike the other gun, that other day. And suddenly she knew that this was Zachary Flynn and that he had killed her friends.

  Mark first, because he was the strongest. Then the others.

  As though it were being played in fast forward on a movie screen, she saw it all.

  They were sitting in the bow. It had started to rain and Mark said, “We’d better get inside before it gets worse. Or maybe you’re game for a swim, Annabel.” And then he sang, in a bad imitation of Gene Kelly, “Swimming in the rain, just swimming in the rain... This is the happiest day of my life,” he said. “If I died right now I’d die a happy man.”

  He saw Flynn and looked up. “Hi, Captain,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “You get your wish,” Flynn said.

  “Is that a gun?” Mark looked startled. “What’re you doing with a gun? Going to start shooting the fish instead of using a rod and reel?”

  Flynn aimed the gun at Mark.

  “What...?” Mark began. “What...?”

  She saw a dart of flame, heard the crack, the whomp when the bullet hit Mark in the chest. He had a strange look on his face, like a little boy who’d been playing cowboys and Indians and had suddenly discovered the bullets were real.

  He rose, arms outstretched, fists clenched, and staggered toward Flynn. “Run!” he croaked, turning slightly. “Ann—run...” The other bullet hit him and he fell facedown on the deck.

  The rain came harder. There were puddles on the deck. Blood and water turning the puddles pink.

  He shot Albert next. Then Louise. She didn’t die right away. She lay screaming on the deck, blood matting her too blond hair. Flynn picked up the club he used to kill the big fish with and hit her until she stopped screaming.

  “Now you, Miss Annabel,” he said. “I’ve had my eye on you from the day I walked into Croyden’s office at the marina. Thought you’d do me some good, in more ways than one, maybe. But you didn’t. Didn’t know or wouldn’t tell. But we’re close enough. With the charts and what we’ve found this trip, I’ll be able to find her.”