Marrying Daisy Bellamy

by Susan Wiggs

  Excellent, he thought.

  Footsteps crunched on a gravel path that traversed the front of the compound. Julian lifted the mobile phone to his ear, hunched his shoulders and headed down toward the water. Although his biracial looks made him seem vaguely Latino, he didn’t much resemble Cuevas. Anyone who spotted him and gave him a moment of thought would know he was a stranger. He simply had to count on the idea that people were, for the most part, wrapped up in their own lives and not looking for trouble.

  The guy on the gravel path barely glanced at him. Julian measured his paces, trying not to hurry.

  A nasally whine signaled the arrival of the plane. It was expertly landed and motored to the docks. A worker helped moor it. The flimsy door opened, and a man in khakis and mirror-lens sunglasses stepped out. He exuded an air of authority as he strode along the quay next to the lined-up barrels and pallets of wrapped cocaine.

  Business as usual. Still unremarked upon, Julian headed toward the plane. Assuming he managed to commandeer the aircraft, he would be flying with no notion of where he was. He could only hope the instruments would help him out. The main task was to get to it before the pilot exited. Everyone seemed focused on the passenger. It could be Don Benito himself. Julian didn’t care. He simply wanted to get the hell out.

  Soldiers were loading the wrapped kilos onto pallets for the barge. Emulating the other workers, he transferred a dozen of the bricks, stamped with a black spider logo, to a hand truck and headed down the slope to the quay, where another pallet awaited. He kept his head down, eyes watchful, fighting the urge to hurry. On the dock, a jefe was fussily organizing the parcels next to the barrels.

  A preponderance of no-smoking signs marked the area. Close enough to see the labeled barrels, he realized they contained a slushy mixture of coca leaves steeped in kerosene. These would be dried and treated with sulfuric acid and other substances, and then the crude paste would be refined into cocaine hydrochloride, the white powder.

  The rows of barrels provided a partial concealment between the dock and the staging area. Julian thought about the cigarillos and wooden matches. Some guys up above were smoking, but no one down here. Too risky. But hell, everything he was doing was too risky.

  He paused in his labor, took out a slender brown cigarillo. He’d never been much good at smoking. His mom had caught him at it as a kid. Instead of punishing him, she had insisted on making him smoke menthol cigarettes, one after the other, until he grew dizzy and puked. Aversion therapy. It had worked like a charm on him.

  He opened the box of matches and sparked one, lighting the cigarillo, puffing on it a few times to get a good ember. There wasn’t much of a breeze; it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed.

  Months of boredom had prepared him well, perfecting his aim. How many times had his idle fingers flicked a stone or stick at a designated spot on the wall? With the ease of so much practice, he flicked the burning cigarillo at the barrels. The amber tip landed under the rim of a barrel. It would likely fizzle, but it was worth a try.

  Now he headed with a purpose toward the plane, a single-engine craft he didn’t recognize; it might be Russian. He offered a wave to the pilot, but the guy was on his phone. Julian swiftly untied the two mooring lines from the deck cleats. This was a crucial moment. If the pilot copped to what he was doing too soon, there would be trouble. If the door was locked—it wasn’t locked. Julian pushed his way into the seat beside the pilot.

  “Hola, amigo,” he said, simultaneously jamming the handgun under the guy’s jaw and snatching the mobile phone from his hand, turning it off. “Do as you’re told and you’ll be all right.” These days, his Spanish was nearly perfect, and there was no chance the pilot misunderstood. Julian took the pilot’s gun and knife. It was a good firearm, a long-range semiautomatic pistol. “Turn on the engine and head out for takeoff.”

  The pilot’s face blanched. “Where? Who the hell are you?” He was a hefty guy, maybe forty, wearing the paramilitary fatigues everyone around here seemed to favor.

  “Just do as you’re told. Quickly.”

  “If they think I’m up to something, they’ll shoot.”

  Julian didn’t have to ask who “they” were—the guards on the roof and the patrols in the Blazers. All were armed heavily enough to take out the flimsy plane.

  “Or,” he said coolly, “you can try your chances with me. The difference is, I will shoot you now. No headset. Just turn over the engine.”

  The familiar buzz started up. Julian kept his eyes on the pilot, whose face now ran with sweat. Yet he sensed a shifting of focus. No doubt, people around the compound were noticing the plane.

  “Hurry,” he commanded.

  The pilot obliged, cutting a wake to the middle of the channel. When they got about fifty meters away, Julian said, “Get out.”

  “But—”

  “Now.” He jabbed the pistol barrel deeper into the guy’s jaw.

  The pilot pushed open his door. Aided by the speed, he fell out of the aircraft. Julian managed to grab the flapping door and pull it shut. He didn’t take the time to see if the pilot had made it.

  A strafe of machine gun fire stitched across the water. Shit. He’d hoped for more time. He pulled back and went aloft with barely enough speed to sustain him. Glancing at the port, he saw puffs of smoke blooming from the machine gun–mounted Blazer.

  There was more firing. He couldn’t hear it over the engine noise, but could see men racing down the slope to the dock, some of them with long-range rifles. Shit.

  Julian used his knees to work the controls as he unlocked the safety of the pilot’s semiautomatic. Opening the side window, he pumped every round at the barrels. At first it didn’t appear anything would happen. There was a flash, followed by an explosion that spread first in slow motion, then in a lightning bolt of fire.

  The force of the blast rolled across the water like a tidal wave. Julian raced the plane ahead of it, praying the speed would be enough.

  “Come on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Come on, come on, come on…”

  The plane accelerated, rising above the now-churning waves. Finally he gained altitude, barely clearing the tops of the trees. The explosion created a weird turbulence that wrestled with the plane, but he fought it, climbing as fast as he could.

  Below, the thick canopy of the jungle rolled down to the ocean, seemingly endless. He checked his fuel and powered up the GPS, which would tell him where the hell he was. Looking down and to the right, he blinked at the destruction he’d left in his wake. The barge had caught fire. A fine dust mushroomed up from the rubble, and he realized it was cocaine.

  Twenty-Four

  The Apple Tree Inn, billed as the “most romantic restaurant in the Catskills,” didn’t have a table for Daisy and Logan on their anniversary.

  “We can seat you in forty-five minutes to an hour,” the host said.

  Logan turned to Daisy. “You didn’t make a reservation?”

  She shook her head. “I thought you took care of it.” A little embarrassed, she turned to the host. “I guess we had a miscommunication.”

  Delicious smells wafted from the elegant, wood-paneled dining room. Soft music, trills of laughter and murmurs of conversation mingled in the air. Forty-five minutes was not so long to wait, she thought. For her, dinner usually consisted of chicken nuggets, mac and cheese and cut up fruit, so she had been looking forward to this date all week.

  “You could wait at the bar,” the host suggested. “They’re running a special on single malt Scotch—”

  “Or we could take a walk along the river,” Daisy was quick to suggest.

  “No thanks,” Logan said, crossing the foyer. “I’m starving. We’ll come back another time.”

  She felt a nudge of annoyance as she followed him out. “So what’s our plan B?”

  “I didn’t make one. Did you?”

  “No. We could go up to Camp Kioga,” she suggested. “There’s always room for us at the pavilion.” When her cous
in Olivia had taken over the place a few years earlier, the camp’s dining pavilion had been transformed into a mecca for foodies.

  “I’d rather not. It’s already getting late.”

  Since when, she wondered, was eight-thirty at night considered late?

  “I’m wearing a new dress,” she said, twirling to show off the silky outfit she’d splurged on for the occasion. “And my dancing shoes.”

  He pulled her against him and leaned her back in a dip. “And you are totally hot,” he said. “Prettiest wife a guy ever had.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.” He headed toward the car. “You’re giving me a complex about getting fat.”

  “You’re not fat.”

  He patted his undeniably thick girth. “It’s the O’Donnell curse. Look at my dad.”

  In middle age, Logan’s father was definitely stout, but he was still a handsome man.

  “I’m looking at you,” she said, “and I think you’re totally hot, too. I always have.”

  He chuckled as he left the parking lot. “Always?”

  “Ever since we first met in Mrs. Laughlin’s kindergarten.” She leaned back against the headrest. “Wow. We’ve known each other forever.”

  “Forever is a long time,” he said. “And it’s not over yet.”

  “Don’t look so grim when you say that.” She tapped him playfully on the arm.

  “Sorry. You know me. I get cranky when I’m hungry. Just like Charlie.”

  “So, what about dinner?” She went over the possibilities in her mind. Carminucci’s had incredible pizza and pasta, but it was casual in the extreme. There was a good Thai place, although it was likely to be as crowded as as the Apple Tree.

  “I have a kind of off-the-wall idea,” he said.

  “Sounds good to me.” She didn’t really care where they ate. The point was to spend the evening celebrating their first year as a married couple. “Surprise me,” she said, and flicked on the radio. “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton was playing; she recognized it within three beats as the song that had been playing when Julian had proposed to her.

  With lightning reflexes, she switched the station. Even now, she thought. Even now, damn it.

  “Hey, I like that song,” Logan said, oblivious to her turmoil. “Why did you change it?”

  She shrugged and kept her gaze out the window as the Black Eyed Peas filled the car. “Just in the mood for something else,” she said.

  A short time later Daisy was still in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. “This is your off the wall idea?”

  “You said to surprise you. So are you surprised?” He took a big bite of his cheeseburger and a slurp of syrupy soda.

  In front of them loomed the giant screen of a drive-in movie, one of the few left in the region. A host of menacing, CGI-enhanced warrior drones filled the sky.

  “I’m surprised,” she said, swirling a spoon in her root beer float.

  The window-mounted speaker blasted sound effects at them. The movie involved a space-age mercenary fighting—what else?—an evil overlord in order to keep him from dominating the planet and making slaves of its people. Mostly, the movie was an excuse to dazzle the eye and assault the ear with digital special effects.

  Logan was into it, she could tell. And why not? He represented the coveted target demographic—the eighteen-to-thirty-year-old male—sought after by movie marketers.

  Daisy set aside her root beer as she felt a headache pushing at her temples. This was not exactly the anniversary date she had envisioned. Then again, this was not exactly the life she had envisioned. It was the life she had. Her fervent hope was to embrace it and feel grateful for it every day.

  She reached over the console and took Logan’s hand. He lifted hers and kissed the back of it, then turned to her. She lowered her eyelids, expecting a kiss.

  “Are you going to finish your French fries?” he asked.

  Laughing, she handed over the paper cone of fries. “You are such a hopeless romantic.”

  “That’s me,” he agreed.

  The movie unfurled in all its preposterous glory. The hero endured torture at the hands of his enemies, escaped and was recaptured numerous times, and finally in one do-or-die push, he fled to freedom, leaving scorched earth in his wake.

  “Ah,” said Logan. “That gets two thumbs-up from me.”

  The closing credits were accompanied by a surprisingly good song. Daisy relaxed and listened, trying to get Eric Clapton out of her head while Logan threw away their trash. Cars began trundling out of the parking lot.

  “Some anniversary, huh?” He slid into the driver’s seat. “Sorry about the restaurant.”

  “At least this was memorable.”

  “Right. We’ll always associate our first anniversary with mayhem and gore.”

  “And root beer floats and French fries. We’ll do better next year.” She reached into her bag and took out a wrapped parcel. “According to tradition, the first anniversary is celebrated by a gift of paper.” She laughed at his expression. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. Anyway, this is for you. A gift on paper.”

  He unwrapped the parcel, angling the picture toward the light. “It’s great,” he said. “Thanks. This is an awesome, awesome shot of Charlie.”

  “My favorite subject. I thought you’d like to have it at your office.”

  The photo showed Charlie at his happiest and most exuberant. He was in his peewee soccer clothes, practicing his moves in the backyard with Blake. He was laughing, and the sunshine glinted in his hair. With the little dog running at his side, she had captured a joyous moment of childhood.

  “The frame is nice, too,” Logan said. “Doesn’t seem to be made of paper, though.”

  “I cheated, a little.”

  He reached into the console between them and took out a small, oblong box. “I cheated a little, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Open it.”

  She eagerly peeled off the wrapper and opened the box. “Wow. Logan, these are beautiful.” She lifted the strand of pearls, which emitted a bluish glow in the artificial light. In the center was a diamond pendant, glinting at her.

  “I hoped you’d like it,” he said.

  She took hold of the clasp and put them on, the beads smooth and cool against her neck. It was a choker-style necklace that fit snugly around her neck. The pendant settled in the hollow of her throat. “It’s too much,” she said.

  “Hey, you’re worth it.”

  “A diamond? For our first anniversary?”

  “I didn’t buy the diamond, just repurposed it. That’s what the jeweler said, anyway.”

  “Repurposed from—oh. You mean, this is…”

  “That’s right. The diamond from the first engagement ring I got you.”

  The one that sent her into a spiral of confusion, ultimately causing her to run away abroad for nearly a year.

  “I mean, it was a nice stone,” he continued. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

  “Of course not,” she said, trying to shrug off a feeling of discomfort. “It’s lovely, and it’s still too much.”

  “But classy. Very classy,” he said.

  “That’s me.” She leaned across the console and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Logan.”

  “Happy anniversary.”

  The credits finished rolling and the screen went black. “We’re the last ones here,” she said.

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe we should move to the backseat and make out.”

  He laughed, turning the key in the ignition. “The theater owner’s a client of mine. We should save the make-out session for home.”

  “So responsible,” she said.

  “I’m working on it. Maybe one of these days I’ll be a pillar of the community.”

  “Ooh, a pillar.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it.”

  “I would never.” Her fingers reached up and touched the collar of pearls.

  On the way home, they
passed the Hilltop Tavern. The sign outside announced that her favorite homegrown group, Inner Child, was playing tonight. Led by Eddie Haven, who came from a popular show business family, their music was always something special.

  She didn’t suggest stopping in, though. It felt wrong to ask Logan to go to a tavern.

  When they got home, she was already thinking about the promised make-out session and fantasizing about where it would lead. It had been too long, that was for sure. Their lives had become quite busy—she with work and Charlie and the house, and Logan with work, his twelve-step meetings and fatherhood.

  She was looking forward to some downtime with Logan.

  They entered the house quietly, so as not to wake Sonnet or Charlie. “I’ll go check on the little rascal,” Logan whispered.

  “Give him a kiss for me,” she whispered and headed for the bedroom, knowing exactly which nightgown she would pick.

  Sex with Logan was quite good indeed. The frequency had diminished over time, but according to the self-help books and articles she found herself reading so often, a tapering off of newlywed lust was normal. The articles didn’t tell her if it was normal to miss all that just-married sex.

  She put away her dinner-and-dancing dress and slipped on her most scandalous nightgown, and nothing else. Except the pearls. She kept the pearl choker on.

  On the iPod, she found a playlist of soft, romantic songs. Sometimes she listened to music while editing wedding photos and creating multimedia shows for clients. It helped put her in the mood. There was not a single Clapton song on the iPod, though. She made sure of that.