August: I’d probably leave all the décor to my fiancée, but I’d insist on a chocolate cake with some kind of fruit glaze. I can’t stand fondant. It’s gross.
Lily: I don’t mind it that much.
August: It’s vile.
Lily: Do you think most brides wear filthy lingerie on their wedding night?
August: Having never been married, I’m not sure. But I like where your mind’s going. As usual, it’s in the gutter. :P
Lily: You can’t blame me. Every time I close my eyes, I hear your voice.
August: Good. I like you hot and bothered.
Lily: You realize I live in a place with dozens of people? I have no privacy.
August: Babe, everyone needs to get off. You can’t be celibate for the rest of your life.
Lily: Not forever. Just until you’re here.
August: Saving yourself for me? That’s fucking hot.
Lily: I don’t want anyone else, August. I can’t stand it. You need to come here. Now.
August: I will.
20
My post-marriage bliss evaporates the moment I check Facebook. Our wedding photos made the rounds on social media. People tag me in local articles calling me a dictator’s sock-puppet. The comments aren’t pretty.
Panicked messages fill my inbox. Friends I haven’t talked to in years write long, concerned paragraphs as though they’re afraid I lost my mind. It’s sweet in a condescending way. I click on Marcia’s latest email.
If you won’t answer me, at least tell me you’ve seen this. YOU NEED TO GET OUT NOW!
I read the headline: UN Threatens President Cortés with More Sanctions. The article slams his inhumane prisons and human rights violations. I finish the last sentence, dread pitting my gut.
The cursor blinks on the blank page. What’s there to say? Everyone outside might be suffering, but I’m okay. Oh, and here are the pics. The ceremony you couldn’t attend was lovely.
Fuck that.
I delete the draft and close the laptop. I step onto the balcony to drink coffee and a draw quick sketch, but my pencil falters at a few lame attempts.
Shame steeps inside me. I can’t pretend like everything’s fine. Even if I could, it wouldn’t make me happy. There’s nothing I can do to fix what’s broken, but shouldn’t I try my best to contribute? Shouldn’t I be giving back to the community?
My spirits lift as I picture myself volunteering at a local shelter. I don’t have to cure cancer, but I need a purpose.
I want in-and-out privileges.
Mind made up, I slap my arms with sunscreen and pack a bag. I’ll ask a guard to drive me to August because he’s at the plantation. Frustration needles my chest. I hate asking people for permission to visit August.
Why should I?
My jaw clenches with thin-lipped determination. I walk to the nightstand and search the drawer. Alex’s card hides under a stack of books. I flip it over, reading his name. Then I grab the phone and dial his number.
He picks up on the first ring. “Alejandro.”
“Hey, it’s me.” I squeeze the receiver. “Hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Lily, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Can you come here? There’s something I want to discuss.”
Intrigue fills his voice. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Another thing.” I bite my lip. “Don’t tell my husband about this.”
A beat of silence follows that sentence. “Sure.”
“Bye.” The line goes dead, and I hang up.
August won’t be happy, but he’ll deal.
A plan forms in my head as I wait for Alex. I grasp a notebook and jot down ideas. Before long, I’ve written several sheets of what I have in mind. Minutes later, a knock raps the door. I cross the room to answer it.
Alex is dressed in civilian clothes, a navy shirt over forest green shorts. The uniform’s gone, but he wears authority like a second skin.
“Thanks for coming.”
His smile is too familiar. “The moment you said don’t tell my husband, I had no choice.”
My face burns. “If you came here expecting—”
“Relax. I’m joking.”
Suddenly, I wonder if letting him in on the secret is a good idea. Who else will help me see this through? “I doubt he’ll approve.”
Dimples carve into his cheeks. “This gets more and more interesting.”
“It’s not bad—it’s just…” Dangerous. “Look, I’m stuck here all day. I have nothing to do. Complaining about that makes me disgusting. I know.”
Alex wanders inside, examining objects on the console table. “That feeling will fade, Lily.”
“No, it won’t. I grew up poor. Now I’m not. I have it better than most, which brings me to my next point. I have all this.”
Amused, he follows me to the balcony. “So?”
“I don’t deserve a security guard doing my bidding twenty-four hours a day.” I watch him as he sits on the chaise. “What?”
“You think Paris Hilton does?”
I shrug. “At least she worked for it.”
He laughs. “I promise you; she hasn’t.”
My insides squirm with guilt. “I shouldn’t have this, Alex.”
“You’re a better person than you give yourself credit for. You don’t feel entitled. That’s an amazing, rare thing.”
I digest that. “Not to me.”
Alex shrugs, leaning over to help himself to the bowl of grapes.
“I need to become someone who deserves this, or I won’t live with myself.” He falls silent as I sit beside him. “I’ll just be another rich woman living it up on her husband’s dime.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Maybe, but it’s not a life for me.”
“That’s fair.” Alex glances at me, stony-faced. “So what can’t you ask your husband?”
“I’d like to run a soup kitchen.”
His jaw goes slack. “A what?”
“You know.” I’m discouraged by his confusion. “Meals for the poor. Cooking dinner every week for locals.”
Alex looks floored. “Why?”
“I’m able to provide bread, water, clothes—whatever. If I do nothing to help, that makes me a monster.”
“My people are not your concern.”
“I married August. They are.” Frustrated by the skepticism raising his eyebrow, I pound my knee. “I have to be part of the solution. Not the problem.”
His fiery gaze locks on mine.
I know what he will say. “Don’t tell me my place is here.”
“It is.” His unrelenting stare sends a bolt through my heart. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
Alex swallows hard. “You’re an amazing girl.”
I flush with pleasure. “Cooking meals isn’t that impressive, but it’s a start.”
“Would it make you happy?”
A pulse throbs in my neck. “Yes.”
With a stiff movement of his head, he nods. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”
“Thank you, but I never asked your permission.”
“You still need it. I’m only saying yes because you won’t let this go.”
“How can you be against me helping desperate families?”
“Anything you do will be politicized,” he says baldly. “You should realize that.”
I gesture at the laptop. “They’re already calling me a sock-puppet.”
“That’s the beginning.”
“Meaning what?”
All the floral smells dissolve in the perpetual summer heat as Alex strikes a match from the table, lighting the citronella candle. He stares at the flame. “Lily, he’ll use you to spread whatever lies he wants. Your charity will be shaped to fit into his agenda.”
I pat his arm, drawing his gaze. “I’m not doing this for universal popularity. I’m doing it for all of you.”
His eyes meet mine. They burn with undisguised longing. I withdr
aw my hand and shrink away from Alex as he leans closer. Too close.
“No!” I push his chest, heart hammering. “Alex, Jesus!”
“Sorry.” Alex blinks, yanked from a trance. “I—I shouldn’t.”
He tried to fucking kiss me. “Don’t do that again.”
Miserable and confused, he nods. “I’m sorry.”
It’s fine. He has a crush.
Right?
He walks to the door, expressionless. “I’ll be in contact.”
I scrape chopped celery into a mixing bowl. Then I mix it with ground beef, spices, and eggs before pouring the pink slime into loaf containers.
Everybody likes meatloaf.
I’m counting on it. The local yams will make great mashed potatoes. We managed to buy some butter and milk from a nearby dairy. I’m topping it off with roasted vegetables. Easy. Quick. Healthy.
That’s what these people need.
It didn’t take much convincing to obtain funding. Photographers came on to shoot the grand opening of my soup kitchen. Once again, my face was plastered over world news.
August was devastated. “You had a choice. You could’ve not been part of his machine.”
Fighting back by sipping Mai Tais and lounging on the beach does not feel like resisting. It’s selling out. Becoming complicit.
I load ovens with pans, struggling with dread.
I’m doing a good thing. Aren’t I?
August says I don’t have to be involved, but I’m in the papers anyway. I’m in this mess, whether he likes it or not. He doesn’t get it. He has an outlet. His plantations sustain dozens of livelihoods.
After I finish, I wipe surfaces and clean the mixing bowls. The ladies and I work together in silence. I can’t speak fluent Spanish, but I understand enough. There’s a rhythm to our jobs. I do all the prep. Maria helps with the baking. Lara serves the visitors. And I wash dishes, dreaming when I’ll be able to hold a conversation.
The only one who understands me is the guy I’m trying to avoid. Unfortunately, he’s never far away. Alex strolls into the kitchen. I don’t look up—I know it’s him. He has a distinctive walk.
Excitement amps his deep voice. “The line is twice as long. Word’s getting out.”
That’s great news. I glance at him, smiling. “Or they’re adjusting to my cooking.”
“What you’ve done is incredible.” He gestures to the cafeteria. “Have you seen them?”
“I haven’t. Been busy.” I decided against showing my face to guests. The more I’m absent from the public eye, the better.
“Some tell me it’s the only meal they have.”
“Damn.” Meatloaf is a poor substitute for a day’s worth of food. “That puts it into perspective, doesn’t it?”
“I knew things were bad, but…You’ve opened my eyes. This was a great idea.”
A happy glow pulses in my chest. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is.” Alex closes the distance between us. “I talk to them every week. You’re giving them hope.”
I swallow hard. “That’s—wow.”
“You don’t have to stay here. We can always train someone else to manage the charity. Just say the word.”
“I enjoy my job. Honestly.” I still don’t like the way he looks at me. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“This isn’t about what I want,” Alex says impatiently. “He’s using you.”
The knot in my throat rises. “Your father? I’m well aware.”
“No, August.”
I spray the stainless steel, buffing the appliances with a dry cloth. “I don’t believe you.”
“Fine.” Alex simmers, his voice all bile. “I’ve never lied to you, but my brother has countless times.”
“You want something from me. That’s why I can’t trust you.” I toss the rag in a bucket filled with fabric to be laundered. “You should go.”
21
My eyes snap open to a pitch-black world. I listen for tree frogs, but they’re drowned by loud booms. I’ve slept through dozens of rainstorms.
This one’s different.
Bad weather doesn’t frighten me. It will rain soon. My lids flutter as sleep beckons, until a scream pierces the night. The noise runs through me like electricity.
I didn’t imagine that.
I sit bolt upright. The sheets fall. “August?”
I grope for August, but his side of the bed is cold. The lights in the bathroom are dark. I flip a switch, blinking at the sudden brightness. A harsh white illuminates terra-cotta tiles and cream walls.
Where the hell is he?
I dress into a robe. My feet slap the tiles. I burst onto the balcony. The tepid air clings to my skin. A heady, wet scent floats over the humidity. Like always, it’s moist, but there’s something else mingled with the moisture. An acrid stench.
Smoke.
It drifts from the courtyard. Men run toward the west wall. I follow their progression, squinting to make out sentries. They aim rifles at the road. Deafening cracks I mistook for thunder sound like jackhammers.
Horror rises up my throat. We’re under attack.
“August!”
No comfort glides from the darkness. I’m alone.
An explosion sends a dart of panic through my heart. The ground rings with more screams. I find a pair of sandals. Then I wrench open the door, flying down the corridors. I scream his name, but the only responses are my panicked echoes.
A guard standing outside catches my arm.
“What’s going on?” I demand. “¿Qué pasa?”
Through his stream of Spanish, I pick out a few words: “guns” and “hide.”
“No, I need to know what’s happening!” If only I could speak this language. “Don’t tell me to go back.”
He repeats the phrase. It’s not his fault he’s talking fast—he’s anxious. But it makes him harder to understand. The man pulls me away.
I resist him. “Let go!”
Bewildered, he releases me. I slide down the maze of security officers, heading toward the courtyard where I hear shouting interspersed among gunfire.
I burst into the scene of military vehicles issuing commanding shouts. My eyes scan the brightly lit area, where a splash of red captures my eye. A man writhes where the color is the thickest, screaming.
Soldiers pack the wound on his thigh with soaked compresses. He screams as they apply pressure. Crimson flows from his leg in little rivulets. Nausea draws a line on my tongue.
I rush to his side and grab his pale bicep. It’s slippery with blood. He’s young—way too young. I brush hair from his forehead. His eyes show white all around.
“It’ll be okay.” I palm his cheek, and his face turns into me. “You’re safe.”
The medic wraps a tourniquet. He throws me a meaningful look. This will hurt. A lot.
So I squeeze the wounded soldier’s hand.
The knot tightens. A piercing scream splits the air. He bucks my grip, thrashing against the pain.
“I’m so sorry for doing this.” I hold his shoulders. “Don’t move!”
He slumps, the breath in his lungs spent.
Alarm jolts into my heart. “He passed out!”
“Over here!” a voice bellows. “Quickly!”
A stretcher hurtles toward us, flanked by soldiers. I step back as they lift the man’s body. His arm hangs limp as they push him away from the gate.
“Where are they taking him?” No one knows what the hell I’m saying. “Why aren’t they leaving?”
I point at the exit. The bearded man who tied the tourniquet raises his eyebrows.
“We can’t. Not yet.” He wipes his hands. “The roads aren’t safe.”
“You can’t let him bleed to death!” Aghast, I watch them roll the soldier inside. “Do something!”
He dismisses me with an irritated wave. I search for a friendly face in the crowd.
A guard I recognize grips my elbow, jerking his head to the mansion.
“No.
I’d rather stay here.”
Releasing a low hiss, he drags me toward my room.
“No means no.” I yank myself free, blazing with fury. “I need to know what’s going on, not be kept in the dark like a pet. Let go of me!”
Heavy footfalls race down, and August emerges in a state of wild panic. He’s wearing nothing but loose-fitting jeans. It’s as though he rushed down in the middle of getting dressed.
“Lily!” He blanches at the sight of me. “Oh my God.”
“What?” I follow his stare, suddenly aware of the crimson soaking my robe. “Oh, it’s not—I’m all right.”
The soldier’s blood is on my wrists. Arms. Everywhere.
August releases a furious roar. It’s like a bomb exploding. August launches at the guard, fist crashing into the man’s jaw.
“Please.” The man staggers, hands held in surrender.
“August!” I grab his arm, but he pushes me aside. “STOP!”
He can’t hear me through the bestial rage coursing through his veins, feeding his mind with poison. I sprint to the guard’s side, shaking at the terrible sound of August’s madness. I shield him from my husband, whom I barely recognize.
“Jesus, listen to me. This isn’t my blood!”
A snarl twists his features. He grabs my wrist. I flinch from his touch, but August doesn’t notice. Or care.
He bellows out an order before sweeping me off my feet.
I struggle in his embrace. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, August. I’m fine!”
“Be quiet.”
I tell him to go do something that banks the fire in his eyes higher. Immune to my protests, he carries me to our room, kicking open the door. Once we’re inside, he throws me onto the bed. He rips the knot at my waist. In a frenzy to remove it, he tears my collar to my breast.
The Secret Arrangement Page 13