Heaven Sent

by Rochelle Alers

  He took the cup from her hand, holding it tightly between his fingers, and emptied it. He handed it back to her, nothing in his expression revealing what he was feeling at that moment.

  “What do they call you?”

  Serena thought it odd that he would use that phrase to ask her her name. “Serena,” she replied before standing up.

  “Any middle name?” She shook her head as she returned the cup to the tray. “Serena is a beautiful name for a princess.” Settling down on the pillows cradling his back, he smiled. And it’s the perfect name for someone sent from heaven to give him back his life, he mused, closing his eyes.

  This time when he drifted off to sleep it wasn’t to escape from the pain. It was to sleep and heal. The tea had begun to work its magic.

  Serena stared at her sleeping patient, a slight smile softening her mouth. “If I’m a princess, then you are a prince, David Cole.” Picking up the tray, she left the room. She had to get some clothes for him. Despite the fact that she was used to naked bodies, there was something about David’s that bothered her. Not as a nurse, but as a woman.

  Changing quickly from the red dress and mules into a pair of black linen slacks and a white linen, button-front, sleeveless top, she pushed her bare feet into a pair of black, patent leather thong sandals. She wanted to drive into the city and buy something for David to wear before it began raining again. Wherein the rest of Costa Rica experienced two seasons—wet and dry—Limón’s Caribbean coastal region was usually wet all the year round. It sometimes experienced less rain in the dry season, which was generally from December to April, when Ticos referred to the dry season as verano. The rest of the year was their invierno, or winter.

  Before she left for her trip she informed Luz Maria that she had invited a guest for dinner. She did not encounter anyone from the permanent household staff as she made her way through a wide hallway running along the rear of the house. However, she did notice several men working diligently on several new trees that had been added to the existing ones surrounding the property.

  Other than his family and his country, her stepfather’s passion was plants. He was educated as a botanist, and added an enormous greenhouse to La Montaña ten years after the house was constructed. It contained every plant, flower, and tree indigenous only to Costa Rica. An aviary was built years later, housing quetzals, macaws, toucans, and tiny pygmy parrots.

  Her parents’ late-model Mercedes-Benz was not in the four-car garage, and she assumed that Rodrigo had taken it when he drove them to the airport for their flight to San José.

  Her first and only car, a bright yellow, 1974 Volkswagen “Bug,” was parked in its assigned bay. Raul made certain it was serviced and ready to start up even though it was only driven when she returned to Costa Rica. Gabriel’s rugged Jeep was parked in its usual spot, next to a brand new pickup truck. The pickup was used by anyone who needed to navigate the local roads whenever torrential rains made vehicular travel virtually impossible.

  The Volkswagen’s engine roared to life as soon as she turned the ignition. Shifting into reverse, she backed out of the garage and maneuvered down the paved road leading away from La Montaña.

  She drove with the windows down, and the muggy stillness descended on her exposed flesh like a heated wet blanket. Dark clouds hovered overhead, foretelling another downpour within the hour. Reaching up, she picked at the damp curls clinging to her moist forehead. For the duration of her stay in Costa Rica she knew she would often have to affect a single braid to keep her hair off her face.

  Serena was always astounded by how much the spirit and culture of the Limón region resembled the Caribbean islands. However, Costa Rican history told the story of how the province of Limón had been geographically and culturally isolated for centuries, its Afro-Caribbean population even banned from traveling into the Central Valley until after the 1948 civil war. Communications improved after a major highway was completed in the late eighties, but the region’s population was still sparse because of the extreme climatic conditions—constant high humidity and rain interspersed with brilliant sun and clear light.

  Tourists found the region fascinating, because it was a naturalist’s fantasyland. The Whitewater rapids of Río Pacuare, the nesting grounds, marshes and lagoons around Barra del Colorado, Río Estrella, and Manzanillo for turtles and birds, and the string of seductive, white beaches edged with coral reefs all made it a favorite of thousands who came to Costa Rica for sybaritic vacations.

  Parking her car in an area close to the Mercado Municipal, she continued on foot to the vast, decrepit building whose vendors and merchandise spilled out onto the streets. All around her she heard the familiar, “Wh’appen, Man?” It was the leisurely greeting of Limón’s Afro-Caribbeans.

  She headed for a vendor’s stall that carried men’s apparel. It took her an hour to select underwear, T-shirts, shorts, and a pair of large leather thongs. She’d held up each garment, trying to assess if it would fit David, finally deciding to buy several large and extra-large T-shirts, and shorts and underwear with a thirty-six-inch waist. Stacks of jeans caught her attention, but she decided against purchasing a pair because she was unsure of the length. There was no doubt that David Cole was tall, as tall as Raul and Gabe, but he weighed more than the two men.

  She planned to return to her car when the items on a vendor’s stand caught her attention. It took another quarter of an hour to select a comb, brush, and shaving equipment. A mysterious smile curved her lips when she predicted that David Cole would probably appreciate the grooming supplies more than the clothes.

  “Vain peacock,” she whispered to herself as she stored her purchases in the back seat of the Volkswagen. A roll of thunder followed by an ear-shattering crash of lightning shook the earth at the moment she slipped behind the wheel. Her return trip to La Montaña would have to be navigated in a downpour.

  Shoppers scurried as the rain began to fall, seeking shelter. They knew the heavy downpour would end almost as soon as it began. Only a few barefoot children lingered, until their parents shouted at them to come in out of the rain.

  Serena shifted gears, squinting through the windshield. The wipers were set to the fastest speed, yet it wasn’t fast enough to keep rivulets of water from distorting her view.

  Maneuvering over to the side of the paved road, she cut off the engine and waited. Her moist breathing fogged up the windows as heat and moisture filled the small car.

  Within fifteen minutes the rain subsided and the sun emerged from behind wispy clouds. The heat intensified quickly with the sun, forcing her to roll down the windows. The small car had become a suffocating tomb.

  She downshifted as she made her way up the steep incline to La Montaña, maneuvering into her parking space at the garage at the same time Rodrigo emerged from the Mercedes-Benz. Vertical lines formed between her eyes. She hadn’t seen him on the road in front of her.

  “¡Buenas tardes! Señorita Serena.”

  “Good afternoon, Rodrigo,” she said, giving the man a warm smile. “Have my parents returned?”

  Rodrigo shook his head. “No. They are staying in San José for a few days.”

  Serena stared at the man who had been Raul Vega’s driver for nearly twenty years. He was of medium height and alarmingly thin, despite having a voracious appetite. And even though he had recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday his tanned face was smooth, and his straight, black hair claimed no traces of gray.

  It was rumored that when he was in his teens he had fallen in love with the daughter of a wealthy landowner. He knew her parents would never consent to their marrying because he was a common laborer. Rodrigo had worked hard, sometimes holding down three jobs, hoping to save enough money to elevate his status, but when the young woman married a wealthy Costa Rican businessman he left San José for Limón, working on a banana plantation for several years.

  When one of the plantation workers mentioned that Raul Vega was hiring men to work on the grounds surrounding the large mountai
ntop house, Rodrigo had left the plantation for La Montaña. He secured a position—not to work the land, but as a driver. It was a position he treasured. He was well-paid and had his own living quarters at the beautiful house. There were times when he had nothing to do. However, there were times when he did things that had nothing to do with his skills as an excellent driver. It did not matter, because no one had ever referred to him as a peasant again.

  Rodrigo glanced at the packages on the backseat of the Volkswagen. “May I help you with your purchases?”

  “Please,” Serena replied, pushing her seat forward.

  The driver gathered the bags and waited until she closed the door to the car. “Where do you want them?”

  “Kindly take them to my bedroom.”

  She delayed following Rodrigo into the house. She knew she had to check on David, but she also wanted to survey the land surrounding La Montaña. She never tired of listening to the raucous cries of the colorful birds, or staring out at the thick, blue haze that always hung over the rain forest. The cloying fragrance of creeping flowers mingling with the smell of damp earth was like the sensuous scent of a priceless perfume. The scene from the mountaintop retreat was breathtaking, and at that moment she wondered why she hadn’t returned to Costa Rica to live.

  The air was pure, clean, the forest abundant with natural flora and wildlife. The beaches were pristine and the water unpolluted. The country’s natural beauty was overwhelming, and its people at peace.

  She was now thirty years old and she had lived sixteen of those years in Costa Rica. And over the time she had asked herself that question over and over since she left to live in the United States. The answer was always the same: Because I am an American.

  The word reminded her of the American convalescing under her parents’ roof. Turning, she made her way into the house.

  Walking down the hall, she stepped into the guest room and saw David reclining on a chair, eyes closed, his right foot resting on the ottoman. The sheet, draping his body like a toga, floated to the floor in graceful folds. She knocked softly against the open door.

  His eyes opened and he glared at her. “Why did you lie to me about my face?”

  Chapter 9

  Serena felt as if the breath had been siphoned from her lungs as she struggled to breathe. It was apparent that he had looked at a mirror.

  “I did not lie to you.” She struggled to control her temper.

  David slowly lowered his right leg, the effort it took to complete the motion clearly marked on his face. That he was in pain was evidenced by his grimace and bared teeth.

  “I asked about my face and you said it was healing.”

  “The doctor said it was healing. And it is.”

  “What he didn’t say was that I would be scarred for life.”

  Suddenly the strain of what she had undergone for the past two weeks swept over Serena. Hearing of her brother’s arrest; listening to the charges leveled against him; hearing the judge deny him bail; seeing him handcuffed and led out of a courtroom; knowing that if a jury found him guilty that he would die in Florida’s electric chair.

  Gabriel Diego Vega was going to die, while arrogant David Cole was only concerned about a little scar along the side of his face, a scar which probably could be eradicated by cosmetic surgery. Walking over to the bed, she picked up two pillows and launched them at David like guided missiles. One landed on his lap, the other at his feet.

  Her mood veered from fear to frustration, and then to full-blown anger. “My brother is going to die, and all you can think about is a little scratch on your face.” Swallowing hard, she attempted to blink back tears and failed. They overflowed, staining her cheeks. “It sickens me to have to look at you.” Turning, she raced out of the bedroom, ignoring David as he called out her name.

  My brother is going to die. The six words echoed in David’s head like the slow pounding sound of a kettle drum. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head, ignoring the band of pain tightening its vise around his temples.

  The image he saw behind his lids was that of Serena’s face and her tears. He saw the tears and her sadness. He was alive, bruised and battered but alive, while her brother was going to die.

  When, he asked himself, had he become so selfish? When had he come to think only of David Cole, and no one else but David Cole?

  Resting his head against the back of the wing chair, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the space where Serena had been. He hadn’t been that way when he was with Night Mood. He had been a member of a band who thought of themselves as an extended family. They’d traveled, eaten, slept, and rehearsed together. The six men saw more of one another than they did their own biological family members. The six men thought as one, and performed as one unit.

  But his own selflessness stopped once he left Night Mood and took over as CEO of ColeDiz. His focus became productivity and profit margins. All he thought about was winning, at any cost.

  He remembered a time when he had not wanted anything to do with business. All he’d wanted, knew, and breathed, was music. And as much as he fought the pull, his instincts for business were predetermined. His maternal grandfather, his own father, and his brothers had been, and were, consummate deal makers. A small amount of capital in their hands proliferated like yeast-filled dough.

  His first passion had been, and would always be, music, but over the past nine years deal making had become a priority. And with the deal making came a hardness, a self-centered ruthlessness he hadn’t realized he possessed—until now.

  Serena Morris had taken care of him, while he only cared about himself. He was alive, while her brother was going to die. He could not retract what he’d said, but he could try to make amends.

  Using the armrests as support, he pushed to his feet, swaying, then stood upright. He ignored the pain in his head and foot as he gingerly made his way slowly across the room. Stumbling, he gathered the sheet in his right hand and inched his way out of the bedroom and into the hallway. It took Herculean strength for him to turn his head to the right, then the left. His bedroom was at the end of the hallway, so using the wall as his support he turned left. He had to find Serena. He had to apologize. He also needed answers to a few questions. If this was really La Montaña, then what was she to Raul Cordero-Vega?

  He ignored the wave of heat and then chills which were sweeping over his face and chest. A rush of dizziness caused him to stumble again. Reaching out, he braced a hand against the wall, steadying his progress and slowing his pace.

  Moisture beaded his forehead and coated his upper body. Each step he took weakened him, but he would not give in to the relentless pain stealing whatever strength was left in his battered body.

  He slowed his halting steps in front of a door. Leaning against its solid surface, he knocked. There was no answer and he tried turning the doorknob. It was locked.

  He continued down the wide hallway, his bare feet making no sound on the Moorish style patterned runner. Even though the next room was less than twenty feet away it could have been all of two hundred. Gritting his teeth in frustration, David willed the dizziness to abate. He could abide the pain, but not the dizziness and weakness.

  The door to the next room was open; leaning weakly against the door frame, David saw Serena. She stood with her back to the door, staring out the window. She was motionless, her arms wrapped around her body in a protective gesture.

  With his uninjured eye he noticed the slender lines of her body in the black slacks. The dark color slimmed her narrow waist and hips. His gaze moved up to her hair, and for the second time since he’d come to Costa Rica he smiled. He liked her hair. Right now it was secured on the top of her head but he wanted to see it down, floating around her face and shoulders in a rich cloud of gold-brown and red curls.

  “Lo siento mucho, Serena.”

  She heard the melodious male voice and spun around. Her gaze widened when she saw David supporting his sagging body against the door. Crossing her bedroom quickly, she wound
an arm around his waist, and when he attempted to adjust the sheet it fell to the floor.

  Leaning heavily against her smaller frame, David closed his eyes and swallowed back the bile threatening to make him sick. “I’m sorry,” he said, repeating his apology in English.

  Serena saw the beads of moisture dotting his forehead. Never had she encountered anyone as stubborn as David Cole. “Usted tiene que guardar cama.”

  “I’ll go back to bed and stay there,” he promised. “It was just that I wanted to apologize to you. And why is your brother going to die?”

  Supporting most of his weight on her shoulder, she turned and led him back to his bedroom. “I’d rather not talk about my brother right now. You can apologize after you’re better.”

  “Okay,” he conceded, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

  They made it back to the bedroom, David falling heavily onto the bed. She lifted his legs and he lay back against the two remaining pillows. Closing his eyes, he successfully swallowed back the bile, berating his foolishness. Serena was right. He had to stay in bed.

  He lay motionless as she took his temperature and blood pressure. The sensual scent of her was everywhere—in the air and on his flesh. His head hurt, his face ached, and his right foot throbbed continuously, yet he could not quell the desire he was beginning to feel for the woman taking care of him.

  She barked at him like a storm trooper, issuing orders like a drill sergeant, yet he was drawn to her. She was a princess and an angel, one sent from heaven to save his life.