by JoAnn Durgin
Thy will be done.
Early the Next Evening
Swaying to the music, Rosalinda smiled and beckoned to them. “Good evening, children.” She wore a brightly printed dress and a straw hat sat atop her head.
“I love the rhythm of this music,” Vara said. “It’s so festive!”
“Indeed. They’ve just done the Rumba, and this is the Merengue. Both dances migrated to Bonaire from the northern islands of the Caribbean. Come.” She motioned for them to follow, and they found a quiet area where she could tell them more and still be heard above the sounds of the music.
“It was actually the harsh living conditions on the island during slavery that promoted resilience in the people here,” she told them. “As a diversion while they worked, the slaves took to singing in their native African styles. They sang different types of songs—work songs, unloading songs, filling-in songs, Saturday songs, and hammock songs for the end of a long day. These songs developed into ritual festivities with percussion instruments, vocals, and dancing.”
Thornton nodded to the musicians. “What are the instruments they’re playing?”
“These are typical instruments—the marimba, a bari or small drum which is covered in sheepskin and played like bongos. There is also the karko or empty conch shell, triangle, guitar, and then we have”—Rosalinda clapped—“our hands.”
“That one man looks like he’s playing…a hoe?” Thornton pointed him out.
Rosalinda laughed. “Ah, yes. Musicians in Bonaire are resourceful in creating new instruments from discarded fragments of broken tools. That is indeed a hoe, and it’s called a chapi.”
A soloist began to sing, and the crowd laughed and cheered him on. A number of men were gathering together in the square.
Vara moved to one side to get a better view. “What’s happening now?”
“They’re preparing to perform a dance called the Bari, the same name as the drum. It’s part of our harvest festival and part of the larger Simadan festival which extends from February through the beginning of May.”
“What is the festival about?” Thornton asked her, making Vara laugh as he swayed his hips and snapped his fingers above his head.
“It is the time when Bonaire’s farmers, called kunukeros, celebrate the harvest. The tradition began when the farmers went from farm to farm in order to help one another.”
“So, it’s a big party to celebrate the harvest,” Vara observed.
Rosalinda nodded. “That is correct. The Simadan includes food, music, dance, and drink. There is one very special dance called the Wapa. The dancers form a long line and dance arm-in-arm, backward and forward. There are also three special songs especially for the festival.
“The man singing is improvising satirical lyrics based on recent events and local figures here on Bonaire. The dance is performed in two stages. This first part features men who will compete with each other for the attention of women. In the past, this dance could get violent, but it has now become a stylized dance contest.”
“Like Dancing with The Stars, Bonaire style?” Thornton smiled and, putting his arm around Vara’s waist, swung her around and then planted a quick, sweet kiss on her lips.
“Yes, child.” Rosalinda winked at Vara. “The second stage is when the most successful competitors choose their partners, but they are not allowed to touch one another. They perform a dance called the Tumba which is very precisely choreographed.”
They watched for a few minutes, and Vara loved watching the colorful dancers and clapped to the lively music. Beside her, Thornton and Rosalinda did the same.
“Would you like to sample the food?” she asked them.
“Sure thing. When on the island…” Thornton tugged Vara by the hand, and they walked with Rosalinda over to the tables.
Vara smiled. “This is bringing back memories of the Valentine Dance in Cherish.”
Rosalinda pointed out the foods and gave them a brief explanation of each. “This is funchi, which is similar to grits but less coarse. Like a corn meal pudding. Next is repa, which is a pancake and served plain or with goat stew. Then we have fiambo, which is a soup made from okra, similar to gumbo. Finally, we have boontji kunuku which are local beans. All three of these dishes are an important part of the Bonairean diet.”
As they ate and listened to the music, Vara thought back over the past few days of fun and sun. Bonaire was the finest snorkeling and scuba diving destination in the Caribbean. They’d learned that the marine resources and all the waters off Bonaire’s coast had been legally protected since 1979. They’d bicycled, hiked, and snorkeled together, and they’d gone scuba diving and frolicked on the beach and in the ocean.
Vara would never forget the sight of Thornton Fielding emerging from the crystal blue waves and strolling on the beach toward her. The water glistening in his hair, he was all male muscle and oh so handsome. The appreciation in his eyes for her made her feel like the most desired woman in the world. An older tourist strolling along the beach had smiled and, in broken English, told them their children would be beautiful and blessed.
Outside of the Caribbean hurricane belt, Rosalinda told them her home island of Bonaire was 112 square miles—30 miles from Curaçao, 50 miles from Venezuela, and 86 miles east of Aruba. The average air and water temperature was in the range of 80-82 degrees, and it was sunny year round with an average annual rainfall of 22 inches.
The northern end of the island was more mountainous, the southern part nearly flat and barely rose above sea level. They’d driven past the salt hills that glistened as though covered in snow. Thornton had done his homework and told her they were owned by Cargill, Inc. and yielded more than 400,000 tons of salt each year by extracting it from the sea. The salt production industry had started in Bonaire in 1636, making it their most enduring industry—not table salt, but salt used for water softening and the winter roads.
They’d tried to pick up some of the Dutch words, the official language of Bonaire, but the most widely spoken was Papiamentu, also known as the national language, a Portuguese-based Creole traceable to the first contact between the Portuguese and West Africans in the mid-1400s.
“When the slave trade began, the slaves did not share a common language and spoke dialects,” Rosalinda told them. “To communicate, they slowly started to acquire the coastal Creole, and it became the mother tongue. The resulting Creole served as a secret language shared among the slaves, and they used it when they did not want their owners to understand what they were saying.” Vara and Thornton had visited the still-existing slave quarters in the town of Rincon, built entirely of stone and too short for a man to stand upright inside.
Bastiaan worked with TWR, Trans-World Radio, and he took them to see the four major towers on the south part of the island near the salt hills. “We broadcast Christian radio programs in six languages,” he told them. “Including Venezuela, Cuba, Columbia, Brazil, and the Caribbean. Here on the island, we broadcast nonstop from a station called the Voice of Hope. He explained their mission was to reach the world for Jesus Christ, and their global outreach provides biblical truth to millions of people in more than 160 countries.
“We want to fulfill our purpose and follow the command of Jesus Christ to make disciples of all people,” he’d told them.
“Look.” Thornton nudged Vara and whispered in her ear, “Rose and Bastiaan.” He angled his head to where they huddled close together, surrounded by several young children.
“Those children might be his grandchildren,” Vara said. “Aren’t they adorable?”
“Yes,” Thornton said. He leaned his forehead on Vara’s. “I have the feeling Rose might not be returning to Minnesota with us.”
Tears stung the backs of her eyes. “I think you may be right.” She sighed. “But I couldn’t be happier for her.”
Thornton slid his hand over hers. “We can come visit.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. Rosalinda had found her way home again…and in so doing, she’d rediscovered her first l
ove.
Thank you, Jesus.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Next Day
Hearing his cell phone buzz, Thornton pulled it from the pocket of his swim trunks. He didn’t recognize the number but knew it was a Houston area code. Maybe Sam had looked him up. Doubtful. He had a few associates at NASA, so maybe one of them had a lead on a new assignment. He’d wait and see if they left a message.
Leaving the phone in the kitchen of his bungalow, Thornton headed toward the bedroom to grab a shower. Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, he heard the ding from a voice mail message. He was curious, but he’d listen after he finished getting ready. He still had an hour before he’d walk to the bungalow shared by Vara and Charlotte and they’d go out for lunch together.
A short time later, finished with his shower, Thornton padded back into the kitchen to get a glass of ice water. Standing at the counter, he clicked to listen to the message.
“Hi Thornton. This is Will Lewis at Johnson Space Center in Houston.”
Thornton sputtered and spewed water on the counter. Will Lewis? Commander Lewis, the national hero from the Pursuit space shuttle mission to the ISS? Was this a joke? If so, the guy had the Texas drawl down pat. Who would joke about something like that? Only the lowest of the low would impersonate a national hero.
“I understand you met my older brother, Sam, here in Houston recently. He told me about the work you’ve been doing the past few years. I know your former boss at Lockheed in Bethesda, and I’ve talked with some of the engineers here at Johnson. I understand your prototypes are very highly regarded and your work ethic is impeccable.”
Thornton slapped his forehead. Lewis. Not a joke. Sam was Will’s brother? What a family. Feeling slightly dizzy, he stumbled over to the table and dropped into a chair.
That’s why Sam Lewis had looked so familiar. He bore an uncanny resemblance Commander Lewis, or the other way around.
“I’d like to propose something to you as a possible job opportunity,” Commander Lewis was saying. “If you’re interested and have a free moment, I hope you’ll give me a call.” Thornton listened to the number and then jumped to his feet for a piece of scratch paper and a pen from the counter. After recording the number, he clicked off the phone and stared at the paper.
He’d definitely call Commander Lewis back—he’d be a crazy fool not to—but he needed a few minutes to compose himself so he didn’t come across like a kid obsessed with the famous astronaut.
Shaking his head and chuckling under his breath, Thornton raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. He remembered telling Vara that part of the fun of what he did was never knowing who might be on the other end of the phone with a possible assignment. No kidding.
Getting a call from one of the top guys at NASA in Houston?
It didn’t get much better than that.
Walking back into the bedroom, Thornton lowered onto the bed. “Lord, here goes. I’m going to talk to an astronaut.” Unable to stop his smile, he hit redial.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Later that Same Day
Vara entered the living room of the bungalow. Charlotte sat in a chair, staring straight ahead. Oh no. She fell to her knees on the floor beside her. “Charlotte? Is everything okay? Please talk to me.”
The older woman tucked soft white curls behind one ear. “I am not having a stroke, Vara. I am fine.”
“Praise Jesus!” Vara rested her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “You had me worried there for a moment.” She rose to her feet and gave the woman a hug.
Charlotte seemed to cling to her. And then softly kissed the top of Vara’s head. The color had drained from her face, and she appeared somewhat stricken.
“Thornton has gone to the beach.” Charlotte’s voice sounded monotone. “Go and find him, Vara. He will need you.”
Vara searched the woman’s face for any sign of what could be wrong. “What’s happened? Please tell me.”
“I confess I brought my boy here to tell him something I should have revealed years ago. I fear he may hate me, and it breaks my heart.”
“Thornton could never hate you. He loves you more than anything,” Vara assured her.
“I have done something unforgivable.” The words were spoken barely above a whisper. Charlotte’s brown eyes focused on hers. She did not speak for a long moment.
In that moment, Vara knew. It was in her eyes. Thornton had those same eyes. Vara’s gaze dropped to Charlotte’s fingers. Long, tapered fingers. Fingers like Thornton’s.
Vara’s eyes widened and she backed up a few steps. “You’re not his grandmother, are you?”
Charlotte nodded. “You are right. I am not his grandmother. Go find Thornton, Vara. He will tell you.”
Vara took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “I love you, Charlotte, and we will be back.”
Vara found Thornton sitting on a secluded stretch of beach, his chin resting on his propped knees. Dropping down beside him, she wasn’t sure what to do, what to say, what he might need from her. He might not even want to talk right now. She’d sit and wait, allowing him to give her the clues.
“I think I’ve known for a long time,” he said finally. “I’ve known but I never wanted to ask the question. I came to Bonaire for a relaxing time with the woman I thought was my grandmother, and now I find out she’s actually my birth mother. Just another day at the beach, huh?”
With a groan, he lowered on his back to the beach, arms crossed behind his head. “The man I believed was my father is, in fact, my older brother, and the woman I called Mom died from lung cancer when I was ten.”
He scrubbed his hands over his face and didn’t speak for several minutes. “This is a lot to absorb. It’ll be a miracle if I’m not laid out flat on a shrink’s couch when I get home.”
“You’ll be fine, Thornton.”
He looked over at her. “You sound pretty sure about that.”
She shifted toward him, sitting cross-legged. “You’re one of the most confident and secure men I’ve ever known. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve been blessed with many of Charlotte’s strongest and best qualities.”
“A mixed blessing since I’m well aware I’ve also inherited some of her most annoying traits.” A frown creased Thornton’s brow. “How did you find out? Did she tell you?”
“Yes. I was afraid she was having a stroke, so I went to her. She told me to come to you. Charlotte only said that she is not your grandmother. I felt one of those nudges, and when I looked deep into her eyes, I saw the truth.”
He nodded, the muscles in his jaws flexing. “At first I thought you had to have known all along. Wouldn’t you have seen her patient chart?”
Vara blew out a sigh and looked out over the beautiful water. Gentle waves lapped upon the shore. “I realize it makes me sound incompetent, but when I first met you, I had no idea you existed.”
Thornton let out a small snort/laugh, and he sat up again, propping himself with his hands behind him on the beach. He stretched out his long, tanned legs in front of him and stared straight ahead. “She had my birth certificate altered, and my passport, and all my legal documents will need to be corrected. So many lies have been told, so many things done to cover their tracks.”
“I suppose so,” Vara murmured. “I hadn’t reached that point in my thinking yet. Thornton, I have to ask. Did Charlotte tell you the identity of your birth father?”
He nodded slowly. “He’s someone in Cherish. Someone we both know and admire.”
Vara gasped and moved one hand over her mouth. When Thornton looked over at her, she lowered her hand and whispered. “Sherman?”
His gaze held hers before he gave her an almost imperceptible nod. “Remember the night of the Valentine Dance…we both said how Charlotte and Sherman looked somehow right together?”
“That was uncanny,” she said. “A little freaky now, in retrospect, but also…”
“God-ordained?” Thornton sounded as confused as she felt.
> “I don’t have any answers for this one,” she said.
“Join the club. Neither do I.”
“They’d both just lost their spouses,” Thornton told her. “Charlotte was in her early forties when Grandpa Tom died. According to her, she and Sherman were together only once, a moment of weakness when two people who were friends needed the comfort of someone else.”
He blew out a long breath, and his shoulders heaved. “When Charlotte discovered she was pregnant, she was ashamed and ran scared. So she went to be with her son, Tom, Jr. and his wife, Jennifer, who lived in New York.”
Thornton moaned. “This sounds like one of those movies that’s almost too unbelievable, but it’s so unbelievable that it must be true!” He lowered his head to his hands, shaking it back and forth. “I’m not even making any sense.”
“You’re doing fine.” When Vara inched her hand toward him, Thornton grasped it and held on as though for dear life. “I’m here. Whatever your need.”
“Thanks.” He nodded. “I’m glad you are. Charlotte had the baby, and then they all moved together to Cherish where I was raised as the child of Tom Jr. and Jennifer Fielding, as you know. They had not kept in contact especially well with the townspeople in Cherish since they’d been in New York, and apparently no one in Cherish was overly suspicious. Or, if they were, nothing was ever said.”
“Forgive me, Thornton, but I’m surprised Charlotte didn’t claim that she’d conceived before your grandfather’s passing. She could have been your mother and only a few people would have had to know the truth.”
“Tom and Jennifer could not conceive and desperately wanted a child of their own to raise,” he said. “And I was conceived a little too late to claim that I was Tom Sr.’s child. Pride and everything else prevented Charlotte from telling the truth. But now knowing the truth is helping to put certain things in place from my perspective.”