Amelia

by Harvey Mendez

  Amelia took a deep breath. “Well, do you?”

  “Do I what?” Irritation tinged his voice.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Like my type.”

  “Your type—you mean brown, gorgeous, Oriental?”

  “Is that what you were dreaming about?” She grinned.

  He felt his face flush. “Errr...”

  “You looked like you were making love—till just before you woke up. What happened?”

  “She was in my arms. We wanted to make love—then in an instant, she was gone.” His neck muscles tightened.

  “I saw the horror on your face.” She paused. “Who was she?”

  Vincent shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter now. Can we get back to Harry?”

  His abruptness stunned her. She’d thought he was dreaming about her. “Thought I told you about Harry?”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Saipan. I grew up with him. He’s Harry Sakura.”

  Vincent perked up. “Sakura, hmmm... Cherry.”

  “I know.”

  “So you know Japanese.”

  “A little,” Amelia’s tone became serious, “but we were afraid of the Japanese during the occupation. Their word was law.”

  “And you got involved with Harry.” He didn’t want her involved with Harry.

  Her face twisted. “After my father was killed, Harry told me about secret plots connected to Dad and Amelia Earhart.”

  “How did he know?” Vincent raised his eyebrows. “He’s too young. Someone older and higher up must’ve fed him info.”

  “Then it was true—Dad was involved with her.”

  Vincent did not answer. He took a hand-off the wheel and scratched his beard. “So Harry knows classified information that happened years ago and now he’s mixed up with the Viet Cong. I’d like to find his link.”

  “I’ve had enough of those people.” Amelia ran her hands over her cuts and bruises. “My head still kills me.”

  He moved toward her. “It’s such a pretty head, too.”

  “Doesn’t feel too pretty.” She smiled.

  Vincent focused on the rest of her. “You’re more than beautiful, even dinged up.”

  “By the way, I’m not Oriental. My mother is Chamorro.”

  “I didn’t mean you were Oriental. I meant I like the blend, Asian, Polynesians—whatever. Guess it’s just the different colors of skin that’s appealing.”

  “I see.”

  He gazed into her eyes. “Whatever you are, you’re ravishing.”

  A large swell hit the starboard side of the boat. Amelia fell against him.

  He gently kissed her mouth. It’d been such a long time. A tremor spread through him like a flash flood.

  She stirred, pushed him away. “I don’t think we’d better do this.” Did taste good, though.

  Vincent touched his lips. “Was Harry your lover?”

  “That’s kind of personal, isn’t it?”

  He drew back. “Didn’t mean to offend you, but I’d like to know where I stand.”

  “Are you always this blunt?” She found his eyes. “Maybe you should just let things happen.”

  “Thought I just did.” He spread his feet.

  “Look, I’ve been through enough for one day. This isn’t a good idea right now.”

  Vincent heard the frustration in her voice. “You better sleep in my bunk.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. “With you?”

  “I’m just not hitting the right cylinders. I’ll take the night watch. You get some rest.” He felt like a klutz.

  “I need it.” She turned. “I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “I hope so.” His tone was like a sigh.

  Amelia turned to him. “Everything okay?”

  He stood straight at the helm, stared northward. “We’ll work it out.” He heard her walk away, but her scent stayed with him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vincent felt a catch in the wheel. He turned hard starboard. Too much play. He turned port. Control wasn’t there. In a storm—big trouble. Loose cable? Harry’s boys? Better pull in someplace before they hit high seas. He looked at his map, then the compass. Mac’s Islet, just a few degrees off course.

  After a few miles, he scanned the horizon until the first amber streaks of dawn backlit the small island off the port bow.

  Amelia stretched her legs toward the bottom of the bunk. Her eyes opened; she squeezed her arms around the hard pillow. Aching muscles cramped her shoulders. She lay back, let the hurt subside. The slight swaying of the boat soothed her; she closed her eyes. Rocked, just like a . . . wait, the boat wasn’t moving forward.

  Opening a porthole, she gazed at an aqua-blue cove. She hopped off the bunk, caught a glimpse of her nakedness reflected in the mirror. Bruises, scratches, her hair—what a mess. Sweat ran off her shiny face. Well, if they were anchored, at least she could take a bath. She grabbed a large white towel off a peg. “Vincent!” No answer. She called again. Still no answer. “Now, what’s he doing?”

  Amelia pulled on her panties, hooked a button in the middle of her blouse. The fabric stuck to her moist body. She imagined what his hands would feel like. Throwing the towel over her shoulder, she ran up the stairs. “Vincent!” The deck was empty fore and aft.

  The morning sun pierced the heavy air. Looking up, the reflex made her sneeze. At the stern, she dropped the towel and her clothes. The water, so inviting. She dove deep into the cool lagoon.

  Surfacing, Amelia pulled back her long, black hair and slid her hands down her cheeks, down her body. “Aaaaah!” The salt water stung her wounds but loosened her muscles. Diving several times, the strength returned to her lithe body. She tested her endurance underwater, held her breath until her lungs almost burst.

  Freedom of nakedness once more, soothing water on her breasts, between her legs. Would he be tender? He’d like her naked. What would she do if he dove next to her now? Saipan, when she was young, seemed so faraway. She knew those deep waters well. Harry—the rest of the kids. Harry stayed close, watched out for her. Then their bodies blossomed . . . .

  Amelia came up for air. Her chest heaved. She pressed her hands on her breasts.

  Her breaths came fast. Vincent—better wash those clothes.

  Vincent was still not on deck when Amelia snapped up her garments and jumped back into the water. She rubbed the clothing between her hands. Vincent kept poking his nose in her thoughts.

  Vincent climbed out of the stern passage underneath the cockpit and wiped his dirty hands on a cloth. Well, that was done. Just needed a new steering cable. He tested the wheel, felt the tension again. Sweat dripped off his forehead. Man, a swim would feel good about now. Maybe Amelia would go, too. Better wake her. He knocked, opened the cabin door. “Amelia?” She could be in the head. “Amelia?”

  Amelia’s wet clothes flew through the air, plopped on the deck. She climbed up the ladder and picked up the towel. While wrapping the towel around her waist, she heard a creak.

  Vincent stood in the cockpit, stared at her bare breasts. She met his stare and tied the towel close to her bosom.

  “There you are.” His eyes did not move from her breasts.

  “Hi.” She shook the excess water out of her hair.

  “What’re you doing?” His eyes wandered over the wet terry cloth towel.

  She dropped her head, shook her hair again. He started toward her. She heard him, held up a hand. He stopped, stared.

  “Needed a bath,” she said, “and washed my clothes. Nothing else to wear.”

  “Oh, I was just thinking about going for a swim.”

  Amelia picked up her blouse and panties, squeezed out the water. She bent forward and caught Vincent’s eyes still trained on her breasts. “Just got out. Water’s great.”

  “Want to go back in?” He took off his shirt.

  She gazed at his trim frame. His muscles rippled when he tossed his shirt on the deck. She hung her clothes on a lifeline, looked over her sho
ulder. He pulled off his pants, stood in his shorts.

  “Maybe . . .” she said. “It is kind of hot. Where were you anyway? I looked all over.”

  “Had a steering problem during the night. Pulled in here early this morning.”

  “Did you fix it?”

  “Yes, come on, let’s go.” He leaped over the side without his shorts.

  His bare butt sailing through the air made her laugh. He sure was quick. Amelia threw her towel on the deck. “Look out below, here I come.”

  Her naked body plunged into the water next to Vincent. She surfaced facing him. Before she could wipe the water out of her eyes, he kissed her mouth. “Wait.” She pulled back.

  “Sorry,” he said, “you’re just too pretty—all wet, shiny. Couldn’t resist. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Amelia slid her hands across her cheeks, down the back of her head. “You didn’t. I’m still hurting. Harry’s goons roughed me up good.”

  “I know. Guess I only see your beauty. It glows through all the bruises and scratches.” He touched her hands, pulled them close to him.

  “The water is soothing, though, after I get used to it.” Still in his grasp, she treaded water. Hmmm, some kiss.

  Vincent followed her slow movements in the clear water. If she was teasing, it sure was working.

  She shifted back and forth, easing close to him then pushing away. Watching his eyes trace her body, she wiggled and inched her knees against his thigh. A squeeze, a twist, she floated in front of him, hands around his waist. What would it be like, to feel him fill her insides?

  “Amelia.” Vincent’s mouth covered hers. His eyes closed.

  Their bodies closed together in the water. Both clung like nothing else in the world mattered. She opened her legs. He pressed against her and slowly opened his eyes.

  A large fin sliced toward them from the middle of the lagoon.

  Vincent pulled away from her. “Not here, come on.” He tugged her toward the boat.

  “What’s wrong?” Amelia struggled with him.

  “We need to get out.”

  “Why?”

  “Shark.” He pushed her forward. “Better get on board, fast.”

  “I can swim.” She swam away from him.

  Vincent caught her at the ladder, climbed behind her. He turned, saw the dark shadow under the water. On deck, he tossed Amelia his shirt. “Here, you can wear this.”

  “Thanks, you sure you saw a shark?”

  He gave her a quick glance. “Look.” He pointed to the large fin moving away.

  Amelia cupped her hands above her eyes, peered across the lagoon. “I see it. Lots of them around Saipan.” She grinned. “Wonder if he knew what he interrupted?”

  After breakfast, Vincent set sail, headed north. Amelia sat in the cockpit. The wind blew Vincent’s hair. She fixed her eyes on him.

  At the helm, he felt her gaze. “What are you thinking?”

  “What?” Her head jerked back.

  He turned. “You were staring.”

  “Guess I was. Just wondering….”

  “About us? Our little swim?” He was hoping.

  She pulled her hair back. “Kinda—how you were in the water... and what Harry told me about you.”

  “What was that?” He cranked his head around.

  “That you killed my father.” She said it but didn’t know if she believed it anymore.

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “How did I do that? Better still, why would I do it? We were good friends.”

  “So you say.” She had to know the truth. “Maybe he found out something you didn’t want known about Amelia Earhart?”

  “After thirty years?” Vincent raised his hands off the wheel. “Come on, that doesn’t make sense.”

  Amelia’s mouth was getting dry. “What about all the records the Japanese had on her? They just didn’t walk out of Imperial Headquarters.”

  “How’d you know about those records?” He looked stunned.

  She took a deep breath. “Same way you know what’s going on in this war.”

  “Touché.” But the real question is, who’s the brain? Your Harry’s not smart enough.”

  Amelia looked hard into his eyes. “Just so we get this straight. He’s not my Harry—not anymore. But he did tell me what you did then, and what you do now. You’re always involved in some war.”

  “You don’t know that.” Vincent raised to his full height. “You never saw me before that night in Jungle Wings. You weren’t even born when Stan and I worked at Lockheed.”

  “Harry showed me photos, when you were young, and now, beard and all.”

  Amelia saw the anger in his eyes. Still handsome, though.

  “Then you should know I can’t be involved in Nam.” He’d better find out how Harry knew so much.

  Amelia’s face was serious. “Your Japanese friend is, and he’s tied to you.”

  Vincent’s muscles hardened. “You think you know certain things, but you’re messing with things that could get you killed. Better back off this.” God, two Amelias in one lifetime. He adjusted his hands on the wheel, stared toward the northeast.

  Amelia stood. She’d hit some kind of nerve. Just what kind of man was he? Better if she gave his warning lots of thought. This could be a silent journey. He did move her, though.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two days later, Vincent eased Courage through the reef surrounding his island, into the lagoon. For five years he had seldom left the island. He’d still be CIA if they’d stopped the Kennedy thing. Down the line—G-2, OSS, CIA—all masters of cover-up. No one helped him. He had to get out. The island, his refuge. Two haunting mysteries, Kennedy, AE... he’d gone over charts, maps, books, hundreds of times. AE couldn’t have just lost it in the drink. The Japanese must’ve picked her up. Somewhere, on one of the islands, he’d find what really happened to her. Now, he’d brought a young Amelia with him—a beautiful, alluring Amelia.

  The island looked good to him. Coconut palms stood like crooked pillars at the sand’s edge. Turquoise water rivaled the cloudless sky. Two small mountains, dormant volcanoes, peaked high above the jungle.

  Vincent stood at the helm. “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful.” Amelia turned. “Like a dream.”

  He looked down the soft curves of her body.

  She felt his eyes transcending them back to their nakedness in the water. So close to her—so delicious. He wouldn’t have stopped if that shark hadn’t barged in. Then the last two days he’d been so distant. Now, he looked like he craved her. She moved away. He’d learn she could be all business, too. “Let’s go ashore.” She started for the bow ladder.

  “Slow down, let the anchor settle.”

  Before climbing down, she stared across the lagoon. “What if Amelia Earhart is still alive and living on an island like this?”

  “Yeah, what if?” Vincent followed her into the dinghy.

  Their silhouettes stamped a torn pattern against the lavender sky. Gliding across the water, they inhaled the early-evening stillness.

  Vincent’s small shack stood on bamboo pillars above the attacking bugs. Faded palm fronds covered the roof. Pliant bamboo shoots, laced together, formed the walls.

  Amelia climbed the rickety steps. “This is more like Robinson Crusoe than anything on Saipan.”

  “And dirtier. I left for Brisbane in a hurry.”

  “I know how guys live.” She poked her head inside the thatched door that swung in the tropical breeze. “It could use a bit of a scrub.”

  Vincent lit a kerosene lamp. “How do you know how guys live?”

  Amelia smirked. Ponder that awhile, Mr. All-Business. She kicked off her shoes, ran her fingers across the hand-carved wooden chair against the far wall. “Nice.”

  He scratched his beard. “So, you’re not going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Nothing—great beginning, gonna be loads of fun.”

  She snooped around, touched his meager
possessions. “You could use a new basin.” She pointed to the rusting wash pan on a tiny stand.

  “I need lots of new things around here.” Vincent glanced at the long, black hair hiding part of her face.

  She plopped on the old sagging bed. “But this is fine.” She turned on her side, stretched her legs.

  He followed their curves, traced his gaze back up her body.

  Amelia pretended not to see him. “Did you do this?” Her fingers skimmed the carved tropical fish on the headboard.

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such an artist.”

  “Got a few hidden talents.”

  She met his eyes. “Wonder if I’ll ever know you?”

  “You’re a mystery, too.” Vincent picked up his dirty shirts from the floor. Large cockroaches scurried into the cracks.

  “So was AE. Better that way.” She sat up. “Right now, you’d better do your wash. I’ll make up this bed the Marine way.”

  He threw the dirty clothes in the corner by the door. He watched her flip a coin on the bed; a grin cut across his face.

  Amelia spied his worktable and flipped through one of the scrapbooks filled with yellowed newspaper clippings and photos.

  “Part of my AE work,” Vincent said.

  She searched a pile of ocean and celestial navigation charts. “The Navy could have used these.”

  “That’s for sure.” He pointed to a map. “This shows her last position.”

  “No wonder they searched the wrong area. Nothing to the north.”

  “Except bad weather. Only one place she could go—south.”

  “Even if she went down in the ocean, I’d think her plane could have floated awhile.”

  “At least nine hours.” He focused on the map’s blue space. “If she was out of fuel, her twelve 149-gallon tanks would’ve kept her up. But she didn’t go down at Howland.”

  “How do you know?”

  His stare never left the map. “I switched planes.”

  Her eyes perked up. “Sure you did. Come on, Vincent.”

  “At a little airstrip in Venezuela.”

  “What were you doing down there?”

  “Testing the new Electra XC-35. AE never knew. I put it through every weather—altitude torture. We even tried pontoons.”