Intimate Strangers Affair

by Monica Ramirez

  “I don’t,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “That’s what love is. I meant what I said on the boat. Did you?”

  There was a spark in his eyes. A sputter. Then a flame of hope. “Yes.”

  “Well, then that’s done.”

  “No, it’s far from done.” And with that, he left me.

  “Miguel! Wait.”

  He didn’t pause. Three steps to the door, one flick of his wrist, and it was unlocked. I saw the long line of his black back disappear over the threshold. Then the door closed. He was gone.

  I had to find him. Again.

  ***

  Where was Miguel? I looked everywhere. Not in his darkened study or the spotless kitchen, where the leftovers from the wedding dinner had already been put away. The dining room was empty. Lifting my skirts, I ran down the hall and into the grand salon. Everyone seemed to be there except for the one person I was looking for. Catherine and James were curled up on the couch and sleeping off another bender. The usually silent Xiang snored loudly, cradling an open bottle of plum wine to his chest as if it were a baby. And Claude was sprawled on the floor, one shoe off and one shoe on. An accordion lay draped over his belly. His lid cracked open, revealing one very bloodshot eye.

  “Hey, sis. Lost your groom already? You should tie a bell on him.” He grinned drunkenly.

  “Have you seen him?”

  Groaning, Claude hitched himself up on his elbows. “Stop talking so fast, darlin’. You’re making my head whirl. That plum wine. Now there’s a real anesthetic. I think my ears are numb…and my teeth. I can’t feel my teeth.” He sat up and covered his face with his hands. From somewhere underneath them, he muttered, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, my ass. This is your honeymoon for Christ’s sake. You should be naked and picking those darn blackberries by now with your Don, or Miguel isn’t half the Don I thought he was.”

  I didn’t have time for his nonsense. I glanced around the room. No open windows or doors. No clues at all. That left only upstairs or outside. Which? I started running to the French doors. On the way, my skirts jarred the side of the altar, and a candle fell over. Wax spilled across the table like thick white blood. Cursing, I stopped and righted the candle before any of the tissue paper caught fire. I’d knocked over the figurines and a few of the daguerreotypes too. No time to fix that. Then something caught my eye. There were two new additions: a picture of Margaret, and Miguel’s miniature. And all of a sudden, I felt dread. Cold dread. For someone had slashed right through Miguel’s face. Threads and chips of oil paint were missing. Someone had done this. Someone vicious. Someone who had nothing left to hide.

  “Where’s Ricardo?”

  “Huh? Why you looking for him? He’s not your husband. You got the wrong guy, darlin’.”

  “Claude…”

  “All right, all right. Don’t get your stockings all twisted. He went upstairs. Probably to that workshop of his.”

  I grabbed my brother’s lapels and shook him once, twice. “Listen to me. For once in your life, listen up and listen good. Miguel’s in trouble. Real trouble. Go outside and find him. Help me. Please. Ricardo’s going to kill him. I’ve got to stop this.”

  “Sis.”

  “What?” I called over my shoulder. I was already running out of the room.

  “Be careful.”

  ***

  Those stairs. Just one flight. One foot up, then the next. Concentrate. Keep going. I can do it. Just two more steps, one more. There. Don’t look down. Straight ahead. Good. My sweaty hands clutched the banister. I still felt shaky as I quietly ran down the hall and into Ricardo’s studio. One gaslight was still on. The eyes from half-finished portraits stared at me as I passed by them. Colored rice paper hung like giant shrouds from the ceiling. The giant red rectangular kite was propped against the wall, next to a bundle of split bamboo. But there was no sign of Ricardo.

  I stood there, thinking furiously, when I heard the rice paper rustle. A soft wind blew back a few strands of my hair. I turned. Behind the paintings, a door was half-opened. I ran across the room and stepped over the threshold. And the next thing I knew, I stood on a small balcony overlooking a dark secluded garden.

  The moon was a pale sickle hanging in the sky, and the crisp winds had blown the fog in from the bay. The mist caught on the bare branches of the trees. It was chilly, and so dark that I could barely make out the two figures standing below me. Two tall, slim men, almost identical. Almost. But not quite. One I knew as well as I knew myself. The other was his cousin who I had never really known at all. I had never known Ricardo could be capable of threatening, holding a gun, harming the man I loved.

  Miguel lifted his hands, palms out. “There are options. Listen.”

  “Oh, oh, oh. The Don speaks. Everyone stops. Everyone listens. The great, good Don Miguel Samuelle Cabrillo. My legendary cousin. What can a legend possibly do for me? There’s nothing you can do now, cousin. Nothing.”

  “I can take care of this. I can take care of everything. Just like when you shot Edmundo. I know, you did not mean for the gun to go off. It was an accident. You thought it was one of your toys. It is all right,” Miguel said gently. “I can arrange passage somewhere. Some place new. A new life. You will be taken care of. I promise.”

  “Taken care of? I don’t want that. I want what’s rightfully mine. You can’t give me what already belongs to me. I should have been Don, not you.” Ricardo smiled, but this time his cherubic face was lit with malice. “Yes, I can see what you’re thinking. ‘Poor Ricardo, such a child. Not capable.’ I’ve heard it all my life when they think I’m not listening or they think I can’t understand. But I’m not an idiot. I’m a lot cleverer than you think. Edmundo was no accident, I shot him on purpose. And I made a hole into your boat before you sailed with Elena that morning. I poisoned the water and the food. I had no way of knowing that you’d had breakfast into your bedroom. Elena was the only one eating and drinking during your little trip. She drowned, but you came back alive.”

  “So you’ve been poisoning me now,” Miguel said softly.

  “Oh, yes. Until your Nathalie put a stop to that with her stupid hardboiled eggs. But that’s not all, cousin. There’s more. A lot more. Guess what? All those little mornings at Cabrillo Shipping. ‘Let’s keep Ricardo busy’. I was busy stealing the money. Money that should have been mine in the first place. I signaled the raiders. When I heard that you were shipping Union gold, I flew my big red kite to signal them. And they got you. I couldn’t know that Margaret was on that ship. And now she’s dead. My Margaret. The only señora who saw me as I really am. A man, not a child. She loved me, and now she’s gone. It’s your fault. You killed her. You.”

  The men stared at each other for a long time. Ricardo’s chest heaved with undisguised hatred and grief. Miguel remained calm and watchful as always. The branches scratched against each other, and the leaves lifted and skittered around their legs. Beneath the balcony, the bushes rustled.

  Ricardo wheeled around. He stepped back, his face paling. “No. It’s just your spirit. You’re only walking tonight because it is the day of the dead. Your day. It can’t really be you.”

  “But it is me.” a shadow separated slowly from the other shadows.

  “Querida?” Shock melted into a sick joy that spread quickly through Ricardo’s face. He crossed himself. “It is you. Alive. Do not worry, my darling. I will take care of Miguelito once and for all. I will take care of everything.”

  “Like you took care of the ship? What a fine, fine mess. No, Ricardo. You have all failed me for the last time. There are no second chances with me.” Margaret suddenly lifted her hand and something exploded. One, two, three white flashes in the night, and Ricardo’s arms flew up, his body jerking. He fell backwards to the ground. And there was the thick smell of blood and honeysuckle.

  There was a strange bitter smile on Margaret’s face. Regret? Sorrow? I couldn’t tell what she was thinking as she slow
ly walked to where Ricardo had fallen. She nudged him with her foot, and he flopped back. His eyes were open and unseeing, his mouth still frozen in a happy grin. A black puddle formed on his chest.

  She blew him one last fatal kiss. “Sleep well.” Eventually, she turned from her lover to Miguel. “And so here we are, darling. Alone, at last. Such a pity you never accepted my original offer. Your ship would have been saved. Planning, they say, is everything. Planning, foresight, and a little ingenuity. You know, you have been a formidable opponent. Quite formidable.” She examined Miguel thoroughly, letting her gaze rest on his broad shoulders, his slim hips. Almost casually, she let the tip of her gun rest against her lips. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join…forces? Now we both have the benefit of time and experience. It could be even better. Much better than before. Let me give you a piece of advice, Miguel. Novelty may be fun between the sheets, but it never really lasts. You’re a thinking man, a man of deep perspicacity. So what do you think about the long-term? Do tell me. Can we come to some agreement?”

  “I don’t like the way you end things.” Miguel dropped his hands to his hips, pulling back the sides of his evening coat just so. Warily, he watched her.

  Margaret pouted. “Well, it’s always better to be final. No questions, no recriminations afterwards. Now, be a good boy and make the right choice. There are no second chances. Are you sure, darling?”

  “Yes,” he replied softly.

  “Men! Such sentimental stubborn fools. The younger they are, the more stubborn. You can sure lead them to water, but you cannot make them drink it. Really! I am severely disappointed in you.” Her arm swung upwards once again.

  No! I screamed silently, ignoring the way my stomach pitched as I gazed down. Everything spun around me, but I didn’t care. I grabbed the balcony rail and vaulted over into nothing.

  The air shrieked past me as I fell down through the night. Margaret looked up. I saw her startled face, one arm up as if she could ward me off. Then metal suddenly blurred near Miguel’s hip. Gunpowder exploded. Something silver glinted in the moonlight as I landed on top of her. Her torso bent backwards as the rest of her fell forwards. Something snapped like a dried branch breaking. It sounded dreadful. Irrevocable. I felt something give in my hands as we tumbled together on to the ground, rolling in the leaves and mud. For one stunned second, my diaphragm hitched and I couldn’t breathe at all. I couldn’t see. I was blind. No. It was hair. My hair. Hastily, I shoved it aside, and the first thing I saw was Miguel’s face anxiously staring down at mine. Then Claude’s. Someone lifted a terrible weight off me.

  “Jesus, what the hell were you doing? Pulling that flying banshee act again? You’re really pushing the odds, sis. That was a hell of a long shot. I almost got you there with my blade.”

  My right side burned. I touched it carefully. “I think you did get me. You and your stupid knife trick. Why didn’t you throw it earlier? What were you waiting for?” I lifted my hand. It was wet. “Uh, oh. Look at this. Catherine’s gonna be real mad at you, mister. All that blood. You ruined her wedding dress.”

  Miguel put an arm around my shoulder. He kissed my brow, then handed me his handkerchief. “Your hands.”

  I stared down at my fingers. They looked inky black in the moonlight. “Oh, what a mess. Well, I can stand to lose some. I have a couple of pints to spare.”

  “Not just yours,” Claude said grimly.

  “Whose?” I asked, feeling a little queasy already. My head felt lighter. Delayed reaction, I guess. I turned to Miguel. “Not yours? Did you pop some of your stitches?”

  Miguel shook his head.

  “Then…” My eyes followed Claude’s to where Margaret LaRue Calhoun lay in repose. “Is she…?” But I didn’t need to wait for their answer. I already knew. I already recognized that strange waxy look, that utter stillness of the dead. Nothing else looked like that. Not even the deepest of sleep. My mouth worked soundlessly as the nausea refluxed up like the caldera of a volcano. “Not again! This can’t be happening again. I…I killed her.”

  “You did not. I shot her,” Miguel said. “And Claude’s knife hit her.”

  “No! I broke her neck. Hangman’s fracture. Clean. Just like that drunk.”

  “So what?” my brother grinned. “You were defending Miguel. You saved his life. Just like you saved mine.”

  I stared from one man to the other. They didn’t seem to understand. But I did. All too well. Once again, my hands had dealt out death instead of relief. And it felt like this one sin had just washed away all the good work I had done over the years. Horrified, I examined the front and back of my stained hands. I turned them over and over as if they belonged to a stranger, as if I was looking for something familiar about them.

  Cursing softly, Miguel grabbed them. He roughly scrubbed the blood off, but even after the last stain was gone, even after he held me, pressing my trembling face into his shoulder, I could see the blood on my hands as if it were still there. It would always be there.

  Epilogue

  It was just another day in paradise. The trade winds were soft and warm as a baby’s cheek. They carried the rich perfume of orchids, wild ginger, and coffee from the sloped volcanic shore of Hawaii to where our new ship L’Esperance was anchored in the gentle turquoise green bay. We sat on the deck after our late afternoon swim. The last rays of sun dried the salt into fine white powder that dusted on our skins.

  “Come closer…mi amor,” Miguel almost stumbled over the last endearment.

  I could hear his hesitation. He’d almost said querida, but stopped just in time. I couldn’t bear to hear that word anymore. I didn’t think he could either. It was far too painful for both of us, just another reminder of the man we’d buried the day after our wedding. Except for those feelings, there were no other repercussions. A sympathetic judge had quietly ruled death by mishap, and Christopher B. Calhoun had seemed obviously relieved by his newfound freedom. Michelle was the leading candidate for the new Mrs. Calhoun, although she had yet to be persuaded to give up her independence.

  And me? I suppose I was doing better since the shock had worn off. Sure, I felt sorry. But I didn’t regret what I’d done. How could I? After all, what Claude had said was true. Because of my actions, Miguel was still alive. Still vital. Maddening as ever. He frustrated me constantly, and relieved me every time he touched me. Like now, for instance. He looked at me with a private soft smile that was special. Just for me. Only for me. It was his rare unguarded look. Not the Capitán. Not the Don. Just Miguel, my man. He lay on soft blankets, half covered with a filmy white sheet, but I knew that underneath he was naked.

  “Niña. Come.” His voice sounded smoky as he reached out and touched my hair.

  “So how’s your leg?”

  His hand froze, then fell away so that it covered his eyes. He grimaced slightly. “Just like you.”

  “Well, of course.” I threw back the sheet. “Just because I changed my name doesn’t mean that I changed.” I probed the edges of his wound. No redness, no sign of pus, but it gaped at the bottom. Hmmm. Still swollen and tender. When I pressed lightly, he didn’t say anything but his mouth tightened as if he were suppressing a sound. I clucked my tongue. “All right, all right. You can stop that iron man face. I’m done poking. Looks pretty good, all things considered. I was worried about you last night. You yelled when I rolled over you. I thought I hurt you.”

  He looked vaguely affronted. “I was not hurt, that was for another reason all together.”

  “Oh. My mistake. But it’s too bad those bottom stitches popped out. Now this has to heal by secondary intention. That ulceration’s still tender. You’re going to have a righteous scar.”

  “I don’t care as long as it works. Now…”

  “Now we have something we need to do.”

  “I agree.” There it was. That intense cannonball look aimed right at me with ten pounds of gunpowder packed right behind it. Pow! It hit me square in the chest. Got me every damn time.

 
I folded my hands in my lap and stared right back at him. It took a lot of willpower, but I didn’t fall into his arms just like that. I only shook my head, ignoring his little smile, the lift of his brow. I steeled myself against all the feelings he was swirling inside of me by just being near. What a nuisance.

  I took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

  He glowered at me. “Enough talk. That’s not what I had in mind.”

  No kidding. Did he ever think about anything else? “Listen, mister. Get real. You need rest. You’re middle-aged, now. You need to take better care of yourself. It’s not like you’re fifteen anymore and you can just rebound like that.” I snapped my fingers.

  “There are some things that are better when you are not fifteen. With age comes knowledge. Skill. Shall I show you?” One finger traced a figure-of-eight on my thigh, then drifted inwards and lifted the hem of my gown. He pulled me over him so that my legs fell to either side. And even though he lay under me, his hands resting gently on my hips, I felt like he was in control the whole time. Passive? Like hell. There wasn’t a passive bone in his body. He was all quiet action: ready, muscled and tensed, about to spring. He shifted slightly, giving me another hint. Subtle, but obvious. My eyes closed, my hips answering on their own.

  “Well,” I said, my voice sounding too mellow. “Don’t sacrifice yourself on my account.”

  “No sacrifice. Not at all. Just be gentle with me.”

  “Because you’re the walking wounded?”

  “No. Because I’m going to be a new father. I will need my rest.”

  “A new…wait a moment. Now wait a darned moment here, mister. How did you know? Who told you?” Surprised, my eyes flew open again. He looked remarkably calm. His gaze looked soft, glossy, and tender like spring grass. All new and hopeful.

  “Your body did,” he said. He brushed his knuckles against my cheek, then the top of my breasts. “You’re changing already. Was that what you wanted to talk about, doctora?”