by Freda, Paula
Comforting, soothing words, but Doreen needed to know more. "Esteban, did you ever sleep with her?" His momentary silence prepared her for the worst.
"I will not lie to you," he said. "Long before I met you, Elena and I did share a bed one night. But I recognized the greed in her. She wanted only to further her career. I do not believe she has ever known how to love in the Godly sense of the word. She hated you from the day we met," he continued, "when she saw like everyone else near me how much I loved and desired you. That is why I forbade you to come to the club. I was afraid she would cause trouble between us. Which is exactly what she did the moment you set foot inside. But querida, I could not take her work away from her. It is her livelihood," he went on doggedly. "And yes," he confessed, "There has always been a certain amount of camaraderie between us. Like most of my employees, I have known her for a long time. Although now that she has shown her true self, I feel nothing but loathing for her. If she continues to have designs on me, I do not share her ambition. Look at me, querida, and reassure me that I have not lost you completely." Her vision had grown much clearer. Esteban’s face was luminous with love for her. She nodded, despite the residue of doubts that continued to torment her. She abandoned herself to his lovemaking. It had been months since they had come together and she responded eagerly, perhaps too much so, because somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that this might be their last time together. Her decision to leave Esteban and Panama remained unchanged.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"I’m leaving. I’m going home with my brother," Doreen told Esteban one morning a week later. She had dressed hurriedly in a plain blue knit before entering Esteban’s study. Mark and Cybelle were planning to return to the States this morning. Esteban’s jaw tensed, but he did not appear altogether surprised. "You have not believed a word I have said. You continue to brand me untrustworthy and a liar. I have opened up my heart to you. Thrown my pride to the wolves. What else is there I can do to convince you that I have been faithful to you. Doreen, querida," he pleaded, "this is your home. We are committed to one another." He made it difficult not to believe him. His eyes, his voice, the expression on his face, they swore sincerity, but now that her memories were whole once more, she could no longer erase the scene she had witnessed in the corridor outside Elena’s dressing room. "I’m sorry, Esteban. But I know what I saw and heard in the rear of your club. You will never fully convince me. I saw you in her arms. I read the arrogant smile on your face—and hers. My God, Esteban, why do you insist on playing me for a fool."
"It is I who am the fool," Esteban said, disgusted. "A fool for trusting you with my heart. Go, vaya con Dios!" He stood and turned away to stare out the French doors behind his desk. His hands were balled into fists and he was trembling. And if she had looked at his face, she would have seen his eyes brimming with tears.
Doreen fled from the study and up the stairs to her room, to pack and inform her brother that she intended leaving with him. As she reached the top of the stairs, a loud thud made her stop and listen. The noise had come from Doña Maria’s room. It was probably nothing; perhaps the old woman had knocked something over. There should have followed sounds of someone moving about. The silence alerted Doreen that something was amiss. She knocked at the old woman’s door and when there was no answer, she tried the doorknob and the door opened.
A black splotch against the scarlet of the Andalusian rug, Doña Pereira lay sprawled face-up on the floor. Doreen rushed to her side and kneeling cradled the old woman in her arms. She was dreadfully pale and almost weightless as though she had been emptied of her bones and organs. Doreen shuddered. Years ago she had owned a parakeet, a feathery, shrill-sounding little creature. Fallen ill and close to death, he had felt like this, weightless, emptied, when Doreen had lifted his little body from the bottom of the cage in a last attempt to revive him.
Doña Maria moved her lips. She barely whispered, "Do—Do not—be frightened.
"Doña Maria, Oh my God!"
"Dear child ... it is ... time. I ... will pray for you ... and Esteban, for your happiness."
A gust of warm wind from the terrace wedged apart the floor-length shutters.
"Ahhh, see, he comes," the old woman sighed and her voice gained volume. "How—how young he is, and regal, and strong ... as he was that morning ... in the orchard. I must go. Niña, kiss my grandchildren... Her chest heaved and her breath faltered and she was dead.
Doreen screamed for Esteban. She heard his footsteps as he rushed up the stairs. He froze on the threshold, his face blanching. Immobile for a few seconds, he came slowly into the room. He did not ask Doreen what was wrong. He already knew his grandmother was dead. Esteban’s mother and father had each died in the villa and each time Esteban had sat at their bedside until the end.
His black eyes misted as he knelt beside Doreen. Gently taking the old woman into his arms, he pressed her to his chest. He bowed his head to drown his sorrow in the black lace bodice.
The wake was held in the villa, in the sala de estar. The room was cleared of all furniture, and the open casket, its borders carved with angels, was set upon a long table. Amid white silk and lace, Doña Maria’s embalmed body, clad in the same color she had worn with dignity in remembrance of her deceased husband, was placed to lie in waiting for those who wished to pay their final respects.
The walls of the room were draped in white. A Crucifix and two lighted candles in tall brass holders kept vigil at the head of the casket. Set against the wall, a small table held an icon of the Blessed Virgin. Before the holy image, a wick burned inside a glass containing oil. Next to it, a smaller glass contained water and a sprig of sweet basil. Ramon explained to an inquiring Doreen, in a tone for once lacking the biting edge and open dislike, the purpose of the glass of water with the sprig of sweet basil. Doña Maria would be buried in the morning, but the family would pray the Rosary in this room for nine consecutive evenings. "It is the belief of my people," Esteban’s younger brother informed her, "that the spirit of the departed one attends each recital. The water and sweet basil are for the soul of Doña Maria, so that each night she attends our Rosary, she will have sweet water to drink."
Kneeling before the casket, Doreen mourned the old woman’s passing. The wrinkles that in life she had carried with grace were now dark etchings. Her eyelids were closed. Wisps of white hair that had escaped the black flowing mantilla, lay curled and flattened against the still brow. It seemed to Doreen that Doña Maria yet breathed and that at any moment she would rise and greet her relatives and friends who had come from all parts of the country to extend their condolences to the bereaved family and visit one last time with an honorable matron.
In the morning the casket was loaded into the hearse. Esteban, Ramon and Manuel prepared to accompany the vehicle to the Church where the Padre waited to bless the casket and the woman lying within. After the Mass of the Dead for the repose of her soul, Doña Maria would be buried next to her husband on the Pereira grounds in the family plot.
Doreen clothed in black accosted Esteban with the belief she was to go with him. Esteban said, "You will stay home and comfort my sister. Doña Maria was as a second mother to Rosaria since the death of our natural mother." Doreen did not wish to argue on such a sad occasion, but the puzzlement showed plainly on her face. His expression softened as he explained, "According to the ways of my grandmother, the men attend the burial and the women remain home to comfort the bereaved." His eyes were sore and red. In the privacy of the bedroom he had cried without reserve. She had held him and he’d permitted her to comfort him. He was worn, the hollows under his eyes deeper, his cheeks sallow and their bone structure more prominent than she remembered, the gauntness more pronounced, his face weathered by the erosion of his tears.
"Of course. I will respect your customs," Doreen said, grateful for the simple explanation.
"Thank you, querida. Thank you for understanding."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The rainy season commenced,
with the sun occasionally peeking from among the clouds to assure the Panamanians it continued to exist. Normalcy returned to the Pereira household. They accepted the loss of Doña Maria as an unalterable fact. Esteban and Ramon wore black armbands to mourn their grandmother. Rosaria swore she would wear nothing but black for the rest of her life, but that was a month before Manuel purchased for her a yellow frock, its bodice mola-paneled in the front and back with multicolored reverse appliqué executed by hand by a native Cuna Indian woman. Rosaria, unable to resist wearing the dress, hurried to the villa to show herself off to Doreen.
Outside of the funeral itself, Doreen did not believe in wearing black to mourn the dead. She kept her grief hidden within her heart. Doña Maria had been a kind friend. Sometimes Doreen imagined she heard the old woman calling. She would go to Doña Maria’s room and speak to her silently. She had told Esteban how the gust of warm wind had pushed apart the shutters and Doña Maria had claimed that her husband had come to fetch her. Doreen passed on to Esteban and his family the old woman’s last words. The subject of Elena temporarily shelved with the passing of Doña Maria; it was Esteban himself who finally brought up her name.
He lazed in the oversized hammock on the terrace, the whiteness of his sports suit marred only by the black armband. Doreen sat in the bentwood rocker, legs neatly crossed under the garnet folds of her belted robe. Esteban was first to break the silence. Without preamble he asked, "Do you still hold that Elena is my mistress?"
The truth was that when Esteban had turned to her in his sorrow, much of her old feelings for him had resurfaced. And with them, the trust. Her words were as much a surprise to herself as they were to Esteban. "In countries where a man is allowed more than one wife, women learn to cope. I am not one of those women, but I am your wife and I have accepted at last that whether she is or isn’t your mistress, she will never share your soul. That part of you is reserved for me alone. I can cope." Esteban left the hammock and stood disturbingly tall in front of her. Reaching for her hands he drew her to her feet. Doreen kept her gaze lowered. Brave, unselfish words she had uttered, but if he were now to admit to an affair with Elena, the wound would go deep.
"Querida, I spoke the truth. Elena is not my mistress. Nonetheless, I have dismissed her."
Doreen’s gaze flew to Esteban’s.
"Yes, mi mujer. I cannot have her disrupting our marriage. I have obtained another billing for her in the club of a friend of mine. He is a bachelor, and young. I do not think she will pine for my affections for long. However, my club is known for its entertainment. I pray the saints you will not be jealous of the next stripper I hire." "Only if you allow me to visit the club occasionally, and when you’re short of help in the kitchen, if I could assist." He would probably grow dangerous with her latter request. She waited for his strong negative.
"Elena was the only reason I denied you entrance. You may come as often as you wish. And as for helping in the kitchen, my chef has not ceased badgering me since you honored his kitchen with your presence. I would be pleased if you helped out during the weekends.
It was too much to accept, Esteban this liberal. Doreen could only stare at him in disbelief.
"Are you content?" he asked. "Come," he said, drawing her toward the railing enclosing the terrace. He made a sweeping gesture, remarking, "The house, the grounds, they are so quiet now. Doña Maria is gone, Rosaria is with Manuel, and in the fall, Ramon will go abroad to further his education. Mujer, my house grows empty. There will soon be only you and I and the servants. You are my future, but querida I yearn to hear the clamoring of children, of small voices calling you mother, and myself, father. Querida, as you yourself suggested, perhaps we should consider adopting." She hesitated answering and he assumed she meant to deny him. He moved away and gravely bracing a hand on the railing, gazed sadly outward. "Ah, mi mujer, I no longer know how to make you happy." It was a declaration torn from the depths of his heart.
Doreen covered his hand with hers. "Esteban, we will adopt, as soon as our own child is born, in about seven months."
It took a moment for the words to register. Esteban turned slowly. "Are you saying..."
"Yes, husband. Do you remember that night..."
The rest was lost in his triumphant laugh and in his embrace and the fire of his kiss.
It was a new experience, a new sensation, this give and take, this sudden ability of which they felt capable, the knowing that no matter the words or actions exchanged, their love had rooted firmly, and nothing of the physical, or metaphysical, could ever uproot it."
"Mujer," he spoke softly. "You humble me."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"As beautiful a pair of twins as I have ever helped deliver," the nurse expressed, her copper features glowing not unlike the whiteness of her prim uniform. "The boy he has the looks and strength of his father, and the girl, she has the statuesque loveliness of her mother."
Doreen cast her gaze over the two swaddled babes sleeping peacefully in the cradle beside her bed.
Esteban entered the room and his attention went immediately to his newborn children. Doreen felt annoyed. As grateful as she was for the two infants that would need her love and care for many years to come, she could not suppress a streak of jealousy. Esteban already knew she was doing well. But he had gone immediately to inspect his offspring. Albeit he turned quickly to her now, and noticed at once how weak and tired she appeared. Taking her hand, he tenderly kissed its palm. He observed the beagle-like sadness in her eyes. "You must rest, querida. I will not have you suffer so."
But it was not physical discomfort that weighed on her mind. "Esteban," she asked, "will your feelings for me thin now that there are more of us?" Esteban studied her for a moment, beginning to understand her sadness. He shook his head as though she were a lost cause. "For an intelligent, liberated female, you have the most foolish notions." He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pushed back strands of her dark hair that had collected on her damp brow.
Doreen gazed at her children lovingly. "Forgive me, Esteban. Perhaps I’m suffering from postpartum depression."
"Then we will suffer it together," Esteban sighed, "as we have suffered every ache and twinge from the beginning of this pregnancy."
Doreen felt ashamed. Since her first month she had not been easy to live with. Her threshold of discomfort was not high, and her complaints had been numerous. Esteban seemed to read her thoughts. He took both her hands in his and reassured her. "I love you more than ever. And if these adorable children give us cause to spend less time alone together, my feelings or concern for you will not diminish. I swear it on my honor and that of all the Pereiras who have lived before me. The sadness lifted from her eyes and she smiled. Of course he would go on loving her. He might even grow to love her more He was looking at her with boyish admiration, not only as if she was his queen, but his very life as well. "It has been quite an adventure, my husband," she said, yawning sleepily, her mind easier.
Esteban bent to kiss her brow. She was lovely, he thought, like the dawn and the dusk. He would never tire of her, or cease to be aroused by the assertive tilt of her chin, or intrigued by her unpredictable notions.
"Rest, mi querida, mi vida, and grow strong again," he whispered. "There is much for us to do. Our adventure has just begun."
♥♥
*****************************
Henderson Sands
by Paula Freda
Cover and Story Copyright © 2005 by Dorothy Paula Freda
(Pseudonym — Paula Freda)
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This novella appeared in my book Roses in the Dark (ISBN 978-1-4523-6176-5) that comprised four interwoven love stories, written by the same author, Paula Freda.
CHAPTER ONE
A gentle man has no need of iron gloves
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and magic hammer;
rather gentle springs and warm streams.
Thor of lightning and Neptune of the sea,
Let sunrays bathe sea nymphs
and wandering angels.
Henderson Sands was an island in the middle of nowhere. The fact that it was a lush paradise did nothing to endear it to Harriet, who sat on the edge of one of its jagged cliffs and scanned the pale yellow and blue horizon for a plane or a ship, for anything, mechanical or living, that could bring hope of rescue.
Deliverance was a better term — deliverance from Thorvald Sands, the other occupant of this uncharted five square miles of wild vegetation, steep cliffs and sandy beaches.
"Hey, Harry.”
Harriet pretended not to hear.
"How about frying some of that fish I netted this morning?” Val called. Harriet visualized him in her mind’s eye, standing legs apart, hands on hips, shirtless, a brawny blond Adonis, with well-browned shoulders and a short-cropped beard, his slacks in tatters, like her own.
When she didn’t answer, he asked, much nearer, "Is it that time of month again, or are we in one of our ordinary black moods this morning?”
Harriet swung her legs off the cliff's edge and climbed to her feet. She met the smile teasing his mouth and his eyes, a light brown. He was a hulk of a man whose father claimed descent from Norsemen of old. She tugged at what was left of her blouse. Two ends of its hem were knotted securely in front and had a habit of riding up.
Sea breezes blew through his medium-length hair, cut irregularly because of the honed stone he used in the absence of scissors.
"You know I hate fish,” she told him and cantered past him bare-footed. There was no chance she would go hungry. The island abounded with fruits, besides the meat that hung in the smokehouse that Val had built. He hunted regularly, building his weapons and tools from nature’s own. The island might be devoid of people, but it teemed with small wildlife.