Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  “What do you do now…how do you occupy your time?” He tried again, hoping this time he wouldn’t dig up any more death and mayhem in the response.

  “I own a magazine about travel, an international publication my husband started. You maybe heard of it; Destination Paradise? I don’t run it day-to-day – there’s a huge staff – but I’m the big shareholder, and sometimes I edit or write a story. It’s as demanding as I wish it to be, and operates itself,” she said.

  “I was right, you’re a celebrity! I knew you had to be famous,” Steven teased. Okay, maybe not famous, but still, ballerina and media mogul qualified as more than a shop girl.

  She giggled. “Hardly a celebrity. Much of the magazine is run out of New York. I had nothing to do with it until...recently.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?” Steven asked.

  She acted as though she hadn’t heard the question. Steven let it go. He didn’t understand the shift in her mood, but could sense the whole conversation had made her uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to compound the effect. There was a lot going on in her head, that much was clear.

  They finished their lunch, washed down with cold beer. She watched him walk around the deck, checking the lines in preparation for pulling up the anchor. She playfully tossed a grape at his head and he sensed its approach, spun and caught it. Popped it into his mouth with a grin.

  “Wow! Superman. Eyes in the back of your head?”

  He shrugged and smiled. Went back to attending the lines.

  “And what about you, Steven? I see by your hands you’re no stranger to heavy work, perhaps something outside? Are you a gardener, or perhaps a ditch digger?” she suggested mischievously, back to emitting her sweet sense of fun.

  “I do martial arts – have since I was a boy. The training builds certain areas up more than others; the arms and hands, the feet. No rocks or ditches.”

  “So you are Bruce Lee? I thought he was shorter, and more Chinese. What they can do with the cinema, no?”

  A chirping sound emanated from his bag. He walked back to it, poked around inside, and fished out the cell phone Alfred had given him.

  Alfred’s distinctive voice greeted him. “Steven…how are you…enjoying the island’s charms and hospitality?”

  “More than you know, Alfred,” Steven told him as he gazed at Antonia sunning herself on the bow.

  “I have an estimate of the project scope and cost. Figure somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred thousand dollars. I should begin to get information in a few days, and we should have everything within a week or so. Is that acceptable?”

  “It’s in the range I expected,” Steven answered.

  “Then we can proceed? I’ll provide wire instructions for a progress payment at close of play next week. Fair enough?” Alfred asked.

  “Very fair. Call me when you have something. And thanks again for setting up the hotel and the phone and all.”

  “My pleasure. Enjoy your week.”

  Steven stuck the phone in his pocket, then pulled up the anchor and raised the sails, cranking the winch. The sea had gotten rougher as the day had worn on, with longer swells and higher gusts of wind. They were actually moving at what Steven guessed to be around eighteen to twenty knots when they rounded Windward Point and made their way back down the other side of the island. It gave a sensation of flying.

  He noticed Antonia was enjoying the spray and the speed immensely, standing, hands on hips, towards the bow with her long hair blowing around her, unencumbered by the cover-up. Just a few square inches of thin fabric to shield her from the elements. As God intended it.

  They maneuvered back into the dock, and Steven’s watch confirmed it was only 3:45. All good. He threw the dock lines to Roy, who’d walked out to meet the boat.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Beautiful,” Steven responded. Antonia smiled at both of them and nodded her head in agreement.

  Steven helped Roy secure the vessel before calling the hotel. They would send a car right over.

  The skipper strolled along with them until they reached the top of the docks.

  “You picked a good day for it. Tomorrow will be rougher. An advisory came through that a tropical depression four hundred miles southeast of here has developed into a full-blown hurricane. Might pass close to the island, might miss it entirely, but won’t be much fun on the water either way,” he reported.

  Steven agreed. “I noticed the swell was getting bigger. So that’s a storm swell? The wind picked up pretty good on the ride back downhill.”

  “A hurricane?” Antonia asked. “Isn’t that dangerous…when is it supposed to get here?”

  “We won’t know more until later,” Roy explained. “There’s nothing to be alarmed about yet. Four hundred miles is a long ways away. And these storms can change direction hourly, lose and gain energy quickly, so there’s no telling if we’ll even see it.”

  “How often is the island hit by hurricanes?” Steven asked.

  “We see warnings maybe six to ten times a year, and get little ones or medium ones passing close by maybe twice. Every seven to ten years we get a pretty big one.” Roy seemed sufficiently blasé about the prospects. Hurricane, shmuricane.

  Antonia wasn’t convinced. “So there’s no danger?”

  He regarded her. “Little lady, there’s always some danger to everything, you know? But I don’t think this is worth worrying about. Have a nice trip, enjoy the sun today, ask at the hotel tonight and see if they have an update. It turned from a tropical storm to a hurricane pretty fast, and it might fade back into a storm just as fast, so there’s no point in getting worried just yet. Besides. A little wind and rain never hurt anybody.”

  The hotel van arrived. They thanked Roy again, and Steven gave him a generous tip. Antonia was subdued on the return to the hotel.

  “And you, Steven. Do you think there’s anything to worry about?” she asked. He was conscious of her sitting closer to him than on the ride out. He liked that. She smelled good; like sun and wet hair and beautiful girl. Good combo.

  “I think Roy’s right. Let’s wait and see what happens. I’m here for the duration anyway. I’ve never been through a hurricane, so maybe it’ll be interesting.”

  “Doesn’t anything scare you, Steven?” She asked the question bluntly. Out of nowhere, as was her style. Maybe it was an Italian thing. Or just an Antonia thing.

  “Sure, Antonia. Lots of things. But I have to prioritize what I focus on, and a storm doesn’t really move the needle much.”

  They got to the hotel, and walked slowly back to their villa.

  “Would you be interested in dinner tonight, Antonia?” he asked.

  “I’d enjoy that very much, Steven. And thank you for a wonderful day. I loved the dolphins and the ocean. I’ve never experienced anything like that before.” She suddenly clapped her hands in joy. “I feel very happy, and lucky. Shall we meet at around seven again?”

  Steven felt his heart flutter once more. He was falling pretty hard, pretty fast – and deeper than he realized possible until now. Maybe that vacation romance thing. All he knew was he’d never wanted to be with anyone as much as he wanted Antonia; and that was something that did scare him. He couldn’t afford complications, and didn’t want to expose any more innocents to his bloody battles. If you don’t have anyone you care about, they can only really hurt you. And he was a fast-moving target these days.

  None of which he said.

  Focal Point: Chapter 21

  The knock at the door came at seven. Antonia stood framed in the doorway, wearing a shimmering silver sleeveless top and a pair of jeans. Stunning personified. Truth was she could have been wearing a potato sack and the result would have been the same.

  “Entre, mademoiselle,” he said.

  Antonia giggled. “I didn’t realize you spoke French.”

  “You just heard most of my capability,” he admitted. “I just don’t know how to say enter in Italian.”

  “Entr
ato,” she told him.

  “Well, entrato, per favore.”

  “Very nice.” She came in. “I love what you’ve done with the place since yesterday.”

  “Yes, well, I’m talented that way. I’d offer you some champagne, but I already cleared a place in the mini-bar, and I do so hate disorganization...”

  “You are a very strange and charming man, Steven. I haven’t quite made up my mind about you. The James Bond thing scares me a little, but not so much any more. I hope you picked out a nice place for dinner. I’m starving again.”

  “I thought that we could try the hotel’s other restaurant. Where did you eat the first night you were here?” he asked.

  “I ordered room service. It was very good. But the company wasn’t so interesting.”

  Was that a compliment?

  “Well, my Italian friend, you’re a captive audience tonight. Name your pleasure, and I’ll do my best to entertain you, as long as we don’t scare the other diners or break any island taboos. Sky’s the limit.”

  “Perhaps the story of Steven will be the theme, no? You look very handsome again tonight. Sailing agrees with you. Shall we go?” Bam. Pow. Right hook, left jab. Tell me your deal, and I think you’re hot, too; now where’s the salad?

  They definitely built them differently in Italy.

  “But of course, cherie,” he said in his best faux-French accent. They breezed along the same path to the main building. The wind was a little stiffer, but still not unpleasant.

  The restaurant was Moroccan-themed, incongruous for the island, but strangely fitting. They ordered entrees and a bottle of wine, and sat back to admire the view.

  “So, Steven, tell me your story. No games, please. I find you charming, but elusive in your answers. I can’t figure out if that’s to protect me, or you. But I want to understand the man I’m having dinner with, and have spent the better part of two days with.” She studied him. “Where are you from?”

  This was the moment of truth. Did he launch into his cover story about Canada? He was torn. He took a long time to answer the question. She seemed to sense his inner struggle. Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit.

  “I’m from California, Antonia. Although if anyone else asked me I’d have an elaborate answer worked out about my home in Vancouver and my childhood there. What else would you like to know?” He figured he’d just tell the truth, because he didn’t want to lie. Stupid. But he wouldn’t lie to her.

  Sucker.

  “Are you wanted by the police…a criminal?” Good questions.

  “No, I’m not a criminal, and no, the police aren’t looking for me. Everyone in the world except you and an attorney thinks I’m dead; killed when my boat blew up. A supposed accident, although I know it wasn’t,” he explained.

  “Why would anyone be trying to kill you, Steven? You mentioned powerful men. Why you? What did you do to offend them?” she asked.

  He paused again. Thought about it.

  And then he told her everything. It took a while. All through dinner; the wine; dessert. The bill.

  “I was right. You’re an amazing man. And I know why you remind me of my husband. He too was braver than anyone else I’d ever met. That quality...it’s unmistakable. It shows.” She disappeared inward for a minute, into her private world. Then she turned and smiled at him. “Perhaps a nightcap? I hear the band in the bar playing.” She didn’t wait to hear his answer; got up and moved smoothly towards the doors. What could he do but follow?

  They sat at a small, intimate corner table on the veranda. She ordered a Sambuca again, he tried the bar special for the evening, a Bahama Mama. Red, sweet, tropical. They watched the band play steel drum reggae. She reached out and took his hand; felt it as though studying it for imperfections.

  “Your skin is so hard along the sides. From martial arts?” she asked.

  “Yes, twenty-five years of karate and kung fu will do that. I’m sure your feet had calluses all over them when you were dancing. Same thing,” he explained.

  He felt an electric current pulse between them as she held his hand. Could have powered a small town off it.

  “Buon, shall we dance?” She not so much asked if he would, as confirmed now was a good time. The time.

  Steven wasn’t a terrific dancer, but after a bottle of white Bordeaux and a Bahama Mama, he figured he could probably levitate, given a decent headwind.

  “You have to ask?” And then suddenly they were dancing, slowly, to the pulsing island groove. She fit like a magic glove, and he found himself spinning her around and almost feeling competent with the dancing thing.

  They were the only two in the bar, the only two on the floor, and they could have been the only two in the world. They danced together like it mattered, like they only had tonight. When they finally moved back to their table and sat down, Steven took a sip of water the waiter had thoughtfully placed on the table, and looked at Antonia. Her eyes were brimming, and she had two small tears making their way down her cheeks. She made no attempt to brush them away; Steven reached over and wiped away the salty tracks with the gentle side of his thumbs. Nothing was said. There was nothing to say.

  He excused himself and went to the restroom, taking the opportunity to cool off and rinse his face with cold water. When he returned, Antonia was gone. He signed the check, and walked outside. She was waiting there.

  “I’m sorry. I need to go to sleep. It’s been a long day,” she said. He understood. This was way too heavy, way too fast. There was tremendous power, an incredible surge of connection between them, and they were both uncomfortable with it. Now was not a good time. This was serious. They knew it.

  “Come on. I think I remember the way home.” He took her hand, and they walked back to Villa #14 as the wind whistled through the shivering trees lining the path.

  When they reached their building, he unlocked his room. She was still holding his hand. He took her other hand and kissed her forehead.

  “Goodnight, sweet Antonia. Thank you for another wonderful evening.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes again moist. She said nothing, but turned and walked to her room. When she was at her door, Steven called out.

  “It’s Cross. Steven Cross.”

  She stopped as she was opening the door. Spoke very softly. “Goodnight, Steven Cross.”

  And then she was gone.

  Back in his room, Steven called the front desk and asked for a nine o’clock wake-up call. He inquired about the weather situation. The clerk reported the hurricane was moving slowly, and maybe surely, in their direction – at around seventeen miles per hour; and was expected to land, if land it did, late tomorrow night. That was still a huge if, though, because hurricanes moved unpredictably. They weren’t suggesting an evacuation or any drastic measures quite yet; storms like this could turn and miss the island by a hundred miles – in fact they usually did. There was nothing to do but wait to see what nature conjured up for them.

  They would all know more by morning.

  And with that thought, Steven took off his clothes and fell asleep, the sound of the surf echoing shell-like in his ears as visions of sugarplum fairies danced in his head.

  Focal Point: Chapter 22

  Antonia lay awake staring at the ceiling, her head spinning from the day’s events. She felt like she was still on the boat, the bed gently rocking, the sensory illusion made more realistic by the increasing sound of the wind and waves outside her patio.

  She was torn. The mystery surrounding Steven reminded her so much of her brother.

  Daniello had been like a dream sibling, defending her from the occasional threat posed by the neighborhood kids, and always available to offer a serious answer to any question she asked. Unlike grownups, he’d treated her as an equal, an adult, never talking down to her or dismissing her concerns as trivial or beneath him. He’d been her protector, her knight-errant, and could do no wrong.

  That fateful summer, just a few weeks before her ninth birthday, something had shifted in his deme
anor and the way he behaved. Always pensive, his disposition took an unusual turn for the moody, and she saw less and less of him as the season wore on. Her parents were often away for the weekend, leaving her in the charge of their maid and her husband – who handled the gardening and any light domestic work. Dani came and went as he liked, the restrictions of authority having been largely ignored by him for the last year. For what was the point in trying to rein in the natural rebellion of a young man’s journey to independence, as long as he wasn’t hurting anyone?

  Ever since he’d bought his motorbike he’d changed; subtly at first, and then more obviously. Daniello had taken to hanging with an older crowd, many of whom were university students; not a big worry to their parents, as his grades were impressive, and he was planning to attend that Autumn. Antonia noted the difference in his personality, though, and couldn’t understand why he became increasingly distant; ignoring her, preoccupied, and smelling of cigarettes and alcohol whenever he came home, usually later and later each night.

  And then one night he hadn’t come home at all.

  The morning had been dismal, she remembered, cloudbursts intermittently hammering the roof of their large country villa throughout the night. It had woken her, and she’d risen from her bed to get some milk, padding downstairs barefoot, silent as a wraith. Her parents had flown to Switzerland for a long weekend, so the house was silent except for the drumming of the rain; the housekeeper lived in quarters by the garage.

  She noticed the door to her brother’s room ajar, and on the way back up had peeped in, finding only an empty bed. This was a first; it was early in the morning, and he’d never been out all night before. Antonia hoped he was safe, considering the rain and the dangers of the Italian roads.

  In the few remaining hours of early morning she drifted in and out of sleep, hoping to hear his engine and the spray of crunching gravel on the driveway beneath her window.

  As an ugly grey mid-morning pervaded through the curtains, she heard the housekeeper and her husband loading up their little Fiat for an early trip into town; a weekly ritual involving much squeezing of vegetables and negotiating over eggs and the like. Normally she would have joined them, but she’d been complaining of a cold for the last few days, so they’d decided to let her sleep in. Shortly after they pulled away, her brother’s bike had raced up to the house, a cacophony of revving engine and sputtering exhaust. Any ideas about sleep were over; she was wide awake. The downstairs door slammed, and she heard him run up the stairs. That was unusual. He never ran – and was always conscientious about being quiet.