“You aren’t worried that … I mean, if we’re living so close … well, we’d be sleeping in the same room …”
“I’ve never made love in a hammock. I wonder how it works.”
“The floor is probably safer,” was her dry retort, then, appalled, she covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I said that.”
But Sam was laughing, drawing her into his arms, hugging her. “You’re precious, Chelsea. Has anyone ever told you that?”
No, no one ever had. And for a minute Chelsea let herself feel good. She adored Sam—what she knew of him. Not only was he physically superb, but he had to be the gentlest, most easy-going man she’d ever met. There was nothing macho about him; he’d taken on her case with persuasion rather than force. There was nothing arrogant or spoiled about him; he seemed to feel that his past was irrelevant, which indeed it was at the moment. He was open and warm. He was considerate and concerned.
He was also, very possibly, schizophrenic, but in his present frame of mind he was everything she’d always wanted but never found in a man. So she gloried in the feel of his arms around her and decided that, when all was said and done, even if they returned to their separate lives in Boston, the pleasure she’d known here would have made it all worthwhile.
And he was right. She’d certainly have a fantastically authentic article to sell … if she decided to take up writing.
4
“FIRST THINGS FIRST,” Sam announced, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
Chelsea was wandering around the main room of the hut somehow expecting to find things she’d missed during her earlier examination. He’d turned the light on, which helped, since the skies were darker than ever and the rain continued to fall. But though the room seemed more cozy, there was little to see.
“I ate lunch in Valladolid,” she answered, folding her hands together as she turned to face him. “Something or other with chicken in it, but I was so hot and annoyed at the time, I doubt I did it justice.”
“Okay. Then you’re hungry. And probably tired. Want to go back and lie down while I get some things for us?”
“What things? Where are you going?” She wasn’t sure if she liked the idea of being left alone. She felt strange in this strange place, somehow disembodied without Sam’s arms around her. “You said you wouldn’t drive in the rain.”
“I won’t. At least, not today. I’m just going to dash across the way to Aldana’s. His wife will have an extra hammock and some clothes you can borrow. She also happens to be the best cook around. I usually take my meals there, but since you’ve just arrived,” his eyes twinkled, “I’m sure she’ll understand if I ask her to pack up some goodies for us to eat here.”
“I can cook,” Chelsea offered quickly, choosing to ignore the meaning behind the twinkle. Then she paused to cast a frowning glance over her shoulder. “Uh, I don’t think I … saw a stove … .”
Sam confirmed it. “There isn’t one. The cooking is done on a small stone hearth out back, at least in this heat. During the winter months it’s a little cooler so the Maya pile stones in the front room and build their fire inside.”
“Like the old days.” She wanted him to know she’d done her research.
“Exactly.” He came closer and lowered his voice in sincerity. “It’s a different way of cooking, Chelsea. I don’t expect you to do it.”
“But I can’t impose on your friends all the time,” she protested, “and I like to cook. I have to pay for my keep somehow.” She wished she hadn’t said that, because as soon as she heard the words she anticipated Sam’s response. She was surprised—and relieved—when he took them in the spirit in which they’d been offered.
“Don’t worry. We’ll give you things to do. It’ll be the best way to see how these people live. But for now, indulge me. You’re my guest. Don’t forget, you’re doing me a favor being here.”
Chelsea was thinking of the fifteen-year-old who would now find someone closer to her age, but Sam’s pensive, almost puzzled look made her curious. “What is it?” she asked gently.
He scratched his head, then raked the hair back from his brow. It promptly fell forward again and Chelsea marveled that it could look so wonderful, so full, so dashing when he hadn’t seen a stylist in months.
“I’m not sure,” he began. He walked to one of the walls and slid down until he was sitting on the floor with his knees bent in front of him. “It’s odd. I thought I was perfectly happy living here by myself. I mean, it’s not really by myself because the doors are always open and there are always people around, and they’re wonderful people, Chelsea. Quiet, but warm and sincere and generous. But …I really am glad you’re here. I feel excited. It’s like … like I was missing something without realizing it.” His eyes held gentle apology when they ventured to meet hers. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying that. I’m not doing it to pressure you. But for the first time in my life I really do want the company.”
Pleased that Sam was opening up to her, Chelsea knelt before him, then sat back on her heels. “You must have always had people around you,” she reasoned softly, thinking of the thriving business in Boston, the weekly golf game, the social affairs a man with the stature of a Samuel Prescott London would have been invited to. Then she remembered that he’d been a loner and she tried to envision a life filled with people … but not.
Sam helped her understand. “There were always people around, but it was like I was in a shell. I went through all the motions, but my heart was never in it. I don’t think I’ve ever been really close to anyone—except maybe Linda.” He gave a crooked grin. “She’s my partner in crime, so to speak.”
“Partner in crime?”
“She was the only one who knew how miserable I was back there. She was the only one who gave me encouragement when I decided to take off. I’m sure she’s the only one who understands why I haven’t returned.”
“I talked with her,” Chelsea said, feeling an urgent need to be as open as possible. “She was concerned about you.”
“You talked with Linda?”
“Hers was one of the names your mother gave me. She’s very lovely, Linda is. She wasn’t able to tell me where you were, but she was hoping you were happy.”
He flicked at a stray thread hanging from his cutoffs. “I have been happy. I needed a total break, and I got it. That’s why … it’s so strange that I’m so glad you’re here.” His eyes widened when he looked at her. “It has to be you, Chelsea. If anyone else from home—someone I’d known—had come down here I’d have been furious. I know they want me back, and it should be flattering and ego boosting but it isn’t. I don’t want to return to all that. I don’t think I can.”
“No one’s going to force you to do anything you don’t want,” she heard herself say. Her hand was on his arm and she knew she was speaking as a friend because that was what she desperately wanted to be. The fact that she’d been hired to get him back to Boston seemed totally irrelevant at the moment. “When you’re ready to go back, you’ll know it. And you’ll do it on your terms.”
Absently he kneaded the back of her hand. “The problem is that I don’t yet know what those terms are. I seem to be seeing things in black and white. There’s the life back there and the one here, and they’re as different from each other as night from day. I haven’t really given much thought to what might lie in the middle.”
You will, Chelsea thought. That’s why I’m here. “Well,” she said, feeling a surge of unbidden tenderness in spite of the reminder of her task, “if you want to talk, I’m here. I’m told I’m a good sounding board. At least—” she grinned “—I’ve never had one of the guys throw a drink back in my face when I offered my two bits’ worth along with the booze.”
Sam smiled, but he looked vaguely embarrassed. “You must be a good sounding board. I’m talking more than I have in months. I’ve picked up Spanish and Mayan, but it’s not the same. Maybe it’s just that the people here can’t relate to my prob
lem. I’m not sure you can, for that matter. You probably think I’m a wealthy, self-indulgent son of a bitch.”
“You got it,” she teased. “Wealthy and self-indulgent. That’s why you’re living down here in a hut with no hot water, no television, no Ralph Lauren clothes.”
He threw an arm around her neck and drew her face close. “I’ve got some terrific Mexican liqueur stashed away. That’s high living. Want some?”
“Before dinner? Are you kidding? I’d be higher than the palms on your roof.” She felt pretty high just then, even without the liqueur, but she didn’t want to say so. Sam would think she had a one-track mind, which she didn’t, or did she? When he was close to her, she could think of nothing but him. Maybe she was as crazy as he was!
“I can take a hint,” he was saying, pushing himself to his feet, hauling her up with him. “You relax. Make yourself at home. Tussle with the hammock in private if you want. I’ll be back.”
Then he was gone and she was alone. For several minutes she stood where she was, looking aimlessly around, wondering what she should do. Her mind seemed filled to overflowing; she couldn’t quite grasp all that had happened in a day, and the more she reflected on her adventures since she’d left Cancun that morning, the more overwhelmed she became.
If she’d been in Boston, she would have had her work to keep her busy. There had always been plenty of that. If she wasn’t running around or using the telephone at home, she was at Icabod’s. Here there was nothing to do, and she felt at loose ends.
Yes, she was tired. She was also stiff and sore and hot. The humidity was oppressive and her skin was damp. She wandered to the front door, peered out through the rain for a sign of Sam. There were half a dozen huts visible, laid out in a rough square. She saw movement in several of them, but the early evening light was too dim for her to see more.
With a sigh she turned back into the room, then crossed through to the bedroom, if one could call it that. When she switched on the wall light and looked around, her gaze was quickly drawn to the hammock that hung to one side. Several large pillows lay on it at random angles.
Sam’s hammock. The place where he stretched out and slept each night. She approached it and fingered its sturdy open weave, wondering if silk sheets could have felt more intimate to her touch. The simple thought of Sam’s long, lean body occupying this space was enough to stir her senses.
She eyed the hammock and its pillows with a combination of longing and hesitation. She was exhausted, but strangely exhilarated. On the one hand it would be heaven to rest her weary bones. On the other she knew she’d never be able to sleep. And that was if she managed to wedge herself into the hammock without falling to the ground.
Turning abruptly away, she scanned the rest of the room. There was a small table, similar to the one in front. She knelt beside it to read the spines of three books that lay there. One was an archeological textbook, the other two novels. Beside them was a pair of glasses. These she recognized easily and smiled. She assumed that at some point she’d see Sam wearing them, and she hoped she wouldn’t burst out laughing. There seemed something totally incongruous about the Sam she knew wearing Samuel Prescott London’s specs … . She drew her hand over her smile, erasing it, practicing.
Standing up, with a groan she didn’t bother to smother when her legs protested, she caught sight of a chess set resting atop a large wooden trunk. Board and pieces alike were carved of onyx, swirls of gray and tan and white, exquisite. Equally fine were the items that stood on an open shelf above the trunk. There was a wood carving of what she assumed to be a Mayan god and several other onyx pieces of similar style. Triangular faces with hooked noses. Plumed headpieces. A variety of bodily coverings, some of which resembled armor. There were several clay pieces as well, one painted gaily, the others in their natural earth-toned state. Though the pieces represented varied levels of accomplishment, each in its own right was beautiful.
Chelsea lifted a small piece that resembled a bird, one that had a row of holes in its body. On impulse she put her lips to the open beak and blew softly, rewarded when a raw but definitely musical sound emerged.
Replacing the whistle, she once again stood with her hands clasped at her waist. Her eye was trained on the wooden trunk and she wondered what was in it. She glanced back through the main room to the door and saw no sign of Sam, so she quickly shifted the chess set to the floor and opened the lid of the trunk. Sam’s clothes. Soft pants similar to the pair he’d been wearing earlier, shirts like the one she wore now, a pair of weathered jeans. She would have dug further—touching his things was pleasurable—but she felt like a sneak as it was, so she closed the lid and replaced the chess set.
With a sigh, she resumed her visual exploration, but there was little left to see. The only other items in the room were the small icebox and—she peered more closely because the corner was dim—a suitcase that stood against the wall. She walked over to it, studied its finely engraved S.P.L., lifted it, found that it was heavy. Filled. Sam’s “other” clothes. Those he’d brought with him from Boston for his vacation in Cancun.
Strange, but she wasn’t in the least bit curious about these things. Samuel Prescott London was worlds away in so many respects. Before long she’d have to give him thought, but if she managed to help Sam find that middle ground they’d spoken of, Samuel Prescott London might not be as forbidding.
She took a deep breath, then let it out as she stepped back and skimmed the room a final time. It was a spartan existence Sam led here, so very different from anything even she had known. She wondered if she’d be able to make it, if she’d be able to settle into as bare-boned a life. Even now she felt restless. She was used to activity. If only Sam would return—“Chelsea! Chelsea, help!”
With a rush of adrenaline, she raced into the front room just as Sam came lumbering through the door.
“Hot!” he cried. “Damn it, these plates are hot!”
She was by his side instantly, not sure where to begin. One of his arms was piled with a conglomeration of cotton goods and henequen, the other balanced two dishes steaming with a brown concoction out of which stuck what she recognized to be tortillas.
Her hands hovered. “What should I take? Uh, here, let me have the dishes.” She grabbed for one, then sucked in a breath. “You’re right! It’s hot!” She barely managed to get the dish to the table without dropping it. When she reached for the second one, she grasped it carefully by its edges.
Sam’s relief was immediate. “Ahhhh. That’s better. Tonia wanted to be sure they were warm when we ate, but I think she overdid it. So help me, the stuff sizzled when I ran through the rain.” He lowered the pile of dry goods to the table and began to present them to Chelsea one by one. “A huipile,” he said, shaking out the fine white dress and holding it up against him. “Tonia’s sister embroidered it.”
Chelsea beamed, her restlessness of moments before having vanished. Sam’s presence was exciting in and of itself, not to mention the gifts he’d brought. “It’s beautiful,” she said, then, unable to resist, added, “And it looks like it’ll fit you perfectly.”
He grinned back, then winked—winked!—and Chelsea’s insides crinkled up. “Someday I’ll show you,” he said as he pressed the dress into her hands and piled two more on top of it. “Tonia said she’d find a couple more tomorrow.”
“Three is plenty! I feel guilty taking them from her.”
“Don’t be silly. She’s thrilled you’re here. Hmm, maybe she wasn’t so keen on pairing me up with Juana either. Juana’s her niece, by the way. Julia’s daughter.” He pronounced the ‘J’ like an ‘H’ in true Spanish fashion. “And she insists you have more. The women down here have a thing for cleanliness. They change their dresses several times a day.”
“I read about the cleanliness thing. Even the people I saw on the streets looked immaculate.” She was still smiling. “They must have one super Laundromat nearby.”
Sam arched a mischievous brow. “You’ll see it one day …
. Here. A hat.” He plopped it on her head. “Actually it’s Felipe’s—that’s Aldana’s cousin—and the women don’t usually wear hats but I don’t want you to sunburn—”
“Sunburn!” She took off the hat and added it to her pile. “It’s been raining most of the time I’ve been here!”
“It won’t be all the time, and when the sun comes out, it’s strong. You can’t see your nose right now, but it looks like you’ve had a small taste already.”
Chelsea fingered the item in question. “Oh, God. A red nose to go along with blisters, mosquito welts and frizzy hair.”
“It’s pretty,” Sam said softly. His gaze grew tender as it caressed her blond hair. “Not frizzy. Just curly, very natural and unadulterated.” His eyes met hers, but just as Chelsea was beginning to tremble, he shifted to the one item remaining. “And last but not least,” he added the bulky item to the collection in her arms, “your hammock … . I’m afraid that I can’t offer you any, uh, underwear.” He rubbed his mustache and wouldn’t look at her. “Actually, I didn’t have the guts to ask.”
“That’s okay. My own will be dry pretty soon.”
“I hope so,” he mumbled feelingly, then made to take the pile of things from her and put them in the back room.
“Wait!” She grappled for the huipile at the bottom. “I’m putting this on.”
“I kind of like you in my shirt.”
“I can sleep in your shirt. While we’re dining,” she drawled the word, “I’d like to look a little …nicer.” She was going to say more feminine, but she could see from Sam’s expression that he knew what she meant.
“You really do look great that way,” he insisted, but he relinquished his hold on the huipile and let her precede him toward the back of the house. “Don’t be long. If that food gets cold, Tonia will have my neck.”
“Fat chance,” Chelsea quipped, meaning it on both scores. She had a strong feeling that Tonia, Aldana, Julia, Felipe, Juana and everyone else in the pueblito adored Sam. And there was no way those steaming dishes of whatever-they-were were going to cool in the heat.
First Things First Page 8