First Things First

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First Things First Page 11

by Barbara Delinsky


  Reni readily explained what was being done, translated instructions and answered her questions, though there were long periods of silence during which everyone worked comfortably. The silence was golden; it was warm and gentle and companionable. Though the women stopped from time to time to chat softly in Mayan, they obviously felt no need to make conversation for conversation’s sake. It was also evident that they thoroughly enjoyed what they were doing. Smiles were ever-present, as were nods of gratitude and encouragement for Chelsea, who was inevitably placed in the center of activity.

  Sam reappeared with the men at lunchtime and stayed around during that quiet time in the middle of the day when the sun was at its height and the heat made work not worth the effort. He took Chelsea for a walk then, telling her how he’d spent his morning, asking her what she’d seen and learned. Chelsea enjoyed their time together because she was tired and Sam’s nearness seemed to give her energy. But he was gone again before long—into Valladolid in the Jeep with Felipe this time—and she didn’t see him until several hours later when he fetched her and led her back to the hut. There he presented her with a new comb and toothbrush, an oversized T-shirt with Cancun emblazoned in hot pink on it and a pair of matching shorts, plus several pairs of underwear.

  “I thought you didn’t have the guts to ask,” Chelsea teased.

  Sam’s neck grew red beneath his tan. “They were sitting right there on the shelf, so I didn’t have to ask,” he countered defensively. “They’re probably not as pretty as your own, and to tell you the truth I kinda like the idea of your going without—”

  “Thank you, Sam,” she enunciated pointedly, then her tone softened. “Thank you for all of these things, but you really shouldn’t have. My luggage is probably already in Cancun, and—”

  “It’s not there yet. I called. I’ll try again in a couple of days.”

  Chelsea was more annoyed at the thought of her missing luggage then actually missing the luggage itself. What with the things Sam had bought, and those she’d been loaned by Tonia, she had everything she needed, and, oddly, the luggage seemed a stark reminder of a life she didn’t really want to think about.

  “You look tired,” Sam commented, studying her closely.

  “I am,” she admitted, though his scrutiny did wonders for her energy level. “It must be all the excitement—I take that back. Excitement’s the wrong word to use in describing life here. It’s fascinating to me, but very quiet, easy-going, almost serene. I always thought sheer survival had to be a struggle. But these people take it all in stride. Slow stride. They’re unhassled, very comfortable. They seem to work at will. I think I’m beginning to understand what you were saying. I do envy them, in a way.”

  “Was Reni a help?”

  “Oh, yes. Just knowing that she could help me communicate was a comfort. I like her … . She’s very curious about the outside world, isn’t she?”

  Sam arched a brow in amusement. “You got that impression, did you?”

  “After a while, you can’t miss it. Oh, she carefully spaces her questions, but they still come. Do you think she’s planning on leaving one day?”

  “I’m not sure.” His expression grew troubled. “She was married two years ago to a fellow from Chetumal. He was one of a group of chicleros who’d wandered in this direction on a spree.”

  “¿Chicleros?”

  “They gather chicle—you know, the stuff chewing gum is made of. It comes from trees, like sap. Chicleros have traditionally been thought of as being the most violent of men. Fights erupted among them at the least provocation, and murder was a fact of life. Things have eased on that score in the last twenty years, but from what I understand, Reni’s parents weren’t terribly thrilled when Rufino swept her away. She returned alone, a widow, three months later.”

  “He was murdered?”

  “He died when his truck overturned on the highway.”

  “Poor Reni! She didn’t mention anything about it today.”

  “She wouldn’t. It’s behind her. These people don’t dwell on the past—that’s another thing I admire about them, though it’s a shame they don’t know more about their heritage. They live for the present, one day at a time. Except Reni. I think she dreams of different things, maybe about things she saw during the short time she was with Rufino. It was during that time that she learned a little English—whether from Rufino or someone else, I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’d been an American somewhere in the picture. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Reni has her sights set on the States.”

  “Do you think she’s in touch with someone there?”

  “No, no. I’m sure she’s not. But I think she may have visions of something larger, something not more glamorous but certainly more, shall we say, exciting, for lack of a better word.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d hate to see that. She’d be in for a fall.”

  “Not necessarily. I suppose it would depend on where she went and what she did.”

  “Come on, Chelsea. A simple girl like Reni would die up there. She’s totally ill-prepared to do anything relative to that kind of life!”

  “But she’s bright. She could go to school and learn.”

  “And then what?” He propped his hands on his hips. “She’d be alone. Here she’s surrounded by people who love her. Always by people who love her. And even aside from the emotional isolation, she’d be starting at the bottom of the barrel—not that life at the top is much different from the dregs.”

  “I think you’re biased,” Chelsea argued quietly.

  “Damned right I am!”

  “So why are you encouraging her to learn more English?”

  That took him aback, and his scowl slowly eased. He shrugged, then ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe,” he murmured, “maybe because it’s fun and because … because education, broadening oneself, has been ingrained in me.” His eyes hardened once more. “Which is not to say that it’s necessarily right. Life is good here. I don’t think she’d find anything better.”

  “Life here is different. Yes, it’s good. But that doesn’t mean the other has to be bad. You’re thinking in terms of black and white again, Sam—all or nothing. But that’s not the way it is. There are many people back home who are happy with the lives they’ve chosen. Sure, they may be a little more hassled, and there may be worries and demands that people here don’t have. But that’s all part of a more sophisticated life, and the reward of success is all the greater.”

  “That is a debatable point,” Sam declared, gray eyes flashing.

  Emerging from her own involvement in the argument to realize what she’d provoked, Chelsea grew quickly silent. For one thing, she sensed she’d come on too strongly; if she hoped to convince Sam to return to Boston, it would have to be done gradually and subtly. For another, she saw the lines of tension on his face, and the realization that she’d helped put them there pained her. She dropped her gaze and began to pick at her thumb nail.

  “Anyway,” she said softly, “I don’t think Reni’s going anywhere yet. She’s very young—”

  “She’s eighteen,” Sam snapped, “and most of her peers are wives and mothers. If that’s not an adult job, tell me what is.”

  Chelsea tucked her thumb into her palm and closed her fingers around it. She didn’t want to fight with him, especially not now. Their friendship was so new, precarious in spite of the physical attraction linking them. To chance blowing it all—her stomach was in knots just thinking of it.

  “I, uh, I think we’re expected for dinner,” she murmured without looking at him. The last thing she felt like doing was eating, but she didn’t know what else to do or say to defuse the air about them.

  For a minute there was silence. When at last Chelsea looked up, she found Sam eyeing her strangely. Quickly he looked away. “Right,” he muttered, and promptly started off for Aldana’s hut, leaving Chelsea to follow.

  Dinner was no more silent than any other meal had been, yet for the first time Chelsea was uncomfortabl
e. Sam said little, other than to occasionally offer pleasant comments in Mayan or respond to those directed his way. He smiled, but not at Chelsea, who did the best she could with the thick corn soup that had been served. As soon as she could politely do so she excused herself to return to the hut.

  Sam remained behind, which didn’t bother Chelsea because she was thoroughly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to shower and change into Sam’s shirt, now her nightgown, and go to sleep. Her stomach was upset and she had a headache. Climbing into the hammock seemed like child’s play compared to the challenge of relaxing.

  Actually, she fell asleep quickly, exhaustion prevailing over her stomach and head. But she awoke in the middle of the night feeling positively ill.

  The hut was pitch black, though the platinum moon did a passable job lighting her way to the outhouse. By the time she returned, feeling her way to her hammock and tumbling into it, she was too uncomfortable to think about Sam. The night sounds of the jungle—the rustle of leaves, the anguished call of the tapacamino bird—might well have drowned out the sound of his breathing, even if the pounding in her head hadn’t.

  She shifted on the hammock, tucking her knees up to alleviate the ache in her stomach, but the night felt stifling, so she soon stretched out again and tried to cool off.

  It didn’t work.

  She threw an arm over her eyes, which hurt even though they were closed. Then she shifted once more, shoving at the pillow beneath her head, trying in vain to get comfortable. Before long she was headed for the outhouse again.

  She never knew how she made it back to the hut, but she must have because the next thing she knew she was huddled in her hammock, clutching her stomach, wanting to die.

  “Chelsea—”

  With a loud gasp, she spun around. “Sam! My God! You scared me!”

  “What’s wrong, Chels? You’ve been up twice now. Are you sick?” He smoothed her hair from her forehead and left his hand there instead.

  She could barely make out his dark form, but his voice and his touch was proof of his presence. “I feel awful, Sam! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you—”

  “Hush.” His hand had left her forehead and was gently stroking her hot cheek. “Where does it hurt?”

  “My stomach. And my head. And, oh Lord, my arms and my legs and my back—”

  “Shhhh. Stretch out for a minute. Let me feel.”

  She moaned. “Any other time, but not now. I’m really not in the mood—”

  “I want to touch your stomach to see where it hurts. Very clinically,” he specified with a hint of indulgent humor. He was already easing her bent legs down, and his fingers began to gently probe. “Does it hurt here?”

  “No.”

  He moved his fingers. “Or here?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  He tried several other spots with like results. “So there’s no localized pain.”

  Her eyes were closed and she was lying limply in the hammock. “No. Just a huge cramp.”

  “Good. Stay put. I’ll be back.”

  Chelsea rolled to her side again and curled into a ball. “I’m not going anywhere,” she muttered, but Sam had already left. When he returned, he slid an arm beneath her back and sat her up, then sank into the hammock behind her and leaned her back against him. Without further ado he began to unbutton her shirt.

  “What are you doing, Sam?” she wailed. Of all the times she’d wanted him to touch her, this was not one.

  “You’re burning up, love, and this shirt’s soaked. I’m going to sponge you down, then put you into something dry.”

  She had neither the strength nor the will to respond. She felt so sick—hot and sweaty—and the cool cloth Sam pressed to her forehead felt like heaven. So she lay her head back against his shoulder and let him take off her shirt.

  Soon he was stroking a cool cloth over her fevered flesh, and she sighed. “That’s better,” she murmured. “Is it the heat of the night, or is it me?”

  “It’s you.” He drew the cloth over her throat and gently bathed her shoulders.

  “What is it? Do you think I have the flu?”

  “I think,” he stated slowly but with conviction, “that it’s Montezuma’s revenge. Turista, they call it.”

  “But … I thought that was just … and what about the fever? And I feel so nauseous …”

  “You’ve got it bad, that’s all.” He ran the cloth down one arm, then the other. “It can happen like this when someone is overtired and overworked. What did you do to yourself before you flew down here?”

  “Overworked and got overtired. But I don’t understand it. I’m never sick. I have an iron—”

  “Constitution. I know. And you insisted on doing your share today.”

  “I couldn’t just sit and watch,” she protested weakly. “I’m not used to being a spectator, and I’m not used to being idle.”

  “Sounds familiar,” he murmured. Holding her carefully, he leaned over to rewet the cloth. “It probably wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed in Cancun. The food there’s pretty safe. You can even drink water from the tap. Once you get off the beaten track, though, you’re in trouble.” He was speaking softly, almost in a croon, and Chelsea would have been lulled had it not been for the sudden intensification of the cramping in her stomach. Without wanting to, she moaned, and the cloth came to an abrupt stop over her navel.

  “Need to use the john again?”

  “Uh …no …I think it’s okay.” She was grateful when the cramp eased because she was beginning to feel more than a little embarrassed. “What were you saying?” she asked, wanting desperately to redirect Sam’s thoughts from her intestinal system.

  Supporting her with an arm beneath her breasts, he turned her sideways and began to bathe her back. “About what?”

  “What causes this … thing.”

  “¿Turista? It’s caused by bacteria. Purification systems are practically nonexistent out here, and newcomers just don’t have the antibodies to fight them off.”

  “How long does it last?”

  “That depends on you. If you fight it and insist on getting right up and doing things, you’ll be sick longer. On the other hand, if you’re willing to take it easy, to just lie here and rest, you should be fine in a day.”

  “Right now,” she sighed, “I don’t think I could do much of anything even if I wanted to.” She let her head fall back to Sam’s shoulder when he returned her to her original position. Again he shifted, again the cloth returned fresh and cool. This time it smoothed over her stomach to her waist, then slid higher, around and over one breast, then the next.

  “Clinical, Sam. Please. Be clinical.”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying.”

  The cloth was thin, little more than a light, wet glove on Sam’s hand comforming to her shape. Unfortunately, she was too sick to physically respond to what might otherwise have been thoroughly arousing. Her mind wasn’t quite as debilitated.

  “Sam?”

  He kept the cloth moving slowly. “Hmmm?”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “For being sick? Of course not. It’s not your fault. I probably should have anticipated it, though there isn’t a hell of a lot that can be done to prevent it.”

  “No. Not about this. About … before. I was worried that you were really mad at me.”

  “Dogs get mad. People get angry.”

  “Then were you angry?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We have a basic difference of opinion, that’s all.”

  He didn’t sound angry, Chelsea decided. In fact, he hadn’t sounded angry even when he’d first come to her. No, he’d been concerned and sympathetic and caring from the start.

  “But it’s okay,” he went on, dipping the cloth once more and gently bathing her face. “Think of how boring it’d be if we agreed on everything.”

  For a fleeting instant, Chelsea thought of Linda, and of the boring couple she’d said
she and Sam made. Did that mean there was hope for Chelsea and Sam? Did she want there to be hope? How did any of it fit into the scheme of things, considering that Chelsea was here on a mission? But she wasn’t up to grappling with those questions or their answers, so she thrust them aside and wiped her mind clean of all thought. Well, almost all thought. She was still aware of how sick she felt, and that Sam was going to make it better.

  Then she was being laid back on the hammock and Sam was getting up. “I’m going to get some pills and a fresh shirt. Be back in a second.”

  A fresh shirt. She ran her hand over her breasts. She was naked, save for her panties, and Sam had seen everything. But it was very dark. Did that mean she had some dignity left? And what was he wearing, she wondered vaguely just as he returned.

  He hoisted her against him again and held a pill to her lips.

  She managed to turn her head away. “What is it?”

  “Aspirin. Come on. Open up, like a good girl.”

  “But the water—”

  “It’s bottled. It won’t hurt you.”

  “I don’t know, Sam. I feel nauseous. What if it comes right back up?”

  “Then I’ll try again. We have to do something to get that fever down.”

  Unable to argue with his logic, she took the pill, but no sooner had it gone down when he was holding another to her lips.

  “More?” she moaned.

  “Um-hmm. You’re a big girl. You need the second.”

  She opened her mouth, accepted the pill and washed it down. But he was back with a third.

  “I’ve had two aspirin. What’s that?”

  “Lomotil. It’ll put your digestive system to sleep for a little while. Come on, Chels. It’ll make you feel better.”

 

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