Bliss

by Fiona Zedde

  Sinclair suddenly blinked her wind-stung eyes to look around her. This road seemed unfamiliar. The route from her father's house had been filled with high forests of trees wrapped in dark dripping vines dotted by the brilliant plumage of exotic birds. By comparison, these streets were tame, paved avenues leading to bigger houses, to ruthlessly pruned and controlled gardens, and to money. They stopped at an intersection.

  "Are we taking a different road home?" Sinclair asked.

  "No. Just a little stop on the way."

  Sinclair nodded as Xavier snuggled deeper into his mother's back and giggled. They stopped at a house with a high steel gate, where at least a dozen cars were parked out front. It was tall and stately with a New Orleans feel, ringed by an ironwork balcony upstairs and an identical one above that. A hammock swung suspended from the lower verandah and was stacked with colorful, inviting pillows.

  "Let's go in." Nikki parked the bike and fluffed out her hair. Sinclair was startled when Nikki touched her, brushing sand from her face and collarbone, before straightening Xavier's shorts and T-shirt, then her own red sundress and the flowing black pants underneath.

  "Come on."

  Sinclair didn't bother pretending that she knew what was going on. She just followed. From the door, she heard a hush of voices, then when Nikki rang the doorbell, all noise stopped. After a moment's hesitation, Nikki opened the door. She and Xavier took Sinclair's hand, leading her through a sitting room that smelled vaguely of leather and lemon furniture polish. The house was beautiful, decorated in a soft feminine style that reminded Sinclair of something out of a decorator magazine.

  "This is a little strange, you know. They don't have laws against breaking and entering here?"

  They rounded a darkened corner.

  "Surprise!" a chorus of voices sang out.

  "Shit!" Sinclair jumped back, truly surprised.

  "No, it's a birthday party."

  Her father stepped out of a crowd of over a dozen people, most of them unfamiliar. "Happy late birthday, daughter."

  Sinclair's belly felt warm as if she'd drunk a glass of gin, no tonic. She laughed nervously, feeling overwhelmed. "Thank you." Who were all these people?

  Her father turned to the room at large. "Everyone, you know my daughter. Either you met her recently or knew her when she was little before she left for America. Everyone, this is my daughter, Bliss Sinclair. She likes to be called Sinclair now, after her mother's family."

  "Welcome home, Sinclair!" the group chorused, reaching out to surround her. Embarrassed heat raced under Sinclair's skin.

  "Thank you."

  "Come meet everybody," her father said.

  Her father introduced her to people she had only the vaguest memories of. Yet they all claimed to know her or her mother in some way.

  "America must be treating you well, you look good."

  "A little on the bony side, though."

  "I hear American men like that in their women."

  "Well, you're in Jamaica, girl. Remember that Jamaican men like a girl with meat on her bones."

  Nikki's friend, Della, suddenly appeared at Sinclair's side, laughing. "Don't let them get to you, girl. They're just jealous.

  Of what? Sinclair wanted to ask. Della took her arm and led her to the main dining area where a buffet had been laid out. Sinclair stared at the extravagant arrangement of Caribbean food-okra in a clear, herb-scented broth, roasted breadfruit, both ripe and green, cut and displayed around a bowl of ackee and saltfish, slices of starfruit, guavas, mangoes, hog plums, pineapples, rice and peas, and jerk pork. Sinclair gawked. A colorful platter of thinly sliced raw vegetables was the most ordinary thing on the table. She hadn't seen a spread like this-all the foods that reminded her so strongly of her childhood-in almost twelve years, not since her grandmother had cooked for her college graduation party. Her mouth pricked with sudden hunger.

  "It all looks good, doesn't it?" Della said, gesturing to the table with a flourish. "Your father sure can cook." She scooped a spoonful of perfectly steamed white rice onto a plate before turning to Sinclair. "I hope you brought your appetite."

  Sinclair thought that was something she'd packed up years ago and left buried in a closet somewhere, but from the urgent noises coming from her tummy, that was obviously not the case. Still it was satisfying just to watch Della make her way down the long table, sampling from everything that looked good to her. Sinclair's gaze fell to her trim backside again. Where did all that food go?

  A tall woman with her hair hidden by a brilliant orange head wrap approached Della, who looked at her with recognition and put her plate aside to hug her. Sinclair hung back. The tall stranger said something that made Della laugh, then she plucked a slice of pineapple from the older woman's plate and ate it. She leaned her mouth, still wet with pineapple juice, closer to Della's ear then whispered something that made her friend almost drop her plate. Della used her free hand to tap the woman lightly on the arm in reprimand then turned away to pay more attention to her food. But she was smiling.

  Sinclair looked away from them to gaze around the rest of the room. Most of the furniture had obviously been cleared away to make room for the party. The peach-colored walls were hung with paintings of local scenes, women with baskets of fruit perched on their heads, long stretches of beach with nary a soul to spoil the view, vivid watercolors of jungle scenes, complete with waterfalls and exotic birds. Sinclair hoped that she'd get to see some of these things for herself while she was here, with or without the aid of her father's motorcycle. She smiled at the thought of Xavier and Nikki being her guides around the island. That wouldn't be a bad way to spend the month at all.

  She looked away from the painting of dense mangroves and wilting hothouse orchids to see what looked like a familiar back and spill of hair.

  It was the woman from the jeep. Up close she was even more impressive. White chinos and a sleeveless blouse, also white, showed off her perfect ebony skin and sleek body. Her dreadlocked hair was loose around a face that looked almost Ethiopian with its narrow cheekbones, nose, and full flower of a mouth.

  Sinclair waited until the person that the woman was talking to wandered off before approaching. "Hello," she said before she could lose her nerve.

  The woman turned around. "Hullo and happy birthday." She made a noise as if something suddenly occurred to her. "By the way, I hope you don't mind me being here since I am a stranger and all."

  Her English was very precise, each word perfectly enunciated, yet made more interesting by a faint Jamaican accent. As if that wasn't enough, her voice was low and deep, reminding Sinclair of a tropical rain forest, or the version of one that she'd seen at an I-Max theater when she was younger. The woman's every word was infused with a low-grade heat that seemed to brush over Sinclair's skin, unexpected but pleasant.

  "Not a problem. If Papa had only invited the people I knew it would have just been him, Nikki, and my little brother, Xavier." Sinclair unconsciously rocked back on her heels and linked her hands behind her back.

  "You've got a point there. By the way, I'm Hunter. Hunter Willoughby."

  "A pleasure. And now we're not strangers anymore."

  "True." Hunter nodded, then looked behind her, briefly, into the crowd. "How long are you going to be down here for?"

  "About a month. Or until Papa and Nikki get tired of me, whichever comes first."

  The other woman's eyes settled on her with more than casual interest, moving over her braided hair, slight body, and the loose terra-cotta-colored sundress. They were the same height, Sinclair noted as she met Hunter's eyes again.

  "Della was right," Hunter said. "You do look a lot like Lydia, more so a few features than the whole package." Her eyes flickered down Sinclair's body again, as if responding automatically to some stimuli. She ate from her saucer of carrot sticks as she spoke, dipping the stalks of vegetable into the herb-flecked ranch dressing. Sinclair felt her face heat up, as if Hunter's mouth was nibbling at every feature, tasting her, com
paring her flavor to the mysterious Lydia's.

  She cleared her throat. "I haven't met this Lydia person yet so I don't know."

  "Really?" Hunter looked surprised. "She should be around here somewhere. It seems a little strange that you haven't met your own sister yet."

  Sister?

  "Hey, there you are." A low voice came from behind Sinclair. She turned around.

  "Hey." Hunter greeted the woman with a soft kiss on the cheek, but the woman pulled slightly away. Still, Hunter's hand rested lightly on the woman's waist. "I heard that you haven't met your sister yet."

  "No, I haven't." The woman smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Lydia."

  She really does look like me, Sinclair thought, staring at the narrow face and full, heart shaped mouth with amazement. Her hair, though, was very different. She wore it straightened and parted down the middle to frame her vulpine face and brush her shoulders in a perfect silken fall. Lydia was shorter and her body was fuller, more voluptuously rounded than Sinclair's. Her skin, too, was lighter, a light-through-amber color compared to Sinclair's red oak. An impressive wealth of cleavage lay in the scooped neckline of her yellow dress.

  "Sinclair." Her sister's hand was soft. Up close she smelled like rosewater and couldn't have been any younger than twenty-five.

  She felt an acute sense of disappointment. Not only that Hunter was obviously involved with her, but even worse, that their father had cheated on Sinclair's mother.

  "Do you live around here?" Sinclair asked.

  "This is my house."

  "Ah." Sinclair's eyebrow twitched in surprise. "You have wonderful taste. I especially love the paintings in this room."

  "Hunter did some of them, actually. The ones you saw when you first came into the house. She's a computer scientist with a soul." She turned to the woman at her side. "Unfortunately the only way you can see it is through her paintings."

  Hunter chuckled. "Thanks, Lydia. Good to know how you feel about me."

  "Are you two dating?"

  They looked at her as if surprised that she could see the level of their intimacy.

  "Not at all." Lydia said. "We're good friends who sometimes get together for nocturnal activities." Her grin was devilish.

  "Stop it." Hunter shook her head, though her own lips twitched as if fighting a smile. "Don't let her tease you. We are seeing each other."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy. I just thought that-" she gestured to Hunter's hand still draped across Lydia's hip. "This meant you were together. Sorry."

  Hunter moved her hand away with a guilty start. "No need for you to apologize, though," her voice lowered to a mocking whisper, "perhaps I should because Lydia's not really out to her family."

  "I don't hide it either." She grabbed Hunter's hand and forced it back on her hip.

  The dark woman sighed and took her hand back. "Did I mention that your sister was temperamental?"

  Sinclair glanced from one woman to the other, curious to see how their little game was going to play out.

  "Hey, Sinclair." Her father appeared suddenly at her side. "Having a good time?"

  "Yes, thank you. I just met Lydia."

  He spared his other daughter an affectionate glance. "Good. She was nice enough to lend her house for this party. I hope you two get to know each other well. She's a good person." No explanation about why she had a twenty-five-yearold sister when he and her own mother were still together that exact amount of years ago. Maybe it just didn't matter. Maybe that was the way men and women dealt with each other here. What's a lover or two in a marriage?

  "Thanks, Papa. All that because I lent you my house for the afternoon?" Her teasing smile gave Sinclair a hint to the sort of relationship they had.

  He shared an affectionate look with his middle child before turning to the woman beside her. "Hunter."

  "Mr. Daniels." They shook hands, but that was the extent of their interaction. Sinclair made a mental note to ask him about that later on.

  "Come dance with your old man, Sinclair. All this good music is playing for you and I haven't seen you dance one step yet."

  "I was taking my time. You know, warming up." Truth was, she wasn't much of a dancer. Being out there in front of all those people made her self-conscious. She'd never even danced for herself in the privacy of her own apartment.

  "You've had enough time. Let's go." He dragged her out to the middle of the room where two couples and three children danced to an old Beres Hammond song.

  Over her father's shoulder, she watched Lydia and Hunter talking. The ebony-skinned woman caught her eye and toasted her with a glass of clear liquid. Sinclair smiled, then turned her attention back to her father.

  "Thank you again for doing this for me. This whole thing was very unexpected."

  "That was the idea." He chuckled. "I'm glad you like it. Now maybe you can go out with some of these people while you're here. They can show you some real island sights.

  "What are you going to be doing in the meantime?"

  "Working mostly. But not all the time. In the middle of all your new socializing just remember that I'm going to want some of your attention, too."

  "No problem. I'll always have a space on my dance card for you."

  They twirled around the floor, surprising each other with their fancy footwork.

  "Can 1 ask you something?" Sinclair asked.

  "Yes, yes. Anything."

  "Who is Lydia's mother?"

  He didn't seem surprised by the question. "A bush woman I knew for a while."

  "Did she know Mama?"

  "Yes. But not very well. She used to come down from the hills to sell her fruit and things. I think that was how they met."

  "Should I be upset that you had an affair with her?"

  "Why? Your mother knew about her. I'm sure that she had herself an outside man too."

  "You're sure about that?" Or does the thought of it just make you feel better?

  "I'm sure. She was happy at times when I didn't give her any reason to be. She had somebody else. I'm very sure of it."

  Just like she had been Regina's somebody else, Sinclair thought suddenly and tripped over her feet.

  "You all right?"

  "Fine. Just a stray thought."

  He swept her into an intricate turn and shimmy that didn't quite work. They both laughed and threw themselves back into the dance. Two songs later, they walked away from the dance floor and headed for the bar.

  "Have some rum punch," he said. "It's the best on the island."

  "What's in it besides rum?"

  "There's something in it besides rum?" he asked innocently. At the look on her face, he laughed. "Just try it. The thing won't bite."

  A tall pitcher of punch landed on the bar in front of them. Her father poured two tall glasses. He hoisted his glass.

  "To my daughter. Happy birthday and welcome home."

  Their glasses touched with a sound like music.

  Four hours and four glasses of rum punch later, most of the party had already gone home. Lydia and their father sat in the sunroom laughing about familiar things and, drunk from one Heineken and a shot of white rum, Nikki had already curled up for a nap in the guest bedroom with her son. Sinclair walked out to the back patio with her fourth glass of rum punch in hand and sat down at a small table to feel the night breeze on her face.

  "Having fun?"

  Sinclair would have known Hunter's voice anywhere. She peered into the dark to see the other woman rocking in a hammock a few feet away. "Yes, I am. Thanks for asking."

  Sinclair drank the last of her rum punch and put the glass very carefully in the middle of the table.

  "Is everything here what you thought it would be?" Hunter asked.

  "Not quite." She still wondered if her mother really had taken lovers like Victor obviously had. "I certainly never expected to find Lydia."

  Hunter chuckled. "I can imagine. Jamaican men think nothing of having more than one woman at a time; the more pussy around the bet
ter." Her teeth flashed in the dark.

  Sinclair realized then that Hunter was more than a little drunk. The British precision in her voice had mostly disappeared, leaving it softer and more mellow.

  "What about you? Do you believe the same thing applies to you?"

  "The more pussy the better?"

  Sinclair nodded. Then, realizing that Hunter probably couldn't see her in the dark, voiced her answer.

  "Nah. I've always been the one-woman kind. My father and I had that in common. It was my mother who fucked around and got caught." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "I guess that just proves that some people want more while others just want the best."

  "Hmm." That sounded nice. The best. "Is that what you have with Lydia? The best?" Sinclair looked over at the other woman in the dark, more imagining her shape than seeing it. Did Hunter mind her asking these intimate questions?

  "Don't have us engaged already. She and I just recently got together. We're trying this dating thing to see how far it takes us. So far she's a nice woman. A very nice woman." Hunter sounded faintly amused. "What's your story, then? You looking for the perfect vacation fuck or what?"

  "I'm not looking for anything here." Except maybe a temporary rest from my life. "I had a bad experience a few weeks ago and I'm just trying to take my mind off it."

  "Somebody in the States broke your heart?"

  "She broke it in a million pieces."

  A scented night breeze drifted over them, ruffling the tiny hairs at Sinclair's temples and the cloth over her breasts. She closed her eyes as a voluptuous sigh eased from her throat. Her head felt pleasantly weightless, like it was a balloon floating into the night sky.

  "So was she any good?"

  "What?"

  "I hoped you got some nights of good loving out of her before she turned her back on you. Sometimes that's the only consolation a girl can have."

  Sinclair flashed Hunter a look in the dark, at her bare leg rising like a dark mountain in the hammock, the color of her skin disappearing and appearing again in the inky darkness of night.