by Jac Simensen
Hattie rolled the large umbrella in its heavy stand closer to Lilith. “The big nurse said no sun on your face—the doctor’s gonna do your ears and hairline tomorrow and he doesn’t want you sunburned.”
“Go check again.”
“I just checked twenty minutes ago. Sara said she’d bring it out here to the terrace as soon as it comes.”
“Go check. Sara’s lazy and won’t move her fat ass until she has to.”
Hattie shook her head and sighed in frustration. “All right, all right, but I know it won’t be here yet. They said 3:30 on the phone and it’s just past that now. Everything happens lots slower down here.”
“Go check!” Lilith spat out.
“Doctor told you not to raise your voice,” Hattie replied as she rose from her chair and stepped toward the sliding glass door. As she approached, the door slid open and a large brown forearm and hand reached out through the opening with a redand-white cardboard mailing envelope.
“This what all the fuss about?” the owner of the arm asked.
Hattie grabbed the envelope and returned to the chair next to Lilith’s.
“Hurry,” Lilith told her.
Hattie pulled the opening strip on the top of the mailer, extracted a manila envelope that contained a sheaf of papers, and dropped the empty mailer onto the ground. She began to read to herself.
“What’s my name?” Lilith demanded.
Hattie grinned. “I don’t think you’re gonna like this! You’re De-von! De-von Anne Sinclair. De-von Sinclair—it sounds like a stripper, or a porn star!”
“How do you spell De-von?” Lilith anxiously asked.
“Just like it sound, D-e-v-o-n, De-von.”
“That’s Devon, not De-von, you stupid girl!”
Hattie frowned. “Why you say that?”
“Because if it were De-von it would have a hyphen, or a capital V. It’s Devon, like the county in England.”
“Oh,” Hattie said. She continued to read aloud, the animation now gone from her voice. “Well, Miss Devon, you’re from Baton Rouge. Your parents are dead and you don’t have any brothers or sisters, neither. You went to LSU and have a masters in ancient history.”
Lilith laughed louder than she was supposed to and then clutched her throat with both hands. “Damn, damn,” she hoarsely whispered.
“You all right?” Hattie asked without sympathy.
Lilith nodded. “Vocal cords still sting,” she mouthed. “Ancient history, huh? Clarisse has a twisted sense of humor.”
“Where was I?” Hattie ran her finger down the page. “Oh, yeah. You’re thirty-one, never been married, and you’re independently wealthy. Your father owned some mines and left you lots a money. You wanna hear more?”
“What are all the papers?”
Hattie sorted through the documents. “Let’s see: a birth certificate, university diplomas, and a driver’s license. This here’s a passport but it don’t have a picture.”
“We’ll take care of that when the doctor’s all through and we get these bandages off.”
“There’s an income tax return for last year and one for the year before. These here are a deed and all the real estate papers for the house in Castle Key. Myra Silk sold it to you for 1.8 million.”
“What else?”
“Lots more stuff.” Hattie sorted through the papers. “Social security statements, medical insurance cards, AAA membership card, three credit cards, stockbroker’s statements, bank statements, photos of an older couple with a dog—probably your parents. Then there’s this bunch a pages stapled together. It says, ‘Devon Anne Sinclair—Family History.’”
Lilith smiled. “And poor old Myra?”
Hattie thumbed through the pages. “Death certificate and an obituary clipping from a New Orleans newspaper. Myra died two days after she sold you the house—clipping says it was a stroke. Listen to this part of the obit.” Hattie chuckled. “‘Myra Silk’s family had all predeceased her. Only Devon Sinclair, her young friend and neighbor, and Hattie Shiffer, her long-time nurse and companion, were at her hospital bedside when she passed.’”
Devon smiled as broadly as her swollen, recreated lips would allow. “Clarisse does excellent work.”
Hattie nodded. “Any of this stuff real?”
“Yes, most of it. Each time I change bodies, Clarisse does extensive research. She finds someone dead, and suitable for my purposes—someone like Devon. Then she collects ID and documents, like birth certificates and driver’s licenses, from the various city and state agencies—agencies that haven’t been notified of Devon’s untimely passing. Once she’s got the ID, she just creates the rest of Devon’s life. Myra’s death certificate and the newspaper clipping are forgeries, of course. What’s the picture on the driver’s license look like?”
Hattie sorted through the documents again and found the laminated card. “Not good. Big nose and thin lips. The blue eyes are the only things that looks like you—but then, I don’t really know what you’re gonna look like when they take them bandages off, do I?”
“They’ll redo the license photo when they do the passport. Ponder has people in St. Thomas who’ll take care of everything; it’s all part of the package. Ponder will start on you Monday, Hattie. He’s gonna make you a sex goddess: perfect tits, sculpted ass, and green contacts.”
“But I still gotta be albino?”
“Maybe next time when you change, you could be my twin? How’d you like to be my pale twin?”
“As long as I was good-lookin’ that’d be jus’ fine.”
“Next time we’re gonna be twins. Both of us,” Devon Anne Sinclair hoarsely whispered.
18
“Mary sends her love and this kiss, too.” Nila bent over the back of Gordon’s chair and kissed his neck. “She said to tell you that she’s sent an email about the house. She needs to get your approval as soon as possible. You didn’t tell me you were selling the Concord house.”
Gordon pushed away the spiral-bound manual he’d been reading and swiveled the desk chair to face her. “No, I guess I didn’t. I’ve been preoccupied with studying for this damn bar exam. I thought I could blow it off with a quick review. Since Massachusetts has one of the more stringent processes, I assumed that the Florida bar exam would be a piece of cake. I was wrong—there are enough detailed differences that it’ll require more prep time than I expected. Not a big deal, though.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted. Would you like me to go away?”
“No, never!” Gordon almost shouted as he wrapped his arms around her slim body. He pulled her onto his lap and awkwardly kissed the tip of her nose.
“Is this part of your exam prep?” she asked, laughing.
Gordon slid his right hand under her halter top. “Actually, I’m studying to be a gynecologist, and I need more hands-on practice.” He ran the tip of his finger over her already-erect nipple.
“You’re randy this afternoon.”
“Randy—that’s one of your better English terms. It sounds so much more erotic than horny. Horny conjures up visions of dirty old men. Randy, randy, randy,” Gordon said in three different tones of voice. “I like the sound of that much better.” As he talked, he slid Nila’s halter top up, over her breasts.
She raised her arms above her head. “Skin the bunny,” she said. Gordon maneuvered the halter top over her head and through her arms, then began nuzzling her breasts.
“Girls asleep?”
“No, they’re in the playpen out on the lanai—likely to be occupied for a bit longer.” She stood and dropped her shorts and cotton thong to the carpet. “Another few months and they’ll be tearing about the house on their own. That’ll stifle our spontaneity.”
Gordon rose from the chair and gently encircled her in his embrace. “Ever hear of leg irons?” he whispered in her ear.
Nila grinned. “You’re a sexual gannet, you know.”
“Gannet?”
“Another British term for your collection; a gannet’s a large
fish-eating seabird that can eat so many fish that it’s temporarily unable to fly—and while digesting its catch, can be dashed on the rocks and killed.”
Gordon slipped his hand between her legs. “You’re wet already,” he said.
“Afraid it’s becoming a permanent condition.” Nila grinned, dropped to her knees, and slid his patterned swim trunks to his ankles.
~*~
Gordon hadn’t bothered to dress. He was sprawled on the office carpet with an imitation zebra-skin pillow under his head.
“They’re still playing with their interlocking blocks,” Nila said, tiptoeing into the office. She, too, hadn’t bothered to put her clothes back on. She sat down on the carpet next to Gordon’s legs and began to massage his left foot.
“That feels so good. Who taught you massage?”
“No one, really. Della and I used to massage each other when we were little—guess it’s something that comes naturally.”
“You’re full of surprises today—nice surprises. Thanks.”
Nila giggled. “I think it was my turn, wasn’t it? I didn’t finish telling you about Mary’s call. She—”
“Sorry I forgot to tell you about the Concord house,” he said, interrupting her. “A while ago, before you and I met, I got Susan, Karen’s stepsister, to check out the place. I think I told you—Susan owns a real estate agency.”
Nila nodded. “You did tell me.”
“I wanted Susan to start the process to sell the place and also to see if there was anything in the house that she might want—Karen’s personal things, or any of the furniture or decorations. Some of the furniture came from Karen’s parents’ house. They were things that had been passed down through her family: antiques, paintings, and an old grandfather clock. I wanted Susan and Karen’s stepbrother Todd to take whatever they wanted. Anyway, when Susan went through the house, she decided that she’d like to buy it for herself and her husband, and made what I thought was a fair offer. Except for my clothes and other personal things—my desk, books, and the Hale family documents and papers in my office—I sold it fully furnished: curtains, furniture, dishes, pots, pans, and everything.”
“You were that positive you wanted to put all that behind you? When did this happen?”
Gordon groaned with pleasure. “Please don’t stop.” He moved his right foot close to Nila. “You’re so good. Right one next, please.”
She shifted to her left and took Gordon’s foot between her knees.
“That’s almost as good as sex. Especially when you do the arch—oh, that’s it, wonderful...Where was I?”
“You decided to sell the house.”
“I made that decision when I took Karen’s ashes back to Concord and slept at the house. Mary wanted me to stay with her and Milt, but I was determined to see if I still felt the same about the place as I did before Karen and I left. The thing is, it was Karen’s house—I never really liked the place, with its old furniture, low ceilings, and creaky floors. Never liked it at all. The house was built around 1800; it had been well maintained over the years and was still structurally sound. The family who sold the house to us had the bathrooms and kitchen modernized and replaced the electrical system, the heating, and the roof. It had just gone on the market when Karen and I announced our engagement. Karen loved old things—anything charming and old. I was in on the decision—well, sort of. I guess if I’d seriously objected we would have bought a different style of house, but I didn’t object. Don’t misunderstand me; Karen and I were very happy for the brief time we lived there. It’s just that once she was gone, I knew that I never wanted to live in that house again.”
“It’s been sold, then?”
“Officially, next month. The email from Mary is the inventory of everything that stays with the house. I have to sign off on that; it’s the last step before closing.”
“Actually, Mary’s call wasn’t really about the house. She said her husband has volunteered to design my wedding dress and Della’s dress, too. He’s good, this Milton, I gather?”
“‘Good’ isn’t the correct adjective for Milt. I don’t know anything about women’s fashions, but Milt is world-famous. He did the inauguration ball gown for one of the first ladies—I can’t remember which one, but it’s in the Smithsonian.”
“Crikey! He’s that famous?”
“Yes, that famous. He’s done some gowns for your royals, as well.”
“Fancy that! Little Nila Rawlings in a wedding gown by the famous Milton—what’s his surname?”
“Ashton. Milton Ashton. Milt does the creative work and Mary runs the business—a very profitable business.”
Nila frowned. “You wouldn’t mind about the expense for the dress?”
“Like I told you—I want this wedding to be the most special event in your life. Besides, I’m sure it will be Mary and Milt’s wedding present.”
“How exciting! Then you wouldn’t mind if we go to Miami week after next? Mary and Milton are hosting a wedding show at one of the big hotels and Mary said that Milton can fit me and maybe Doo-Doo too, if she can fly over. Plus, Della can meet you and the girls, and I’ll meet Milton. How exciting!”
Gordon sat up, his back against the couch. He smiled at Nila’s enthusiasm. “It’s a wonderful plan, but there’s a problem. I’ve got less than two weeks to prepare for the bar exam—I don’t think I can spare the time. But that’s no reason to keep you from going.”
“This exam is important, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly a matter of life and death, but it is important. I’m an almost-partner in one of Boston’s top law firms, so it would be a big embarrassment to everyone if I didn’t pass first time around and had to retake the test.”
Nila stood and retrieved her top, shorts, panties, and Gordon’s swim trunks from the carpet. “I suspect that I don’t really need to go to Miami. Mary said that Milton could work from photos and measurements for Della’s dress, so I guess he could do the same for mine.”
“I’ll drive you and the girls over. It only takes about three hours to central Miami. I can drop the three of you off, say hello to Mary and Milt—and Della, too, if she can make it—and be back here in the late afternoon. Then you and the girls can hang out with Della for a couple days and maybe have dinner with Mary and Milt. I’ll come get you after the exam. It’ll give me something to look forward to after all the studying. Whadya think?”
“You wouldn’t mind the driving?”
“No problem.”
“How exciting! Let’s call Della. I hope she can organize to come at such short notice. I’ll call Mum, too.”
“Don’t you think you ought to get the dates squared away with Mary and Milt before you call Della and your mum? Why don’t we call Mary together?”
“I guess we should dress first,” Nila said with a smile as she handed Gordon his swimsuit. “Oh—I nearly forgot the reason I invaded your privacy. I wanted to tell you that I talked to Beverly when I was shopping at Kopel’s this morning. She asked if we’d seen Myra Silk’s obituary in the Sun. When I told her we had, she said that she’d heard the new owner of the big house was getting ready to move in soon and asked if we’d met her.”
Gordon shook his head. “No need to read the paper when we’ve got Beverly.”
“Beverly says the owner’s hired a house-clearance company to clean out the place, as well as a decorator and a contractor to redo the inside. The contractor told Beverly he’s only talked with the new owner on the phone but that she sounds young.”
“Actually, I noticed there have been a lot of vans and trucks parked in the driveway in the last few weeks. It’ll be nice to have someone younger in the neighborhood. Is she married? Any children?”
“Beverly didn’t know anything more except that her name is Devon Sinclair. Devon, like in England.”
Gordon pulled on his swim trunks. “Devon, huh? She was mentioned in the obituary. It doesn’t really matter how old she is, or if she’s married or not. Any new neighbor would be a big im
provement on Myra Silk.”
19
Thierry was in the shower. He was shouting over the hiss of the spray and the metallic squeal of the barely functioning ceiling-exhaust fan. “You won’t believe these two girls I met at the pool this morning. Freakin’ gorgeous, swimming topless—perfect bodies, great tits, pretty faces. I mean, real classy stuff.”
“Whores?” Bruno asked.
“Not likely,” Thierry shouted over the noise of the fan. “They spoke to each other in English, but used perfect French with me when they realized I was from France.”
“Doesn’t mean much—top Russian and Czech whores speak lots a languages,” Bruno replied.
“Paco says the women flew in on a private flight last night from the BVI and are booked for spa treatments every day this week. Whores don’t stay here—way too expensive.”
Bruno grinned. “Then what in hell you doin’ here?”
“I’m an employee—just like you. Difference is, the hotel pays you and the ladies pay me. That’s why they come here, of course—lookin’ for a lot more than a suntan. This place would close down without some young, hard, masculine bodies for rent—yours as well as mine.”
Thierry stepped out of the shower stall, switched off the noisy fan, and began to dry his mass of brown ringlets with a thick hotel towel. He was six feet tall, with a well-proportioned, tanned, athletic body, and expressive brown eyes. “The older of the two is the type you like,” he said to Bruno. “Maybe forty, tall, very white skin, with light-red hair and a hard, muscular body. Haven’t seen a body like hers around here in a long while.”
“How about the other?”
“She’s probably a model—slim, with long legs, short brown hair and bright-blue eyes. Probably in her thirties.” Thierry tossed the damp towel into a wicker basket. “Not much chance either of ’em pays for sex. But then, money isn’t everything—eh, Bruno?”