by Jac Simensen
Nila shrugged and gestured questioningly at Mary. Mary gave her the thumbs-up.
“Your babies?”
“Mum didn’t tell you?”
“Only that you were living in America and that you’re marrying an American. Nothing about babies.”
“Okay. I’m marrying an American named Gordon whose wife died. He has twin girls that, after our marriage, I’ll be adopting. The babies are here with me in Miami and I already think of the two of them as mine. Della lives with her boyfriend in London and will probably be getting married soon, as well. That’s probably all you need to know about us.”
Della turned on the couch toward Nila and echoed Mary’s thumbs-up.
Hubert paused. “All right—I’ll come to you. What’s the name of your hotel?”
“The Mandarin Oriental.”
“The address?”
Mary pointed to the address on the hotel stationery.
“500 Brickel Key Drive. We’ll meet you in the lobby at three.”
Hubert cleared his throat. “It’s only you, Nila, whom I need to meet with. Not Della.”
Della frowned and stuck out her tongue.
“Sorry, Dad. That’s not the way it’s gonna work. Whatever you have to tell me, you’ll tell Della, as well. We’ll be in the lobby at three and each have a flower in our hair so that you can recognize us.”
“If you insist.” Hubert’s voice had taken on a hard tone.
“I do.”
“Is there somewhere private where we can talk?”
Nila looked at Mary. Mary mouthed here, and pointed to the floor.
“We can use our suite. We’ll go up after we meet.”
“We’ll meet at three then, in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental,” Hubert said and hung up.
“Good job,” Mary enthused. “This whole thing smells fishy.”
“Fishy?” Della asked.
“A man who says he’s your father—a man who neither of you remembers or would recognize—wants to meet Nila, and only Nila, in a South Beach hotel best known for its bedroom ceiling mirrors. He says he’ll give Nila some valuable jewelry left to her by his dead mother from Ghana, whom neither of you can remember. Got it? Smells like a day-old fish left out in the sun.”
Della laughed. “When you put it that way, there is a rank odor about it.”
Nila frowned. “Mary, what should we do?”
“Here’s a plan. Milt and I bring lots a business to this hotel every spring and so they take especially good care of us. I’ll get the management to have hotel security keep an eye on the two of you down in the lobby. If you feel any threat, or think you’re in danger, just wave your hand in the air and security will come a-runnin’. If you think this man calling himself Hubert is legit and agree to a private meeting, bring him up here, to Della’s suite. I’ll wait in the bedroom and if there’s any trouble, all you have to do is shout for help and I’ll call security.”
Nila frowned and shook her head. “Actually, I’m sure Hubert is our real father and that he has no intention of harming or scamming either of us, but I’ve heard the horror stories of what can happen in Miami to naïve girls. So, okay. We’ll do as you suggest.”
~*~
Nila checked her watch for the second time in a minute; it read 3:10. She looked at the middle-aged man coming through the hotel entrance. “Don’t think so; this one’s quite gray, likely too old.”
The man in the tailored leather jacket and designer jeans noticed the girls’ flowers and puzzled expressions. He smiled and strode toward them.
“Nila!” he enthusiastically called as he approached the couch that was strategically placed to face the main entrance of the hotel.
“Dad, it’s really you!” Nila stood, ignored his outstretched hand, and embraced him as one might greet a friend. Hubert turned toward Della, who stood but opted for a handshake.
“Hello, Dad,” Della coolly stated. “Long time no see.”
“I guess you could say that,” Hubert said with a grin. “You didn’t need the orchids in your hair. The resemblance with your mother is remarkable—you especially, Della.”
“You’ve seen our mum in London?” Della asked, although she knew the answer to her question.
Hubert nodded. “I got into Miami yesterday evening. I’m feeling quite fresh, though. I think it’s the anticipation of seeing the two of you as young women. This is quite a magnificent hotel—much better than the place I booked from the airport help desk.”
“My almost-brother-in-law is a fashion designer who’s hosting a wedding show here tomorrow. He’s designed our wedding gowns and did the measuring and fitting just now—it was quite a process. Our suites were comped.”
Hubert cocked his head. “Comped?”
“That means given free, and since our measurements are nearly identical, we can just swap dresses when it’s my turn to be the bride,” Della added, with a grin and a moderate thaw to her initial coolness.
“You said your fiancé’s young children are staying with you?”
“Yes, my almost-sister-in-law is babysitting them in my suite. We can use Della’s suite so we won’t be interrupted. You did say you wanted to have a private conversation?”
Hubert nodded and patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “I have the jewels with me. I suggest that you put them in the hotel safe after we talk. As you’ll see, they’re very valuable.”
Della gestured toward the reception desk. “The lifts are just over here,” she said.
While the group silently waited for the elevator, an athletic-looking young man in a dark suit joined them. He entered the car last.
“Which floor?” he asked.
“Twelve, please,” Nila replied with a smile and a discreet wink. They all exited at the twelfth floor. Nila, Della, and their father turned left while the athletic young man strode down the hallway in the opposite direction.
“It’s just here,” Della said. She inserted her key card and opened the heavy door; Hubert held the door while the women entered.
Della stood in front of a wall mirror and plucked the orchid from her hair, while Nila settled on the upholstered couch. Hubert removed his leather jacket and extracted a thick, white envelope from the inside pocket. “Could you find a small towel where I can lay out the jewels?”
Della nodded and went through the bedroom to the bathroom for the towel. She found Mary sitting on the bed with her cell phone in hand. Della smiled, gave Mary an okay sign, and returned to the lounge.
“There’s coffee if you’d like,” Nila offered.
Hubert declined the coffee. He opened the white envelope and took out four clear plastic sleeves, each tied at the top with an old-fashioned cord wrap. Della spread the hand towel on the coffee table in front of Hubert, who placed the plastic sleeves on the towel and leaned back into the couch. He hung his head and bit his lower lip before speaking. “I realize this meeting is awkward for both of you. I’m your natural father, and yet I’m a stranger. We share DNA but have little else in common. For much of my life, I behaved badly toward your mother. And toward you two, as well. Although it was your mother’s choice to leave Ghana and return to England, I’m really the one who deserted the family. I don’t ask for your understanding or your forgiveness, nor do I have expectations of any change in our relationship. My life is what I’ve made of it and I will die with the pain I have caused the three of you on my conscience.”
Della sat on the carpeted floor at the end of the coffee table nearest her father and stared, wide-eyed, into his face. “Our mum never told us much about you, or why you two broke up. All she told us was that she wasn’t able to live in Ghana and had to bring us home to England.”
“And that our grandmother put the cat tattoo on my belly without Mum’s permission in some sort of voodoo ceremony,” Nila added. “She said that really was the last straw; it totally freaked her out.”
Hubert shook his head. “That tattoo didn’t have anything to do with voodoo. Let me explain. My mothe
r descended from the Ashanti, an ancient African people with a complex, sophisticated history. For thousands of years, until the final military conquest by the British in about 1900, the Ashanti were the dominant force in West Africa. They controlled the lands that today are called Ghana and the Ivory Coast. Ashanti culture was ancient, rich, and complex, but because the Ashanti had an oral, rather than a written, history, the Europeans chose to marginalize the Ashanti as savages. Since my mother was of the Ashanti, all three of us have Ashanti blood flowing in our veins and—”
“What did she look like? I’ve never seen a photo,” Della interrupted him.
“Juba was a tall, slim woman. I take after her—except for her darker skin.”
“And you have a wife and children?”
“My wife’s name is Morowa—she too is African and of the Ashanti. And yes, Morowa and I have five sons—Joshua, the eldest, is sixteen and Peter, our youngest, is two.”
“So, your sons are Nila’s and my stepbrothers. Isn’t that right?”
“Della, I think it’s half-brothers, not stepbrothers—can you please let Dad get on with what he was telling us?”
“Okay, but I’d really like to see their pictures—my five stepbrothers.”
“Della, please? Go ahead, Dad.”
“As I was saying—Juba, your grandmother, was of the Ashanti and came from a high-status family. In Europe, the family would be considered royalty. From her childhood, she was taught that she had inherited special powers, powers she could use to protect her family, and to ward off malevolent forces. These special powers had been passed down through the women of her family all the way back to the time of creation.”
“You mean like a good witch? You’ve seen her use these powers?” Della excitedly asked.
Hubert shook his head. “Never,” he said. “I seriously doubt that she actually had powers of any sort—but she believed that she did. And, like her mother, grandmother, and all the women of her family who had preceded her, she firmly believed that it was her solemn duty to pass these powers on to her daughter—or to her closest female blood relative.”
“But you’re an only child, aren’t you, Dad? Your mother never had a daughter?” Della asked.
“Exactly,” Hubert said. “Since she had no daughter, Juba believed that she had to pass her powers to her closest female descendant—and that, of course, would be you, Nila.”
“Wow!” Della nearly shouted. “Nila, her first granddaughter—that makes you a good witch, Nila.”
Hubert nodded. “That cat tattoo on your belly is your grandmother’s mark. She placed her mark on you to signify that upon her death, the ancient powers she believed she possessed would pass to you. However, Morowa and I are second cousins. So, if we had had a daughter, then that child would be closer in the bloodline to my mother than you, and would supposedly inherit my mother’s powers. But Morowa and I only had boys, no girls.”
Nila grinned. “That’s silly. I haven’t felt any differently—no ancient powers. When did Juba die?”
“Two months ago.”
“So you’d think I’d know by now if anything was different.”
“As I’ve told you, I never saw any evidence that my mother had special power—but there is one more piece of the puzzle.” Hubert picked up one of the plastic sleeves from the table, opened the string closure, and then removed a small velvet pouch. “This is one of the four pieces of jewelry that Juba left to you in her will. It’s a ring,” he added, as he opened the velvet pouch and held the gold and orange-diamond ring toward Nila. “A diamond—a three-caret, orange-colored diamond. Orange-colored stones of this size and quality are extremely rare, the appraiser said. He’s given the ring a retail value of eighty thousand pounds.”
Della gasped. “That’s enough to buy a house…well, not in London.”
Nila reached out with a trembling hand and took the ring between her thumb and index finger.
“Look at the color,” she whispered, holding the ring up to the light. “It’s as if it’s glowing from inside the stone.”
Nila extended her hand to Della, who took the ring and slowly slid it onto her ring finger. “It’s magnificent. I’ve never seen any stone this luminous before. If you’re planning on wearing it, Nila, you’ll need to get it sized down. It’s too large to safely wear.”
“According to my uncle, who was the family historian, this stone in its raw, uncut form was the property of the Ashanti for thousands of years,” Hubert said. “When the stone was cut, and set into the ring, it was passed to someone in our family—likely my great-great-great-grandmother—and it’s been in the family ever since. My uncle said that the diamond was a ‘power stone.’ He couldn’t exactly remember why it was called that, but said it had more to do with the powers of the person wearing the ring than powers within the stone itself. My mother loved to wear her jewelry, but I never saw her wear this ring. I’m reasonably sure that she never felt that she needed to use the protective powers she believed she had inherited.”
Della removed the ring from her finger and passed it to Nila. Nila held the stone to the natural light from the far window.
“It’s heavy for its size,” she said. She held the ring by the sides and slid it onto the ring finger of her left hand. “Actually, this fits perfectly. It doesn’t need to be sized down at all.”
“That’s not possible,” Della said with a frown. “Your hands aren’t any bigger than mine and the ring was obviously way too big for me. Here, let me try it on again.”
Nila twisted the ring and tried to remove it from her finger but couldn’t. “That’s odd. It went on easily enough, but now it doesn’t wanna come off.” She stood and continued to pull and twist the ring. “Soap and cold water should do the trick—let me go into the bathroom.”
“Make sure to close the drain first,” Della cautioned her.
“Wait a minute,” Hubert said, tapping his fingers against the plastic sleeves on the coffee table. “You’ve got three more spectacular pieces to see. Sit back down and afterward I’ll help you get the ring off. Then we’ll put all four pieces into the hotel safe.”
“Right,” Nila agreed and resumed her seat. She turned to Della and smiled. “Check ’em out and pick the one you want for yourself.”
“Really?” Della exclaimed.
“Yes, really. I’ll keep the ring—maybe it’ll be my engagement ring. Then we’ll sell the other two pieces and I’ll split the money with Mum. Somehow, I don’t think she’d want any of Juba’s jewelry. Is that okay with you, Dad?”
Hubert cleared his throat. “I don’t have a problem with your selling the necklace and pendants. They were things my mother purchased during her lifetime, but I hope you’ll keep the ring in the family. It’s been with the Ashanti for so many centuries that it would be a tragedy not to continue to pass it on.”
“I understand—but with twin girls, it might be complicated to pass on a single ring. Then again, there’s the distinct possibility that I’ll have a few babies myself—maybe a beautiful daughter who’ll continue the Ashanti bloodline. Is that what you’d want, Dad?”
Hubert nodded. “That’s exactly what your grandmother would wish—and my late Uncle Ringwald, as well.”
~*~
“Me do,” Janna exclaimed, as she placed the square red block on top of another block of the same shape and color.
“Yes,” Julie agreed. “This!” she said, placing a rectangular yellow block on its side, perpendicular to the two red blocks. Janna grunted and covered the rectangular block with another of the same shape.
The twins were dressed in matching pink coveralls and frilly white socks, without shoes. They sat side by side on the plush carpet. The colorful blocks were their current favorite plaything. They took turns placing the remaining blocks together until all of the wooden toys were stacked three levels high. After Julie had placed the final block, a cone, on top of the two rectangles, Janna lifted up onto her knees and, with her small hands, quickly flattened the creation
. Both girls squealed in delight and then proceeded to take turns building another structure. During the hour that Nila and Mary had left the girls in DiDi’s less-than-attentive care, the twins had built and razed a dozen or more structures, and showed no sign of losing interest.
DiDi was lying on her back on the carpet in front of the upholstered couch, her cell phone pressed against her ear. The babies were building their creations on the other side of the carpeted room, about thirty feet away. DiDi was in her early twenties, tall, and fashionably emaciated. She wore a white spandex tank top with denim Daisy Dukes, and yellow-tinted, half-frame glasses. At the septum of her nose, a small, bone-shaped piece of silver pierced the cartilage. The hair surrounding her right ear had been shaved and a circle of red-and-blue tattoos of miniature flowers circled her ear and extended down to her neck. DiDi was an aspiring model, and an assistant to the wardrobe mistress who managed the garments displayed in Milt’s fashion shows. Mary had given her some extra money to watch the twins while Nila and Della met with their father in the hotel lobby.
DiDi was totally absorbed in a heated argument with her about-to-be-ex boyfriend. Her angry voice grew progressively louder and the expletives more anatomically specific as she repeated the details of his recent, cocaine-fueled bedroom feats as graphically described in an earlier call with her ex-best-girlfriend.
“The fat cunt said she was calling to apologize for having sex with you. But it wasn’t an apology! She called to brag about getting to suck your dick and how much you loved it.” DiDi’s voice rose to a scream. “She said you told her how terrific it was to screw a woman with real tits, instead of a bag-a-bones.”
Julie and Janna were startled by DiDi’s wild screams. They pushed back from their blocks and stared, wide-eyed, at the fuming, foul-mouthed woman. Julie moved close to Janna and whispered in Janna’s ear. Janna listened intently and then nodded.
Although both girls were now able to walk reasonably well, when on carpeted or smooth, wooden floors, they still preferred to crawl. Janna crawled to the end of the couch, stood, and then pulled her small body up onto the seat cushions. She scrambled to the opposite end of the couch, directly above DiDi’s head, awkwardly stood, tottering on the spongy cushions, and then tumbled forward from the edge of the couch onto the babysitter’s face. DiDi shrieked as the twenty-pound human cannonball dropped, but it was too late to raise her hands or arms to ward off the pink missile, and Janna’s knee scored a direct hit on DiDi’s nose.