A Matter of Circumstance

by Heather Graham

  Sean rose silently and donned his cutoffs. He needed to be alone. He crept quietly from the room, closing the door tightly behind him.

  Julio, on a mat outside the door, was awake, watching him, the ever-present Magnum at his side.

  “I’m just going down to the beach,” Sean said.

  Julio nodded and lay back down on the mat. Sean continued on out the kitchen door. No one was really awake yet. No one but him.

  He was glad. There was no time here like the breaking of the dawn. No time when the heavens appeared more magenta, no time when the coming sun kissed the sand more gently. A breeze stirred the trees and the rippling water.

  He walked over the soft dunes and neared the water, listening to the soft rush of the tide, gazing at the glittering droplets caught and dazzled by the coming sun. Again the irony of it all struck him. Here, in this incredible Eden, they were prisoners. It should have been a place of freedom. No crime should touch this shore, only laughter and tenderness and…passion.

  They should have made love beneath the stars, not on a shabby mattress inside a primitive cabin in the dark. This was a place of exquisite loveliness; it should have remained unsoiled.

  Sean sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees.

  So many things in his life had been beautiful, he thought.

  Havana had been beautiful. Once upon a time it had been a fantastic city, a playground for the rich and famous. There had been dancing and music, beautiful women, poets and musicians, artisans and scholars. The warm Caribbean breezes had touched the patios of homes and nightclubs; the palms had swayed; the air had been touched by perfume.

  Once upon a time…

  He had been only six the last time he had seen Havana, but as long as he lived he would never forget that night.

  Revolution had been brewing for a long time. The old men at the cafés had talked about it; the young men had shouted about it. Batista had been a dictator, and it was very true that the poor had suffered beneath him. Yes, revolution had been brewing. His father simply had not seen it clearly enough.

  As a six-year-old Sean had adored both his parents. They’d met in New York City, where his mother had been a model and his father had been selling superior Havana cigars. They had fiery tempers, but totally different cultural backgrounds. Love had always been the tie that bound the two of them. It had been imperative that they learn about each other’s cultures to appreciate and understand each other. Consequently, Sean had been born in Dublin, beneath the benign eyes of his maternal grandparents.

  And consequently they had been in Havana on the night the gunfire began.

  He could remember it all so clearly. December, but a hot night. His father had been downstairs on the patio, talking with a few cronies. His mother had been in the kitchen, humming, fixing rum punches for their company. Sean had been sitting at the kitchen table, laboriously practicing his handwriting.

  And then it had started, a rat-tat-tatting somewhere down the street, so soft that they had ignored it at first. But then there had been screams, and his father, such a handsome man with his flashing dark eyes and lean whipcord physique, had come dashing up the stairs.

  He’d shouted that they must go, that they must get to the airport. Sean could remember his mother bursting into tears when it became clear that his father was not going to join them.

  “You’re an American, too! You’re an American citizen! This is not your—”

  “I am an American, but I am also Cuban. Siobhan, go, now, for my son’s sake! I will meet you in the States. I will meet you!”

  And so they ran. His father’s friend, Xavier, got them through the streets. Streets littered here and there with bodies. With soldiers, with revolutionaries. With the injured, with the dying. Streets that seemed alive with screaming.

  At one point, they’d been stopped—by a looter, of all things on such a night. His mother had been held while he, a child, had struggled ineffectually. That had been when he decided he would never be helpless again.

  With the pure fury of a child he had escaped the man holding him and bitten the man attacking his mother, giving Xavier the chance to wrest the gun from the man. Xavier had killed him, and their mad dash for freedom had continued.

  They’d reached the embassy—and they’d gotten out.

  But he’d never seen his father again, nor Xavier. They’d settled in Miami, where his mother had spent the next ten years of her life waiting for news of his father. When it came, it was bad. He had been shot that night. He had died with the revolution.

  Adjusting to life in Miami had been hard. Sean spoke Spanish fluently, but his English had an Irish accent, and all the kids had made fun of him. Nobody had cared much what you sounded like in New York, because New York had been full of all kinds of people. But not Miami—not then.

  Cubans began entering the city in droves, escaping to freedom. The federal government helped them, which led to resentment. Sean’s life became ever harder. No one could understand a Cuban boy named Sean who had an Irish mother.

  Somewhere along the line—the third grade?—he’d created a new world for himself. He started telling his schoolmates that Ramiro was Castilian, that his mother had married his father in Madrid.

  Then his mother found out about the story. She’d gone as white as paste and started to cry in a way that tore his insides all to pieces. “Sean! How could you? How could you deny your father?”

  That had been the last time he had ever done so. He had gone to his mother, and they had cried together. When he went to bed that night all he could think about was his father, his laughter, his temper, his total devotion to his wife—and to his son. His love for the world at large and for his own heritage.

  From that moment on he was proud of what he was. Irish, Cuban—and American. American all the way.

  And naturally, as time passed, things evened out. In high school half his classmates were various forms of Anglo, half were various forms of Latino. He played football with a natural ability, and by his junior year that made him incredibly popular.

  He went to college in Nebraska on a football scholarship. He liked Nebraska, but not as much as home. And though he earned a law degree, he didn’t want to practice. He wanted to be a cop. He’d wanted to be one ever since that night in Havana, when he had learned that law and order were precious commodities.

  Then, when he’d first come home, he’d fallen in love. Her name was Sandra Johnson, and she had been beautiful. Blond and blue-eyed and blue-blooded all the way. They’d met at a nightclub and fallen in love to a John Denver tune, slow dancing beneath the colored lights. All he’d really known about her was that she worked in her family’s business as a receptionist. That seemed to be all he needed to know at the time. They met every night. They made love on what seemed like every beach in the state.

  She was passionate, lovely, and everything he had ever desired.

  But on a cool September night, when he was twenty-four and thought that he owned the world, he had received a blow that nearly destroyed him.

  She met him that night, tremendously nervous, teary-eyed, anxious and excited. She blurted out instantly that she was pregnant, then awaited his reaction.

  He was thrilled. A home and a family. He was ready for them both. A child, his father’s grandchild, to hold and love and nurture—and to whom to give the world, just as his parents had given it to him. America, with all its merging fascinating cultures.

  He’d held her tenderly, and they’d planned their life. They would look into the nice new town houses on Miller Road, and they would be married in St. Theresa’s. His pay wasn’t great, but it was sufficient.

  Sandra had been starry-eyed then, as happy as a lark. They had to meet each other’s parents, of course. Sean knew that his mother would love Sandra. And by this time in his life he could see no reason why the Johnsons wouldn’t like him.

  He arrived at their house neatly suited. He was somewhat stunned by the mansion on the water, but he hadn’t come from p
overty. His mother had done well modeling, and his father’s investments had all been in the U.S. His mom had a wonderful old home in Miami Shores. And if anyone was “class,” it was Siobhan Ramiro.

  But not to the Johnsons.

  When the maid led him into the elegant receiving room Sandra was nowhere in sight. Only her mother and father were there, greeting him politely but informing him that Sandra was gone.

  Where? he had demanded, confused.

  And then it had all come out. They were terribly sorry, but didn’t he understand that they were “the” Lockwood Johnsons; they couldn’t possibly allow their daughter to marry a—a refugee.

  Lockwood Johnson went on to say coolly that the baby had already been aborted.

  Well, he—a cop—had gotten arrested that night. His temper—Irish, Cuban or all-American—had soared to a point where he had seen nothing but red, and he’d charged Lockwood Johnson with all the fury he had learned on the football field.

  Johnson had probably expected something along those lines. He’d whistled, and four bodyguards had come rushing in. Even then, it had taken them fifteen minutes to wrestle him down.

  He could still remember Mrs. Johnson murmuring something about the behavior of “riffraff,” but all he really knew was that he had woken up in a jail cell.

  All he could think at the time was that the Johnsons were the ones who deserved to be in jail. They’d murdered his child; they’d taken a piece of his heart.

  Logically, he had known that they represented an extreme. His friends, his best friends, his co-workers, all came in mixed nationalities. Half the Cuban girls he knew had married Anglo men, and vice versa. Of course there were still cultural differences. Some people resented those who spoke Spanish; some thought it was good to know two languages. Things didn’t change that quickly. But people were people, and friendships formed where they would, as did love—when it was allowed.

  He had decided then that he wouldn’t fall in love again. Especially not with a blonde.

  So what the hell was he doing now? It was ridiculous; it was impossible. He should be staying as far away as he could from Mrs. Amanda—Anglo—Blayne.

  He closed his eyes tightly then opened them to the lightening sky. He realized that he was clenching his fists so tightly that his nails were cutting into his palms.

  He wasn’t in love, he told himself dully. This whole thing was nothing more than circumstance. He had known her only a few days, and she’d turned to him only because she was frightened and lonely. She’d turned to him in the dark, hiding.

  He straightened his shoulders. God! If they could just get off of this damned island!

  He tried to bring himself under control, but anger filled him. He reminded himself that under no circumstances could he risk her life, yet he was ready to run headfirst into Roberto, just to end it all. Last night had been ecstasy; this morning was hell.

  “Sean?”

  He turned around and saw her standing there. All blonde and all beautiful. Thin and lithe and curved, and yet suddenly so Anglo that he wanted to scream. Her face was so perfect: tawny eyes alive above the high Anglo cheekbones. He couldn’t read her expression; she seemed a little pale beneath her tan. She carried two cups of coffee and pressed one toward him.

  He accepted, and found himself staring at her legs. Long legs, slimly muscled. He thought about the way they had wrapped around him, and he felt dizzy once again.

  Good God, he wanted her. With all the heat and tempest and passion inside him, he wanted her. Right here, on the beach. He wanted Julio and Roberto and even Mama Garcia and Maria to drop dead, to fall into a hole. He wanted her naked beneath him on the white sand, far away from society. Far from a nightmare that he had forgotten, far from a place where an unborn child could be killed because of his heritage.

  She laughed softly, just a little bit nervously. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

  “No. Thanks for the coffee. Go away. What are you doing out here, anyway?” He scowled, staring back toward the water. He felt her stiffen and knew it was for the best. He didn’t have any difficulty being friends with beautiful Anglos, or with dating them, or with going to bed with them, for that matter.

  Just falling in love with them.

  “I just walked out with the coffee. No one stopped me.”

  “Well, walk somewhere else.”

  She told him exactly what he should do with himself and turned on her heel.

  Where the hell was the damned FBI? he wondered. One lousy little kidnapping and they hadn’t appeared yet! They had a lot of nerve calling the cops yokels!

  She walked away, not back to the house, but down the beach. He felt as if part of him had frozen over.

  He turned slightly. Roberto was outside now, sitting near the door, training his damn Magnum on Amanda.

  Sean looked back in her direction. She had finished her coffee and thrown herself into the surf.

  For a long while he just sat there, watching her swim. Then she stood, wringing her hair out. Her ribs were bare, gleaming with water. The torn halter she had somehow mended was clinging to her breasts like a second skin. The cutoffs were doing little better at her hips.

  Sean twisted slightly to see Roberto watching her, leering. Sean stood and marched down the beach. With no thought whatsoever, his temper soaring toward red again, he strode through the shallows to reach her, then grasped her shoulders, shaking her.

  “Let me go, you animal!” she snapped. Her beautiful tawny eyes were red-rimmed. From the salt water? Or had she been crying?

  He started to soften.

  “I mean it! Get your filthy hands off me!”

  He released her. Just like that.

  “You liked my filthy hands well enough last night,” he sneered.

  “That was last night,” she said coolly.

  “Good. Because if you keep on the way you’re going, it’s not going to be my filthy hands on you—it will be Roberto’s. And if you think I’ll battle it out for you again, lady, you’d better think again.”

  He turned around and walked away from her.

  By the time he reached the house Señora Garcia and Maria were outside. Maria had on a cute-little-nothing bikini. Accomplice to a kidnapping or not, Maria knew how to dress. She headed down to the water.

  And at that moment Sean felt like speaking Spanish. He noticed that Amanda had stretched out facedown on the sand, a good distance away from them all. He strode back into the surf. Maria was just a kid, but right now he felt like nothing so much as playing kids’ games in the water with her.

  * * *

  It was the longest day Mandy had ever experienced in her life.

  When she awoke she was glad of the solitude he had given her. Though she was bundled in the covers, she felt her nudity acutely. Her nudity, and her body. Muscles that had been unused for a long time were delightfully sore. She felt guilt and she felt shame, yet she felt like a cat at the same time, wonderfully stroked and petted and loved.

  Tears came to her eyes because it had been so good. Because he had been so tender and gentle and so wonderfully savage at just the right moment. Because she couldn’t remember lovemaking being such a vivid experience, and because that made her feel guilty all over again, because she had loved her husband so much.

  Yet even then, amid the guilt and shame, she had been all too aware of the forbidden knowledge that he had the power to ease the past, if not erase it. He was so powerful and fascinating that she savored the thought of him, just as her body savored the memory of his. His scent was still with her, as were the memories of his arms, of the way he felt inside her.

  They were captives on an island, forced together, she reminded herself. It was a nightmare, and please God, it would end, and they would go their separate ways, back to the lives they had led before this one. And yet…

  She had to see him. To talk to him. To admit that she was afraid of the light, but that she wasn’t denying anything. She needed to touch him again, to know that
his arms were still there—for now, at least. She needed to tell him how much she cared about him, how much she appreciated him, how much…she was fascinated by him.

  It was almost like falling in love.

  And so she had dressed, only to find her halter still ripped. She had stepped out of the room holding the shirt in place. Señora Garcia had clucked disapprovingly, then given her a needle and thread, and she had mended the halter. Then Señora Garcia had given her coffee, and she had hurried out to the beach, anxious to see Sean again.

  She had received only the most horrible slap in the face, and it had hurt so badly that she had found herself awash with pain and confusion. The only way to rid herself of them had been to dive into the water.

  Then he had touched her again, and she had felt such waves of shimmering heat, of anger, wash over her that she had been stunned all over again.

  What had she done but make love with him?

  She spent the morning lying in the sun; he spent it playing with Maria. Damn him. Cradle robber. What the hell did she care? She had been an idiot, and that was that.

  So why in God’s name was it tearing her to pieces? She should be worrying about her physical well-being. Juan wasn’t back yet. When was Julio going to start snipping off her fingers?

  A feminine voice started to chide her in Spanish. Mandy rolled over to find Señora Garcia standing beside her with a plate of food. She shook her head; she wasn’t hungry.

  Señora Garcia sighed, unhappily plumped her full figure down on the sand and pressed the plate into Mandy’s hands.

  Mandy ate resignedly. Lunch was a thin steak with rice and black beans, deliciously cooked. She ate everything on the plate, while Señora Garcia smiled at her.

  At one point the older woman disappeared, then returned with a Coca-Cola. Mandy thanked her again and enjoyed the soda. The next time Señora Garcia left her, she didn’t return.

  Bored, and increasingly anxious and upset despite her determination not to be, Mandy took off for the water again. She swam and swam—and suddenly bumped into another body. Hands righted her, and she found herself staring into Roberto’s dark eyes.