“Come upstairs—we’ll picnic there!” she said.
As usual, she scampered ahead of him.
He caught a glimpse of her as she hurried into a room. He followed.
The shadows of dusk sat over the room, erasing some of the cruelty of time. Large French doors opened to the balcony.
Natal threw open the doors. The rising moon was full that night; patterns of light swept in from both the dying sun and that newborn orb, and there seemed nothing as beautiful in the world as the room, the open doors, and Natal—standing out on the balcony, her hands on the rail, caught in the mixture of light.
He walked out to her, aware that Convict followed him. He slipped his arms around her. For a moment, she leaned back against him. He was certain that he physically felt her scent, light and yet sensual, sweet and evocative. He breathed—and it seemed that the very scent of her filled him and touched him.
“We’ll picnic,” she said, spinning away from him.
Deftly and swiftly, she threw the blanket out on the hardwood floor. It was evident that she knew the place and that she had come before. She found a lantern in the closet and set it at the edge of the blanket while she set out the food.
“Convict, for you—sausage!” she said.
Convict stayed beside River on the edge of the blanket, so River grabbed the sausage and fed the dog while Natal made plates for them. “We could come here again—light a fire in the fireplace and cook!” she said.
“We could,” he agreed softly.
He watched her for a moment, then opened the wine he had bought and passed the bottle to her.
“We forgot cups,” he realized.
She laughed. “This is not America; no red Solo cups. You know that.”
He nodded and handed her the bottle; she took the first swig.
They ate. She talked about writing, about Brazil, about the wonder of Carnaval. Her eyes were bright as she described the dancing and the parades and the merriment. “We must go into the city for some of the parades,” she said. “Remember I told you about the natives who danced naked when the first explorers came? Well, maybe that adds something to the sensuality of what happens here now, all the time. You must see some of our Carnaval dancers—they are so beautiful. They dance with scant costumes but move with such fluid grace and skill. Fast. They shake and rotate and move so that everyone who watches is mesmerized. I think perhaps we are so special and so free here because of those early people; they lived in their environment, as part of it. They welcomed the sun.”
“We will,” he said.
Those were the words. Spoken in a whisper. She set the bottle down and crawled to him on the blanket, her eyes filled with mischief as she looked into his. “River … like water. Cool and smooth.” She put a hand on his chest.
He’d been afraid. Afraid that if he touched her, she’d disappear. But he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand, leaned toward her, and kissed her.
It was as if he actually breathed in her essence still; the longing for her filled him and became a physical ache as they kissed, hot, wet kisses, deep and insinuating, sweet and sloppy, and then impassioned.
She wore nothing under the peasant dress. Her flesh was as sweet as her lips. She was as giving and passionate in making love as she was in seeking life. He lay against her trembling, and he felt the silk of her hair and her flesh, felt the fever and fire in her lithe, leanly muscled body. She teased and touched in return and whispered.
And the sound of her whispers drove him further …
She rose over him, leaning down, the mischief in her eyes. And even in the midst of his hunger he reached up and touched her hair.
“You are freedom,” he whispered. “The spirit of love and life … and freedom.”
She grinned and eased against him. “And you are the spirit of a hot volcano,” she teased.
“Volcanoes can be great adventures,” he said.
“So I have discovered,” she said. Then she kissed him. One of those hot, liquid kisses that seemed to awake everything in him, that made him everything she might want him to be.
They made love through the night. And at some point, spent and exhausted, he slept.
CHAPTER 11
When River awoke, he was newly aroused.
She was outside, standing on the balcony, naked and perfect in the rising sunlight, totally indifferent to her nudity and her beauty.
He walked over to her and slipped his arms around her.
“I am a liar,” she said softly.
“A liar?”
She pushed away from the balcony and walked back into the room, finding her peasant dress and her shoes.
“Not so much a liar,” she whispered, pausing for a minute and then meeting his eyes. “A dreamer,” she said at last.
“Natal, what are you talking about?”
“I have to go,” she said.
“Go—go where?”
“Home,” she told him. She looked away from him. “I should not have been with you because … because you are … different. You are somehow … real. When I saw you, when we met, it was so spontaneous and, I don’t mean to turn this into a cliché, but it seemed … right. I’m a free spirit, yes, but I’m usually decent and honest.”
“You are beautifully decent and honest,” he assured her.
She looked at him sadly. “No. Usually, but I wanted … I wanted what I saw in you. At first, it was just fun. But then, I had to keep seeing you. It was like reaching for a star that I couldn’t have, but there you were and … I reached.” She paused. “River, I have deceived you.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“I live with a man,” she said in a broken whisper.
He felt as if he’d been slapped, as if the air had been knocked out of him. As if life had been knocked out of him. “A man?”
“His money is why I can write, why I can go where I please, and why,” she added, “I can say I am a free spirit.”
River just stared at her. He felt frozen. She lived with a man. “Who? Your husband?”
Natal shook her head but looked as miserable as ever. “His name is Reed Amato.”
No. Surely not.
Amato. She lived with Amato.
He wasn’t angry; he was desperate. There had to be a way to get her to leave such a man.
He strode toward her but she put up a hand and said, “I’m so sorry. You have a right to be angry.”
“I’m not angry. I don’t want you to go. I can … help you. I can get you out of there.”
“No. Please, let it be as it is now. If you don’t want to see me again—”
“I will always want to see you again.”
“Even if I’m not as free as … as free as I pretend?” She looked down. “Even if I am a liar?”
“Natal, I swear, I will always want to see you.”
Her eyes searched his; she believed him. She smiled sadly. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, when she said, “Then I will see you again, but now…”
“Natal—”
“Please … don’t try to stop me. I am going home. There are many reasons. And you are not to follow me there. Reed Amato is … he’s not a nice man. Not to others. You are not to follow me—I will never see you again if you do. Do you understand? It’s dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid of Tio Amato. I’m not afraid of any danger he offers. Leave him. I will be there for you; I will see that you can live and write and dream. I can see that you are truly a free spirit.”
She shook her head and stepped back. “No, don’t you understand? This house—it stands as it does because of Reed Amato. Because the owner didn’t listen to him and Reed ruined him and his family. I don’t know exactly how he does what he does, and I don’t want to believe he does what he does … I don’t see what happens. I wouldn’t have lived with him, ever. If I had realized just—just how he had come to be so rich and have so much power. But, River, listen to me. I don’t know what I want yet, but I don’t want you n
ear him. Don’t you understand me yet? Those who cross him sometimes lose more than their houses. They—they disappear.”
“And don’t you understand me yet?” he asked softly. “I’m not afraid of him. I’ll get you away from him.”
“And if you’re not afraid, you’re stupid.”
“We won’t be stupid—we’ll just get the hell away. Look, I believe you. I believe that he’s a very dangerous man. I think I saw … I think I know that you’re right and that he does kill people or have them killed. Natal—you have to get away from him!”
He tried to walk toward her again. She threw her hands up and stepped back again. “No! I am afraid—but not for me. For you. And right now … now I must go. And I must think and try to see if I believe … never mind. Right now, I simply must go. And tonight—for me, if you ever want to see me again—you must leave it alone. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”
And with those words, she fled.
Convict barked as River flew from the house, racing after her.
But as quickly as he could move, he didn’t catch up with her.
She was a free spirit—or so she’d said. This was her home. It was as if she could disappear into thin air.
CHAPTER 12
River made his way to Beluga’s hostel. His old friend was sitting outside with one of his cigars.
River found himself thinking that Beluga would have made an excellent action star. He might have given up professional fighting and used his money to buy his hostel, but he was still in ruggedly fit shape. He envied Beluga for having found his place in the world. He was happy in it. He loved the people who came through and he was happy to provide affordable accommodations for young people—and for older people too, who might not have been able to travel if it weren’t for Beluga and men like him.
Beluga grinned lazily at him, enjoying the cool breeze. He pointed to a nearby chair and waved his cigar in the air as he said, “River. You sleep here? We have plenty of room tonight.”
“I don’t know yet,” River replied, hedging. His feet had taken him here, but he felt restless. It tore at him to know that Natal was with Reed Amato. She called herself a free spirit, but she wasn’t free if she was tied to that man. And yet she’d been with River.
He didn’t like the idea of being with another man’s woman—and yet, he would take whatever Natal had to give. He wondered if he’d be as disturbed—since they had barely met and he had no right to jealousy—if it weren’t a man like “Tio” Reed Amato.
“You don’t know? It’s already afternoon,” Beluga said. “Late afternoon.”
River shrugged. He was tempted to go into town. He wanted to look through the gates to the great house where Tio Amato lived and reigned over the countryside.
Why?
Would he see her? Would she be laughing, smiling, talking about her freedom and her free spirit with the man? Or would River see something that he didn’t like—something that would hurt him? Natal looking miserable as Tio Amato ordered her around.
Most likely, he thought, he wouldn’t see anything at all. There were gates and a high wall and within his mansion, Amato probably kept his draperies shut.
“What do women want in a man?” he asked Beluga.
“You’ve found a woman?” Beluga asked.
“No, not really. I’ve found a … a minor flirtation.” Minor flirtation was nothing compared to what he felt for Natal. “She’s otherwise engaged. But I’m curious—what is it that they want?”
Beluga loosed one of his hearty laughs. “I say, I don’t know what a woman wants since a woman has not stayed with me in years. I had my great love … now, I have what the world allows me now and then. Ah, yes, there is Maria—she is the woman in my life and she is like my sister. A good worker and she looks after me. But as to love, my friend? Love is for the young. For the adventurous. There is that wild and wonderful feeling that teases the heart and the senses—it is wanting what one doesn’t have. Then there’s the magic of that feeling—and being loved in return. Glorious days. Sunshine fills them even when it rains. But, alas, then there is marriage or commitment and the real world. No matter how much of an adventurer a man may think himself, the world intrudes. Bills and babies, my friend, bills and babies. If the two are good together, that feeling of being in love deepens and grows and there is still love. But the scent of flowers and perfume is replaced by baby poop, and romantic dinners become a struggle to budget.”
River laughed. “I didn’t ask what happened to love, my friend. Love is something that we feed and foster, and we hurt one another, but then … we are still there. If the love isn’t real—or strong enough to survive life or someone better who walks by and seems to promise more—then it all falls apart. It can be real—and last. But that’s not what I’m getting at. What I asked is, what is it that you think women want? Or, perhaps, why do they say they want one thing but become bound to another?”
Beluga gave that grave thought. “What do they want? Ah, maybe, when the tender teen years are gone, they want to know that they will have a life. I saw a funny picture on Facebook once—”
“You have a Facebook page?”
“Of course—and you should too. It helps you maintain ties with people.”
River didn’t want any ties.
“So what was the picture?”
“It was of a beautiful woman in a little tiny bathing suit. Nothing to it in the rear—a very nice rear, by the way.”
“A thong,” River offered.
Beluga nodded. “This woman, with long dark glossy hair and a beautiful body, is walking with a man who looks like a thousand pounds of ugly. And there’s a caption to it that says, ‘Yes, he has more money than you.’”
“Very cute,” River said. “But I don’t believe that. Not all women want money.”
“No, they don’t,” Beluga agreed. “What can I say? All women are different. I don’t know what they want. Maybe some of them want a nest—somewhere they can make their home. Perhaps they want to fly and party and play. But they want a home to go to when they’re tired. More than that, maybe, they need to feel that they are adored and needed. Yes, just love. Real love. If you love a woman with all your heart—but maintain your soul, the you she fell in love with—you will find what you’re looking for. That’s it in this world, River. We need to care, and have others care for us. That’s what is good about us, eh? ’Cause there’s a lot that’s very bad in human nature. Love—give her love. Honest love. And then, I believe, a good woman will be there for you.”
River stood up. “Can I use the shower and maybe get some coffee?”
Beluga seemed to consider his request. “Yes, but I need payment.”
“Of course.”
“Not in money. I would like a drawing.”
“A drawing of anything in particular?”
“Yes—your woman.”
“Well, sadly, she’s not my woman.”
“Your flirtation, then—I would like a drawing of this woman, yes? Maybe I’ll see the future in your drawing. Or, at least, tell you if she’s a good woman or not.”
“You know her, Beluga. Or you have seen her. I first saw her here—she must have taken a bed for the night just a day or so ago.”
“I don’t remember a beautiful woman,” Beluga said. “But maybe Maria let her in.”
River drew out his sketchpad. For a minute, he closed his eyes. He envisioned Natal. He saw the sun in her hair and saw the laughter in her eyes when she teased. He saw everything that he loved about her—he thought that he saw her spirit and her sense of freedom.
It wasn’t real.
Or, it was. In her heart, it was real. But perhaps Beluga was right. She liked to fly—but return to a nest where she knew that she was loved and protected.
He drew. Beluga, at his side, watching him, drew in a breath now and then.
River’s fingers began to fly. He shaded areas, drew back, smudged in others. And when he was done, he knew that the drawing—done so quickly with ni
ght falling and Beluga looking over his shoulder—was one of his best.
It was Natal. And while it was nothing but pencil on paper, it captured the essence of the woman as River saw her—as he had fallen in love with her.
Mischief was in her eyes—as well as kindness. The beauty of her face and perfection of her features were enhanced by the light that seemed to shimmer from her. The likeness was so real, River almost expected her to come to life and speak to him.
“It’s magnificent,” Beluga said. “I can’t take this for just a shower and some coffee.”
“Then take it because you’re my friend. It’s a gift. I can draw her again. I could draw her forever.”
Beluga, holding the picture, looked down at him. “One day, I believe, you will be a great artist. And I will be rich too, because I will have your early drawings. But this one I will never sell.”
River grinned. “I’m taking my shower now.”
Convict whined when River approached. River patted his head. “Stay with Beluga for a bit—then run and see Maria. She’ll have something for you, I’m sure. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Convict curled up by Beluga.
River showered and dressed, taking more care than usual. As he suspected, by the time he came out, Convict was in the kitchen with Maria and the woman was feeding him scraps.
“He is the best beggar in the world,” Maria huffed, stroking the dog while he ate.
“He’s not begging, not really,” River said.
“Oh? Then, what?”
“He’s performing for pay—his performance happens to be a sad face and a lot of whining, but it’s a performance.”
Maria laughed. “And I suppose you have come for coffee? Will you eat something?”
“I would love coffee. But you don’t need to feed me.”
Maria felt a need to feed everyone. He wound up sitting at the table with a bowl of delicious stew. He didn’t know what it was—he didn’t ask. It was good.
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