Eagle bay, p.8
Eagle Bay, page 8
Instead, he removed a note from his wallet: Zhara 340-555-6281. Leaning against the arc of the steering wheel, he pushed his forehead hard into the plastic, seeking pain. Here’s your chance, God. If you exist, reveal yourself. Please help me. Someone, something, help me.
He turned off the ignition, got out, and stood on the asphalt edge overlooking the ocean. Dirt, brush, rock, and cacti surrounded him. The smells of sea salt were strong. He battled the urge to call Zhara as his thoughts moved to Robert: You did this to me, you sonofabitch.
He stood next to the car and measured elongating shadows caused by a traversing sun. Walking to the driver’s side, he shut the door and dialed Zhara. She answered, sounding just as he’d remembered. Aroused, he fought back vigorously against waves of harsh self-judgment. He hated himself and instantly scorned Zhara for taking the call. But he didn’t hang up.
They’d engaged in a days-long sexual tryst four years earlier during a Caribbean Islands sailing competition. He’d kept the sexy Puerto Rican’s number in his wallet since then, the same leather now sharing photos of Skye and the children. Despite silently condemning himself as a worthless piece of shit, he asked Zhara if she’d be available for a day sail. An expert deckhand, she sounded interested but informed him it was the height of tourist season and that her company had her booked out for weeks. He promised to double her employer’s boat rental fee and give her a $2000 tip—she quickly committed to changing the schedule.
He started the car and drove west toward a catamaran skippered by a beautiful woman who wasn’t his new wife. He tried but failed to excise Skye from his thoughts temporarily. Upon arriving at the marina, he stared one last time into the mirror, genuinely hoping the man peering back at him would convince him to stop, turn around, and return to their vacation rental. Seconds later, Thomas shut the door and strode toward the water. Flags on land and sea fluttered southward. Well-fed fish hovered in schools beneath the white dock planks he stepped across. As he approached a slip, he spotted a voluptuous dark body preparing for the day’s adventure.
“Well, if it isn’t that incredible sailor from Puerto Rico. How’ve you been, Zhara? It’s wonderful to see you.” Her exotic appearance titillated him.
“I’ve been well. I’d almost forgotten your name since you disappeared without a trace. You said you’d call me after the competition. Do you remember that?”
He adjusted his sunglasses. “I came down with a bout of mono after the regattas, then got buried in work and, honestly, didn’t have time for anyone. Still don’t.” The response was lame, he told himself. No matter.
She stared into Thomas’s lens-covered blue eyes while untying the dock lines before catching a reflection from his left hand. “You’re married?” She inhaled deeply. “Your wife knows you’re sailing with me, right?”
He stared back impassively and eventually smiled. “So what do you say we shove off?”
Zhara shook her head. “You’re in charge, captain. Where are we headed this fine morning?” The winds were pushing the catamaran from the dock.
“To Buck Island. We can anchor up on the North Shore for good food, even better alcohol, and . . . relaxation.” He told himself he’d detected complete understanding, perhaps even mutual desire.
Blue and yellow sails stretched into gorgeous arcs during the trip to their private escape. Zhara looked like a well-endowed swimsuit model. Thomas turned more excited, knowing her large, soft breasts would soon be his domain. He deliberated the differences between Skye’s body and hers. The comparison made him uncomfortable, but it was a hesitation he easily purged from his mind.
They dropped anchor, and Thomas wrapped his arms around her from behind, stroking her stomach and thighs. Zhara stood stiffly but was tolerant of the handsome, wealthy Continental. Minutes ticked by, and she eventually turned passionate. They shared their bodies throughout the day while saying little. Two miles away, across a narrow channel on the other side of Buck Island, Skye was contentedly sunning herself.
Thomas poured himself an island concoction and lay down on the deck after they’d had sex again. Zhara sat quietly for ten minutes but stood abruptly. “We need to pull anchor and get back to the marina.”
“Why’d you put a T-shirt on? You’ve hidden those beautiful assets.”
“That sounds pathetic.”
“Come on. Everything’s going to be fine.”
She began packing things up. “Just don’t talk to me.”
“Whoa, what’s gotten into you? Please, don’t let a silly thing like guilt weigh you down. Take a seat. I’ll pour you a sedative.”
“I can’t do this,” she shot back. “We had fun in the past, but things have changed. I’ve suddenly been struck by how different we are. I’ve got to get off this boat, and you’ve got to get back to your wife.” She mumbled, “By the way, I’m . . . engaged.” She shook her head. “So let’s go. I mean it, right now.”
“Zhara, take a breath. First off, you’re not wearing an engagement ring. Secondly, you’re having a Jekyll and Hyde moment.”
“The ring is getting sized. I fell for your suave bullshit again—shame on me. But I’m the Jekyll and Hyde? Whatever. I’m surprised I didn’t figure you out before. You’ve just become very transparent.”
“Please don’t pretend this isn’t who you are.” His tone changed. “It is, and that’s okay. You’re engaged. I’m married. Let’s enjoy the day before moving beyond it. It’ll be our secret little rendezvous.” As he studied her face, he wondered whether Zhara considered herself an equal to Skye, a thought he found repulsive, so he leered and said, “My wife is a better person than you’ll ever be.”
“What the . . . ? I feel sorry for her—she’s married to a con man. Pull up the anchor, or I will. You’re right; we’re adults. My adult decision is to get the hell out of here. You can jump overboard if you’d like, but I’m returning this cat.”
He walked up behind her, attempting to soothe her by placing one arm around her tense body. She pushed him away several times before shoving him. His drink spilled, and he tossed the plastic glass into the cooler.
She started pulling up the anchor.
“You’re not one to judge me, Zhara. You’re a worthless whore. My worthless whore.” She stood frozen, too shocked to respond. Her lips moved as she silently repeated everything he’d just said.
“You think you’ve abruptly become a virtuous woman? I’ve just paid you $2000 for sex. I’m guessing your fiancé wouldn’t consider that honorable. You’re a prostitute, Zhara.”
“What? Oh my God!” She shook her head with furrowed brows. “Go to hell, asshole!” She slapped him. “I’m going to tell your wife who you really are.”
He struck her with the back of his hand; he’d never hit a woman before. She stumbled against the starboard railing and tripped, and her body lay partially aboard with one breast exposed. He advanced again with an intense gaze.
She tasted her blood. “Okay, okay, Thomas. I’m sorry. Just leave me alone. Please. Let’s return the boat, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
Seeing real fear in her eyes, he halted his advance, turned away, and rubbed his forehead while staring at islands on the horizon. He turned back. “I’m sorry. You don’t understand.”
She stepped back, nearly tripping over a rope and the cooler. “I . . . Please don’t hurt me, Thomas.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Zhara, even though I want to. But listen carefully. You’ll receive $2000 for your work today, plus $10,000 to keep your mouth shut. Don’t ever go to the authorities. Never attempt to contact my wife or me because doing so would be bad for all of us. Stare into my eyes and tell me you understand.” He removed his shades.
“Okay, but I don’t want your money,” she said, looking pale and terrified. “I won’t talk to anyone. Ever.”
“No, you’ll take the money.” He narrowed his eyes and moved his tongue across his bottom lip. Her comments and threat to speak with Skye prompted dark thoughts. He stood conflicted, disturbing himself by contemplating the differences between hurting and killing her. “Let’s get back to the marina. We’ll part ways, and that’ll be the end of it. Don’t forget your promise.”
She yanked hard and set the jib, licking the fresh wound on her mouth. Goosebumps covered her forearms, and she said nothing.
Thomas stared away on their return, listening to nylon sails flapping in the breeze. He felt like the monster Zhara surely condemned him to be. No woman would ever accept apologies for such threats and violence.
Chapter:
17
Zhara and Thomas returned the catamaran without further incident. She informed her boss that a slightly swollen lip was due to a slip and fall on the boat’s deck. As Thomas drove back to Skye and their waterfront rental, he stopped at the Christiansted Marina to buy the nicest tuna available. He placed the fish inside a white Styrofoam cooler filled with ice and put it in the trunk.
“Boo!”
Skye jumped. He’d placed the head of the tuna inches from her face, jolting her senses after hours of peaceful Caribbean slumber.
“Oh, my God! That ugly thing freaked me out. Don’t ever do that!” She grinned and raised a threatening fist.
“How was your day, pretty lady?”
“Warm and beautiful.” Her half-read book, sunscreen, iced tea, and lip balm lay on the chaise’s pull-out shelf. “I see you caught a nice one. We’ll be eating tuna for weeks—that thing is huge.” She stepped beneath the outdoor foyer’s roof and pulled off her Vuarnets, but even in the shade, the sun’s reflected rays from the ocean, pool decking, and lightly colored walls forced her to squint. “Wow, you didn’t wear your sunblock. You better put a thick dose of aloe vera on right away.”
Skye understood a reddened face wasn’t unusual after a full day of fishing, drinking beer, and telling exaggerated stories with a boat full of stinky fishermen.
“How was the crew? Good guys?”
“What? Oh, yes, good people.” He removed his sunglasses, leaned over, and kissed her forehead.
“Yay. I was hoping so.” She squeezed sunscreen onto one hand and rubbed it across her forehead, cheeks, and nose.
Thomas said, “Hey, I feel all sweaty and smelly like that tuna. Let me shower before helping you cut it up for dinner. No chef tonight—the pressure’s on us to create a meal worthy of our second night in paradise. Can we pull it off?”
“I have no doubts. It’s tough to screw up with hours-old fish. Now please go rinse off—you stink.”
Dinner tasted amazing. Pinkish clouds floated amidst a pink and blue sunset, and five multicolored sails dotted the bay.
Skye stepped away from the table to move behind Thomas’s chair. She massaged his shoulders and chest. “Something about this island heat makes me feel sexy. Up for skinny dipping, Mr. Westbrooke?”
He’d grown further repulsed by the horrors inflicted on Zhara. The effects of his failures engulfed him.
Skye stepped around and sat in his lap, clasping her hands around his neck and meeting his gaze. “So, what do you think?”
“I’m sorry, Skye. The fishing wore me out. Would it be okay if we just lay here listening to the surf and waited for the stars?”
“Oh, my goodness, that sounds like one of the most romantic things ever. I’d love to share your chaise lounge.”
An hour later, she remained curled on his body, her face awash in serenity and adoration. “You’re a fine man, Thomas.”
Soon after, with Skye close to sleep on the chaise lounge, Thomas traced the satellites traversing the skies. His eyes welled. He’d hoped things could be different, that he could be different. But he’d now shattered his expectations. He committed to regaining control over his troubled soul.
Skye made her way to the spa for a massage the following morning. Thomas took a dip in the ocean before walking to a hillside church he’d seen nearby. He read the brass plate affixed to its stone façade. The church was over two hundred fifty years old, built by enslaved people and later renovated by their emancipated descendants.
It was architecturally magnificent, styled after the San Juan, Puerto Rico, churches of the 1700s. Thomas was captivated by the entry columns, elaborate cornice moldings, and Neo-Gothic architectural elements. Entering the empty structure through an unlocked front door, he sat in a dark mahogany pew. He appreciated the relics, crosses, and crucifixes, impressed by their artisanship.
He grew sufficiently inspired to feign belief in God. He heard a door shut before a Black man in street clothes moved toward him.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. He was inches shorter than Thomas, with a sturdy build, and looked about sixty-five.
“Good afternoon.” Thomas nodded.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave,” the man said in a thick African accent. “I need to lock up until tomorrow’s service. I hope you understand.”
“Of course,” Thomas said. “Just killing time. I’m guessing the priests are out saving the flock?”
“Well, there’s only one priest for this small parish.” The man chuckled. “You’re looking at him. So unless you need saving, the answer at present is no.” His smile came naturally, and he appeared sincere.
“What I need may be more than an ordinary saving. Good day.” Thomas wasn’t interested in having to overcome a cultural divide. His issues would be challenging enough for any Westerner to listen to, comprehend, or renounce. And he still wasn’t sure why he’d been drawn there in the first place. He respectfully tipped his head and exited through the faded entry door.
Just as he’d reached the bottom of the outside church steps, the priest called out, “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a moment?”
Thomas turned and debated whether to walk away, but the affable man had dulled his apprehensions. Without further consideration, he replied, “I do.”
“Would you like to discuss something? I have time to listen.”
“Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Tanzania,” he replied. “I was initially assigned to the diocese of Philadelphia.” With an exaggerated Rastafarian inflection, he added, “I’ve been a Cruzan for over five years, mon.”
Thomas grinned. “I’d imagine this assignment to be a pretty nice gig.”
“It has been therapeutic. My diocese essentially forced it upon me.” He relaxed his smile. “My name is Father Joseph.” Extending a massive hand, he barely squeezed when they shook. “I drank too much trying to cope with the responsibilities of a large parish stateside.”
“I’m sorry. I’m Thomas. It’s a pleasure to meet you. What was your birth name?”
“Akili. It is rare that someone asks me that question.”
“I believe it’s Swahili,” Thomas said.
“Yes. You are a learned man.” He sat down on the church’s original stone wall. “Let us talk.”
“I’m not a Catholic,” Thomas said. “My wife is. My mother’s a devout Protestant, but mental illness has robbed her of the ability to express her faith. I don’t believe in your god or any gods. I say that with respect for what you do for a living. I admire the sacrifices you religious make.” He relished unloading his sentiments.
The priest barely reacted while peering into Thomas’s eyes. “You sound as if you are trying to justify something. What is on your mind, friend?”
Thomas was surprised by his quick judgment and candor. “People consider me a fortunate man. I come from an affluent family, and I’ve lived a privileged life. I’ve never wanted for anything.”
“Never wanted for anything material? Or for anything more substantial? Like love, integrity, and goodness.”
Thomas lowered his head, removed his glasses, and rubbed an eye. He dissected Father Joseph’s words. “Love, integrity, and goodness are relative qualities for people like me. Even if I possess them only slightly, if you knew me well, you might consider it remarkable I uphold them at all.” Thomas sensed Father Joseph was analyzing him. He didn’t care.
“Why might I draw that conclusion?”
“Because I’ve persevered through what I’ve seen, been forced to do, and chosen to do. But those trials have tainted me.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the balding man. “I witnessed great misery during my youth in Africa. We have all endured hardship—even you privileged. I sense pain and remorse. You strike me as a capable man. Do you know how to reform?”
“Any pain I feel is justified. And yes, regret is often my companion.” Thomas watched sweat accumulate on the man’s face; the day had grown unseasonably hot.
“Those are troubling statements. Tell me more. You can be blunt. After years on the islands and twenty on the mainland, I have encountered every conceivable indiscretion or misfortune.”
He judged his behavior with Zhara to be so deplorable that he surprised himself with his frankness. “I’m a killer, an adulterer, and a fraud.” Thomas gazed out to Buck Island. “I feel irredeemable.”
Father Joseph frowned. They looked at each other for a long pause, neither man speaking. Finally, Thomas asked, “Have I surprised you?”
“Those are damning words. I pray you are embellishing, especially about killing. If you are not, can I assume you have paid your debt to society?”
“I have paid a great price for my most heinous acts. This I promise you.”
“I see . . . then you are on the path to redemption. God has given us free will and a conscience. You have used both to seek me out. You can conquer your failings. It is a choice.”
“But only if I believe in your god? I’m solipsistic. We see the world through different lenses.”
