"I have to sleep," I said abruptly, standing, not even caring if it seemed rude.
Automatically, I checked the locks on the doors, tugged the curtains over the stove closed, put spoons and cups into the sink. "Help yourself to whatever you need," I said. "You can sleep in the second room, just there." I pointed out the door.
"Thank you," he said, standing. The bandage stood out in a white rectangle on his tanned forehead. A curl stuck to it, glossy black. He seemed shy as he said, "May I sleep with you? Not for sex, just to lie down with a human on such a cold night?"
"Do women really fall for that line?" I said, blinking irritably.
"Sylvie—" he said, reproach in his voice.
I shook my head. My braid swung with the movement. "I don't care what you do. Stay. Go. Whatever you want. I'm to bed."
He followed me into the room, and we crawled under the big thick coverlet, soft flannel stuffed with batting. No top sheet, just that muffling weight of cover boring down on my body. I fluffed my pillows, put one between us.
God. It felt wonderful to just stop moving, to lie down instead of sitting upright. "I am so tired!"
Luca murmured. His body warmth was like a hot water bottle, taking the chill off the bed. Near the ball of my right foot was the arch of his left. I would have to be careful not to curl up around him.
He settled his hand on my hip. "Is this all right?"
"Yeah."
I sighed into the softness of the bed. Wind buffeted the caravan, almost rocking it with gusts, and the sound of the driving rain muffled even the sound of the surf not far away on the rocks.
Somehow, the combination made me think sleepily of Paul. Because I was so tired, my usual defenses were gone, and memories flooded into my half-sleeping brain.
I thought of a Frenchman with long, elegant hands.
To distract myself I said to Luca, "If you are descended from royalty, does that mean you are royal yourself?"
"Minor."
"You are minor royalty?"
"Cousins to the royal family. Not that there has been a monarch for a long time, so it doesn't matter."
"So why did you become a thief? You seem intelligent. Why crime?"
"My father," Luca said, "was a hero. He fought the communists in my country, and he was killed. My mother, her heart was broken, and she did not last long afterward."
He paused so long that I dozed, waiting for the answer. "I became a thief to prove you have to take what you want. To prove myself," he said, his voice growing softer. "Now I would like to show that I am more the man my father was."
Fathers. Noble, or not. Honorable, or not. Available, or not. Mothers get so much of the credit and blame in our lives, but fathers leave indelible marks, too.
I thought of my own father, and of others who had wanted to prove themselves. All my unresolved issues, which had been stirred up and lurking all day, came pouring out of the box where they mainly lived under lock and key—parent issues, mostly. The usual things a girl gets snared in when her mother dies too young.
I thought, unavoidably now, of Paul.
* * *
I was twelve. A vulnerable age in a lot of ways, and a moment ripe for planting all sorts of things, and I have the usual abandonment issues that go along with sudden death.
And it was very sudden. I know now that she and my father were on the verge of divorce because of my father's perpetual infidelities, that she was back in Scotland trying to find a place for us to live when she was killed in a most prosaic car accident: a woman in a hurry to get home from work ran a stop sign, and broadsided my mother's car. My mother's head was banged just right and she died. No flames, no big spinout. Just a stupid, pointless death.
I don't remember my father being at the funeral. Intellectually, I know he was there, but I can't see him in my imagination. It was Paul holding my hand when she was buried, Paul who held me later as I sobbed and sobbed that afternoon, growing more and more hysterical until he picked me up, carried me to the bathroom of my grandmother's house and washed my face with cold water. He forced a brandy down my throat.
When I'd finally fallen asleep, he talked my father into letting him take me away for a holiday for a few weeks, just until the worst of the shock wore off. Somewhere warm, where the sun could bake away some of my slashing pain.
My grandmother—that would be Sylvie, the Frenchwoman I'm named for—adored Paul, and from that summer in Nice, knew we had a special bond. My father was absent that year, racing or drinking or otherwise trying to kill himself. I sometimes wonder if he remembers any of it.
We went to Tahiti, Paul and I, ostensibly so that he could teach me about the great painters who'd done their work in that land, the French Gauguin, first, of course, but also van Gogh. He booked a cabana on a beach, where we heard the turquoise waters swishing up on the white beaches. Wind rustled the pine trees. It was so far away. So exotic.
We swam. We studied painters—Gauguin and van Gogh, Matisse and Boullaire. We explored writers, too—Robert Louis Stevenson, a restless Scot, and Jack London, whom I liked, and Melville, who bored me. He read aloud from the journals of Pierre Loti, and I liked that, too.
Paul coaxed me to eat with papayas and mangos and delicate monkfish. He bought me rosary beads made of polished coral, to remind me that I'd always have a mother. At night, he stayed up late long after I went to bed, drinking. I don't know if he loved her as a woman, or merely as a friend, but his grief was true and deep.
There is a photo from that trip that still sits on my mantle. Paul is tall and tan, his beard grown out a few days worth on his chin. His hair is longish, lionlike. He looks thin to me, his hands too big for his wrists, his cheeks gaunt. I am leaning on his shoulder, my head sideways so my crown is against his neck. We both look haunted.
And yet, at the end of a few weeks, we returned to Nice, where my father was living. Paul went back to Paris.
And things were all right for a while. Then my father moved us to Brazil.
Chapter 10
The next most important element of the 4 C's of diamond grading is
color
. Color is classified by letters, ranging from "D," colorless, to "Z," yellow. The final category of color rating is "fancy", such as red, pink, blue, and strong yellow. Many are highly prized. One famous example is the vivid blue Hope Diamond.
—www.costellos.com.au
B
ack in the present, in the darkness of my cousin's caravan, I startled as my sleep foot took a dream step into a void. For a moment, I lay there blinking, confused over my location, the strong smell of oranges in the room, the unfamiliar—
I looked at the man attached to the hand on my hip.
Oh. Yes.
I glanced at the digital clock. We'd only been lying here maybe an hour, if that. What had startled me into wakefulness? I stared into the dark, listening, but heard only the whipping, roaring wind and rain. It must have been—
Car doors slammed. Next to me, Luca bolted upright. He pressed fingers to my lips before leaping up to peer out the window. He swung back and bent down close to whisper, "There is someone out there."
I shifted, tried to find the comfortable hollow in the bed that I'd been so enjoying a moment ago. "I'm sure it's just a neighbor. Let's sleep."
"I do not think your neighbors are carrying baseball bats, no?"
"What?" I stood up to look out the window. Rain was pouring down still, the darkness nearly absolute except for the pool of light that glowed from the caravan itself, not so much light under most circumstances, but more than enough on such a dark night to show me a small car and the three men headed our way. "Who are they? How did they find us?"
"I do not know."
I dived for my shoes, jamming my feet into them hard. "What do we do?" My mind was full of images of a drug lord garroted, his throat spilling blood down his white shirt front.
Luca turned, putting his hands on my upper arms. "Listen, Sylvie, get out of here, go back to Ayr. I'll find you."
I yanked free. "Stop with the
Last of the Mohicans
crap, all right?" From the hook where I'd left it, I grabbed my coat, and without thinking, put my hand over the knot in my bra, reassuring myself that the Katerina was still there beneath my left breast.
Luca saw the gesture and smiled bitterly. "Do not let it seduce you, love."
I shoved my hands into my coat sleeves. "Don't worry. I can handle it. I'm not going to go to Ayr. I have too much family there."
"You must get away. Now. As fast as you can."
"Where, then, do you want to meet?"
I cast around in my mind. "Troon," I said. I had a cousin who'd been working the hospitality industry there. It was renowned for its golf, and boasted a famous old pub. "The Ship's Inn."
"I'll—"
There was a racket at the front door. "I'll try to come behind you," Luca said, and with a cry, he slammed his elbow into the glass of the window. It was strong, tempered or something, and didn't break. "Go!" he cried.
"Where?" I cried. "That's the only door."
From the front of the caravan came a slamming sound—maybe the door giving way. I thought fleetingly that my cousin Alan was going to kill me, but then Luca was slamming his elbow into the glass of the bedroom window.
One—slam! Two, slam! Three, slam, slam!
He swore. "It won't break!'
I looked around for something heavy. In the front of the caravan was a crashing sound. I thought I could feel the whole building rock, as if they'd bashed it sideways. They weren't in yet, anyway—they were no more successful than we were at breaking the slatted glass. That was something.
The room was tidy as a pin, but there was a trophy of some kind on the dresser. A big fish was on top—fishing trophies? Who knew?—but the base was a very heavy lead-feeling thing.
From the front room came a very loud crash and the sound of voices. The baseball bat had obviously done the trick.
I grabbed the trophy. "Get out of the way!"
Luca ducked. I swung the trophy as hard as I could into the window. It gave way with a somehow sibilant tinkling of safety glass, and the night came rushing in—soaking wet and cold.
"Let's get out!" I said in a low, urgent voice, and turned back to the door, trying to think of ways to get through that bedroom door to the kitchen where my purse—and thus, my keys—was.
Luca must have made it through the window, because I felt a gust of rain slap the back of my head as the door to the bedroom burst open. Without letting the intruder have a chance, or even getting much of a look at him, I barreled forward, swinging the trophy. It caught him squarely across the nose, the fish fins doing an admirable job of slashing his skin.
He slammed backward with a roar, and even in the dark, I saw the line of blood spring open across his face. I didn't wait to see if he'd recover, but slammed him again a second time, and turned around to climb out the window.
With a roar, he grabbed for me, catching my coat as I tried to dive out the window. He was a big guy, all right, and it didn't take a lot for him to yank me upward, clear off my feet.
It took even less for him to toss me toward the wall. My shoulder slammed into the dresser and I nearly dropped the trophy. I managed to shift sideways soon enough to avoid smashing my entire face into the drawers.
I knew how to fight, thanks to a stint in a truly dangerous school in Rio when I was fifteen, where "gangs" took on an entirely new meaning. My father was at the worst of his decline that year, blaming himself for my mother's death, drinking and carousing and generally attempting self-destruction. It was very nearly successful. When he finally emerged from his insanity, he had to spend two weeks in the hospital, recovering from "exhaustion."
It very nearly killed me, as well. The neighborhood required more than a girl of fourteen is generally required to deliver. Luckily, I wasn't a quitter, and I'd at least had the advantage of living in many places, fitting into many cultures. This one was closed, but I learned enough to get by.
Tonight, I had cause to be thankful for the lessons in street fighting.
It had been a very long time, but there are things you never forget. As soon as my feet touched the floor, I curled my body and then sprang upward as he tried to grab me, and swung back with the trophy, aiming for his knee. It connected with a sound like a knife into a chicken—
thunk.
The man made a strangled, choking cry, and I dived for the door, pushing away from him, scrambling across the floor to get away.
With a cry, he grabbed my hair and one ankle, his enormous hand like a vise around the bones. He yanked, and I went down, flat on my belly. My chin hit the floor, slamming my teeth together. The Katerina jammed upward into my breast so hard I got tears in my eyes, but there wasn't time for weakness.
With a growl, I used the leverage of his foot on my ankle to swing around, and brought the trophy down on his head. I felt the impact through my whole arm, and this time, he collapsed.
I didn't wait to see if it lasted—I scrambled for the door, bringing my trophy weapon with me. An absurd little voice, as if it were a commercial for trophy-as-weapon, said, "It's two weapons in one—club and knife."
What more does a girl need?
At the door, I had the great good fortune to meet contestant number two, coming to the aid of his compatriot. In a flash of light from somewhere beyond—headlights?—I saw his balding head and grim, piggy eyes. I recognized the man from the rental counter at the airport. Some instinct made me head backward. He was a giant, one of those hulking, neckless guys who do very well in American football.
I had to think fast. When those girl gangs would narrow in on you, it would usually be three girls, and they'd trap you in a little alley or narrow spot where they could kick your ass without anyone seeing. The only way to survive was to either run away, or fight back as long as they were kicking you practically to death. If you submitted to the beating, they'd kill you.
That was the choice here. Even with the heavy weapon, I couldn't bring this guy down. The girl gangs usually stopped short of death, but I didn't think this guy would mind much if he left a dead body or two behind.
That left the dash.
One good thing about fighting guys versus fighting girls, though—you can always get a man to double over for a second. I scrambled backward to the bed, as if I were afraid, and when he came toward me, I swung that trophy at his trophy for all I was worth.
Bull's-eye.
He dropped and I made a break for it, dashing around him and down the hall.
Rain was pouring in the caravan through the open front door, blown by the gusts of wind onto the linoleum. Damn, Alan would be so mad at me!
Running, I grabbed my purse off the counter and looped the long strap over my head, so the bag was nestled close to my waist, securely fastened to leave my arms and hands free. Hearing someone come behind me, I didn't bother with anything else, and dashed out into the blinding rain.
My feet landed in a puddle of sucking mud, nearly taking me down. I righted my balance, yanked my right foot out of the muck, and tried to get my bearings.
There's rain, and then there's Scottish rain. This was blinding, sideways, driving rain, the misery of which one must experience at least once. I literally could not see at thing, and for a minute, couldn't even figure out where the car was parked.
I heard men, grunting, fighting nearby, perhaps. Someone shouted in a heavy Scottish accent, "Get her! She's got the fucking jewel!"
I had a second to wonder how they knew, when Luca shouted, "Sylvie, go!"
"Luca?"
"Go!"
His voice was thin, nearby, but when I whirled around, I couldn't see him at all. "Where are you?"
Then the wind took a breath, the rain started falling downward instead of sideways, and I spied the car, perfectly illuminated just long enough for me to put my head down and dash toward it, dash being hyperbole here, since my feet were squishing, sticking, slipping in the mud. I was soaked to the skin, but the rain offered as much protection for hiding me as it threw blocks in my way.
I got to the Spider, water pouring down the back of my neck, down my spine, icy cold. I scrambled for my keys, got them out and managed to get the door unlocked. Offering an apology to the car gods, I threw myself into the seats, knowing the wet would ruin the gorgeous interior. I reached behind me to close the door—
And was knocked sideways by a hammy fist with plenty of bone inside of it. The punch landed on the side of my head, and my keys went flying into the interior of the car somewhere. It felt like my head was slammed nearly off my body. Stars sparked on the edges of my right eye. For a second, I was blinking, stunned.
A gust of rain slammed into my face, driving salt water up my nose. I choked, started coughing. It shook the daze off my brain, and when the goon's hand closed around my upper arm, I was ready, shoving the sharp end of my elbow into his gut, then kicking with a backward, inexpert dodge. He shoved himself between me and the door, yanking with his Frankenstein-sized fist while I wrapped one arm around the steering column and held on. With my right elbow, I slammed backward as hard as I could. It was impossible to get leverage, and I growled in frustration. "Let me go!"
"C'mon, gerl," he said, "just let me have it and we'll be done w'ye."
I put my foot against the inside of the car and flung myself backward, hoping to break his grip. He slapped me, hard, and I tasted blood inside my mouth.
"Bastard!" With a growl, I bent over and bit down on his hand with all my might. He cried out and let go, and I shoved him backward, closed the door, and locked it. He slammed his fist into the window, and it cracked a little but didn't break. I yelped, and found myself ducking in case he punched all the way through. If anyone could, he'd be a good candidate.
He kicked the door, slammed a fist on the roof. Scrambling on the floor in the dark, my breath panting out of me in moist heat, fogging up the windows, I finally found the key on the floor of the passenger side.
Frankenstein slammed his fist into the window again, and I knew if he got to the windshield, I'd be in big trouble. Even if he didn't break it, he could easily damage it so badly I wouldn't be able to see out. With shaking hands, I got the key in the ignition and started the car. The engine caught with a roar. The sound steadied me, the feel of the wheel, the seat, the machine all around me. I flung the car into Reverse, away from him, took one second to fasten the seat belt, then slammed the car into gear and headed up the narrow spit of gravel to the main road.
Such as it was—a narrow ribbon of pavement circling the edge of the hills, with cliffs on the left, plunging down the rocks to ocean below, the fields and hills to the right, black and unfathomable in the darkness. It wound and looped up the west coast, this road, climbing and descending in ways that could be dizzying under the best of circumstances.
And these were hardly ideal circumstances. Even I was intimidated. The rain came over the car in waves, as if the ocean itself had become airborne. It was only a little better than being out on my own feet, because at least the windshield had wipers to give me a glimpse now and then of the road, and the headlights pierced the grim weather a hint.
I headed north, with the eventual goal of Troon, not far north of Ayr. A part of me knew I was headed for Androssan, though I had no hope I'd get that far on such a grim night. It was about ten kilometers or so to Alloway and then Ayr, with a string of villages that would give some light, anyway. If I could get that far, maybe to a small stretch of area that had a few lights and population, maybe I could wait out the rest of the storm.
No one appeared to be behind me. It was only the dark and the rain and me in the car, alone in the gruesome weather. Wind buffeted the little vehicle. I smelled the ocean, sharp and strong. I straightened in my seat, shook off the cold as the heater started to pump out warm air, and settled myself in to drive seriously.