Dark Homecoming (5 page)

V
ariola had seen many things in her day. Back in Haiti, before it had been devastated by the earthquake, she had watched as her mother had changed stones into flowers and healed little children of influenza with just a sprinkle of her special powders. When she was just seven years old, Variola had seen a dead man get up and walk. So nothing surprised Variola.

She was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for the new Mrs. Huntington. The late Mrs. Huntington had been very particular about her meals. They had to be vegetarian and wheat-free and always topped with fresh raspberries. The late Mrs. Huntington had had other requests of Variola as well, and most of them had had nothing to do with her culinary skills.

“I've brought you to this house for a reason,” Dominique had said to her on Variola's first day there. “You understand that reason, do you not?”

Variola had thought she understood. Later, she wasn't so sure.

She'd asked Mrs. Hoffman if the new mistress of the house would have any special dietary requests like the former mistress. Mrs. Hoffman had replied that she suspected the new Mrs. Huntington would be satisfied with a Happy Meal from McDonald's. How Variola had laughed at that, with her deep, from-the-lungs laugh that echoed through the house like the gong of a giant bell. She didn't care for Mrs. Hoffman all that much, but still, what she had said had made Variola laugh.

She was a tall, strikingly beautiful woman with glossy chocolate skin, a pile of black hair, and great, dark, saucer eyes. In Haiti, she had broken many a man's heart; many men had wanted her, many had tried to possess her. But no one owned Variola but Variola. Indeed, the only time her own heart had ever been broken was when the earthquake had come and devastated her cherished homeland. Her family scattered, her fortunes depleted, Variola had been forced to leave Haiti and come here, to this house.

She had quickly made it her own. Mrs. Hoffman didn't like that, especially now that the first Mrs. Huntington was gone. But even Hoffman knew that Variola answered to no one.

She never had.

There was little that escaped Variola's notice in this house. She heard the whispers of the servants. She saw the comings and goings of the Huntingtons themselves. Her eyes were always alert, her ears always attuned.

Like now. She heard Mr. Huntington come down the front stairs and the soft pitter of footsteps that hurried from the parlor to meet him.

Like a cat, Variola moved soundlessly to the doorway of the kitchen, and from there, hid herself in the small alcove that led to the pantry where, through a space in the doorway, she had a clear view of the front staircase.

Mr. Huntington was carrying a suitcase. So he was leaving again, Variola thought. So soon after bringing his new bride home . . .

The master of the house looked preoccupied. He checked his wristwatch. He didn't notice the woman who had come to the foot of the stairs to meet him.

But Variola had seen the woman approach—and wait like a spider in the shadows, ready to entrap her prey.

“David,” Variola heard Rita whisper.

Mr. Huntington lifted his face and saw the maid in front of him. “Oh, hello, Rita . . .”

“You're leaving?”

“Yes, I have to get on a plane. I don't really have any time to talk . . .”

Rita reached up and gently gripped Mr. Huntington's lapels. “David . . . I have to see you. I know I said I'd accept the fact that things were different now . . .”

“You
must
accept it, Rita,” he told her coldly, stiffening, trying to break the hold she had on him.

“It's not possible, David. I thought about you all night. Remembering . . . those times . . .” She pulled close to him, pressing herself against his chest.

“Rita, stop this.”

“Don't you remember them, too, David?” She was purring, moving her lips softly against his neck. Even from where Variola stood, she could get a whiff of Rita's perfume, so sweet, so toxic. Gardenia. It was the first Mrs. Huntington's scent.

The man was struggling in her grip, recoiling from her—but he did not thrust her away.

“Oh, David, you said it yourself to many nights, in that room in the servants' quarters . . . you said that you had never known such passion as you found with me.”

“Rita, it was different then. Very different circumstances. I'm married now.”

“You were married then.”

“Please, Rita, my wife . . .”

“She never needs to know,” Rita purred, and her lips kissed Mr. Huntington's neck. Variola smiled at the girl's boldness.

Mr. Huntington seemed ensnared. He stood there, no longer recoiling, seemingly under the spell of Rita and the fragrance of gardenia.

The housemaid moved in for the kill. She pressed her lips against her lover's. Variola let out the smallest sound of laughter. What a show the girl was putting on!

They kissed standing there at the foot of the stairs. A deep, hard, hungry kiss. Anyone could have seen them.

But as it was, only Variola witnessed the event, safe in her hiding space in the pantry.

“Oh, David, David . . .” Rita moaned.

“No, you mustn't,” David muttered. “I mustn't . . .”

“We
must
!” Rita replied. “We can't resist! I love you, David!” And she tried to kiss him again.

But finally he pushed her away. “If you keep this up,” Mr. Huntington said, “I'll have to let you go. I don't want to fire you, Rita, but this behavior is unacceptable.”

“You kissed me,” she seethed. “You still want me.”

“You are very attractive, Rita. But this can never happen again.” He pushed his way past her toward the front door. “There's a car waiting for me outside. Remember what I told you, Rita. I need you to be a friend to my wife. If you care about me as you say, then you will do that for me. You will be a friend to Mrs. Huntington.”

Rita said nothing, just turned her face away from him.

Mr. Huntington hurried out the front door. In moments, Variola heard a car driving off down the driveway.

She stepped out from her hiding place into full view. Rita looked up and realized she had witnessed the entire episode.

“I don't care if you saw it all,” Rita spit, before Variola had a chance to say a word. “Go ahead and judge me.”

“Oh, I don't judge,” Variola replied, in that spicy-sweet island patois. “I only observe.”

Rita set her chin in defiance. “I will get him, you know. I will get him back.”

“He used you, sweet girl. When he was bereft and hurt and lonely. You should hate him, not love him.”

“He didn't use me. He loves me. You weren't there when we would make love. You didn't see how he was when we were together.”

Variola just smiled in reply. Silly child. Didn't she know Variola saw all?

“Excuse me,” Rita said, attempting to step around Variola. “I have to work to do.”

“That's apparent,” Variola said, a smile tickling her lips. “You have a great deal of work to do, but you'll only get it done if Variola helps you.”

Rita glared at her. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Huntington is a stubborn man.”

Rita said nothing.

“I warned you to stay away from him. Your way will only lead to heartbreak—or worse.”

“Why would you care about that?”

“I have my reasons.”

Variola considered herself a kind woman; she had been brought up by a mother who had seemed an angel on earth, using her special potions and enchantments to heal the sick and make gardens grow. Variola was fond of Rita; she didn't want to think of her heartbroken over a man who didn't love her or respect her.

But that was not why she offered to help the girl. Variola had a sense that she was going to need allies in this house now that Mr. Huntington had brought home a new bride. What if she was like the last one? What if she formed the same sort of bond Dominique had with Mrs. Hoffman? There would come a point, Variola was sure, that she would have to go head-to-head with Hoffman. And if that happened, she needed friends, supporters, followers—
acolytes
, she thought.
Disciples
. As she had once had in Haiti, back before the earthquake. Rita Cansino might be her first disciple,
if
she felt indebted to Variola.

“If you really want to get him back,” the chef said to Rita, “then you will need more than your soft lips and a squirt of Dominique's gardenia perfume. To stay safe, you need Variola.”

Rita huffed. “I don't need any of your island mumbo jumbo, if that's what you mean,” she said, sneering, and continuing down the hallway.

“Woe to those who do not believe,” Variola shouted after her.

But Rita wasn't hearing anything else. She turned and disappeared into the parlor.

She's as stubborn as he is
, Variola thought.

Variola laughed.

They all did, eventually. Except for Hoffman.

But Hoffman could be dealt with.

W
ithout David in the house, Liz felt adrift, unsure of herself and unsteady on her feet. She hated feeling this way, hated how she suddenly felt like a timid and insecure little mouse after so many years as a strong, independent woman.

She had blossomed after Peter dumped her. She'd been fine on her own, really committing to her studies of music and dance. That was when her dreams started taking shape. She wanted to perform onstage, to hear the applause. Someday she wanted to choreograph a great show—one of the classics, perhaps, or something new and modern. She had been a little nervous accepting the job on the cruise ship—she'd never been away from home for that long or that far before—but she'd taken it, and she'd performed well. The cruise director was very sorry that Liz left the gig early to get married. “You're a good dancer, Liz,” she had told her. “You have a great style and a great rhythm. You'll direct your own shows someday, if you don't give up your dreams.”

But that's what Liz had done. She had given up her dreams. David's idea of a local dancing school hardly matched choreographing a show at Lincoln Center.

Still, she loved him. She'd find a way to dance, but for now, she was going to make her first ambition her marriage.

If only she didn't feel so anxious.

It was just that she was so out of her element in this great big imposing mansion. On the second day that David was away, Liz dressed early and went downstairs with a cheerful grin on her face, trying to learn the routine of the house. She asked Mrs. Hoffman to show her around and explain how things were run. But the icy housekeeper only smiled at her. “Don't worry about such things,” she said. “I have everything under control.” As mistress of the house, she insisted, Liz should enjoy a life of leisure. “Why don't you take a stroll through the gardens and enjoy all the beautiful flowers?”

So that was what Liz did, feeling as if she'd just been banished from her own house.

The gardens were extraordinary, however. Huge tropical blossoms looking like alien life-forms towered over her as she walked down the path. Calla lilies and birds of paradise were clustered against spiky yuccas, and exotic rosebushes grew along a trellis. But when Liz took a corner she stopped short. There, along the path in front of her, were the remnants of a row of bushes yanked out by their roots. A few scattered roots remained; the soil was still disturbed and unleveled.

The gardenias.

These were the gardenias.

The fragrance Liz had thought she'd smelled on her first day in this house.

The fragrance that Dominique had always worn.

The bushes David had ordered torn out by their roots since the smell of them reminded him of his heartbreak.

Liz suddenly felt overcome, as if she should run away from this place forever. She turned, prepared to bolt somewhere—anywhere—

—and there was Mrs. Hoffman standing behind her, staring at her with those terrible eyes, her plastic face shining in the afternoon sun.

“You seem warm,” the housekeeper said, her lips moving in that way that passed for a smile. “Might I suggest you take a dip in the pool?”

“The pool . . .”

“Yes. And afterward you can just lounge in one of the chairs. We have a mister system—cool mist sprinkling down that keeps you from ever getting too warm. It's rather like a tropical paradise, Mrs. Huntington used to say. Such beautiful flowers and greenery surround the pool. It will be as if you're on vacation in the Caribbean.”

“I feel as if I should be . . . helping . . . doing something. . . instead of just lounging around.”

“There's nothing to be done, ma'am. Perhaps you'd like to take one of the cars instead, and drive into town, do some shopping . . .”

Liz blushed. “I don't have a driver's license. I let it expire when I was on the ship. I'll need to renew it.”

“Oh, I see. Well, then, we could have one of the chauffeurs take you . . .”

The idea of going out and exploring Palm Beach without David made Liz uneasy. “I'm not feeling very peppy today, I'm afraid,” she said. “I guess maybe sitting by the pool and reading a book sounds like the best idea for now.”

“You'll love the pool. I'll have Rita set out a pitcher of iced tea. You go on upstairs now and change into your swimsuit.”

Liz gave her a half-smile. Maybe Mrs. Hoffman wasn't so bad. Maybe Liz's nerves and everything that had happened since she got here had made her too uneasy around her. Maybe she really
was
trying to be kind to Liz.

Back in her room, Liz slipped into her bathing suit. It was a light blue one-piece, cut high in the hips. Liz looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She could see the tautness of her leg muscles had softened. On the ship, dancing every day, she had been lean and tight. But she hadn't been keeping up with her gym routine since she'd married David. How could she have? They'd been jetting from place to place on their honeymoon, eating far too many cakes and pastries and drinking more cocktails than they could count. Liz was going to have to join a gym somewhere, and soon. And she really,
really
needed to start dancing again. Maybe David's idea of opening a dance studio wasn't so bad, after all.

But even if her legs were less toned than they were a few months ago, they were still pretty damn shapely, Liz told herself, admiring them in the mirror. What satisfied her far less than her legs, however, were her breasts. She'd always been rather flat-chested, and when she was younger she used to feel terribly self-conscious about the fact. The boys in high school used to tease her; one day, when she'd innocently remarked that her mother had taken some sweaters out of a hope chest, the boys had latched onto the phrase and started shouting, “Liz is hoping for a chest!” Liz had laughed, putting on a good face, but inside she was mortified.

So when Peter Mather had left her for a woman who was far more stacked than she was, all of Liz's insecurities had flooded to the surface. How she used to cringe when she would see the two of them walking around the campus together, Peter's new girlfriend seeming to go out of her way to flash her big tits in everybody's face. Liz knew that was probably only her own perception, but she couldn't help but look at the two of them and feel completely inadequate.

The memory of all that humiliation, however, receded into the past the moment she stepped out poolside. Mrs. Hoffman was right. The pool was magnificent. And it was hers. She had married a man who loved her, who thought she was beautiful, who had given her all this.

Set as if into the side of a cliff, the pool meandered around rocks and little manmade islands, perfect to stretch out on under the Florida sun. Palm trees provided plenty of shade if one wanted it, and at the deep end of the pool a waterfall cascaded from above. The fragrance here wasn't gardenia—Liz was glad about that—but tropical flowers. Soft, tinkling music was piped in from somewhere. On the other end from the waterfall a cushioned lounge chair waited for her, and beside it sat a glass table bearing a pitcher of iced tea and some glasses.

Rita, one of the chambermaids, stood apart, watching Liz take in the surroundings.

“I hadn't been out here yet,” Liz said, more to herself than Rita. “It's . . . lovely.”

“Is there anything else you'll be wanting, ma'am?” Rita asked.

Liz thought she detected a coldness in the young woman's voice. “No, thank you,” she replied. “Thank you for bringing out the iced tea.”

Rita nodded and quietly slipped through a side door into the house.

Liz took a seat on the lounge. The sound of the music and the waterfall was almost hypnotic. She thought she could fall asleep out here. But first she determined she would take a swim. If she was serious about getting back into exercise, she could start right now.

She rose, walked to the edge of the pool, and tested the water with her toe. Perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. She stepped gingerly down the ladder into the pool. The water enveloped her body like a warm silk blanket.

Liz began to swim. It felt wonderful to be moving her muscles again, making her legs and arms and shoulders work. She swam three laps, then stopped, looking up into the waterfall, her eyes caught by the kaleidoscope of color. How peaceful it was here.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Huntington.”

A voice cut through Liz's reverie. She turned to look. It was Mrs. Martinez, one of the kitchen workers whom Liz had met briefly.

“Yes, hello, Mrs. Martinez.”

“I've brought you some fruit salad. Variola made it special for you.”

“Oh, isn't that sweet, thank you,” Liz said, hopping out of the pool.

As she did so, she caught a glimpse of herself in the large glass windows that lined the pool area. What a sight. Her hair was wet and stringy, plastered down over her shoulders. She wore no makeup, of course, and this ill-fitting bathing suit announced her loss of muscle tone and lack of curves more than she'd anticipated.

Liz looked away from her image. Mrs. Martinez, a short, plump, middle-aged lady, was standing in front of her, holding a bowl of chopped mango and watermelon and what looked like basil and feta cheese.

“Variola hopes you will enjoy,” Mrs. Martinez said, handing the bowl to Liz.

“I'm sure I will. Please tell her thank you for me.”

After Mrs. Martinez left, Liz ate the fruit and allowed herself to relax, perhaps for the first time since she had come to this house. The waterfall was so soothing. She placed the empty bowl on the side table and lay back on the lounge. She closed her eyes. The sweet aroma of plumeria flowers filled her nostrils. Within moments Liz was asleep.

She awoke with a start. How long had she been asleep? The sun seemed slightly different in the sky. But the waterfall and the music were the same.

Liz turned her head. On the table next to her, the empty bowl of fruit was gone. In its place stood a photograph in a frame.

Liz looked closer.

It was a picture of the pool. But stretched out in a lounge chair, in the exact spot where Liz now sat, was Dominique. She was wearing a bikini.

She might have been a
Playboy
model, Liz thought, with her large breasts and tiny waist and full, curvy legs. Her long, dark, lustrous hair framed her exquisitely beautiful face.

And standing behind her, beaming into the camera, was David.

Liz sat up, horrified.

Immediately she spotted Mrs. Hoffman walking toward her.

“Ah, you're awake,” the housekeeper said. “I came out earlier and you were asleep. I trust you're enjoying the pool.”

“This . . . picture . . .” Liz managed to say.

“Oh, yes. I thought you might like to see it. It was taken just after the pool was put in. As you can see, only a few stones had been set at that point. And if you'll look, the waterfall hadn't yet been installed.”

“I . . . see . . .”

Liz looked away from the photograph. Why did she feel certain that Mrs. Hoffman had placed it there not to show her the changes in the pool, but to intimidate her with Dominique's beauty? To point out that Liz could never hope to measure up—quite literally?

At that moment she felt more eyes on her. Instinctively Liz turned, and there, standing on the other side of the glass separating the pool area from the rest of the house, she saw half a dozen staff members arranged in a row. Rita. Mrs. Martinez. And several men. All watching her.

This was their idea of a joke! They had all been waiting to see what Liz's reaction to the picture of Dominique would be. Liz's face burned with embarrassment. She could imagine their schemes. Let's show her that she's a miserable substitute for Dominique! They were laughing at her, just like the boys in school had once laughed at her.

“I think I'll go upstairs now,” Liz said, standing. “I . . . I have a headache.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, ma'am,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “I had hoped the pool would relax you. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No,” she managed to reply, as she pushed past the housekeeper, self-conscious of all the eyes on her. Liz felt naked in this terrible, ugly swimsuit. She wished she had a blanket to wrap around herself. She hurried upstairs. In the privacy of her room—it had been Dominique's room, too, she knew—she sobbed on the bed.

She needed David to come home. She needed his arms around her.

But in that moment, thinking of how happy David had looked in that photograph with his beautiful wife, Liz felt she would never trust his arms again.