Heaven Is High (23 page)

Barbara felt a deep chill with his words. If it had proved too inconvenient to attempt her rescue, she would have been left behind.

As if reading her mind, Gabe said, “And surprisingly, Barbara, all at once it had become equally imperative to get you out of there, although now I wonder how much help you really needed.” In a much lighter tone, he asked, “Had you actually gone into the forest, made your getaway, before David came upon you?”

She nodded. “He jumped me in the dark and scared the hell out of me.”

“Did you have a plan for if they came after you, looked for you on the road?”

“At the first glimmer of light I would have dived into the jungle.”

“Ah. Barbara, I truly believe that you would have made your way into Belmopan.” He stood and held out his hand to her. “It's five o'clock in the morning. In an hour the sun will be up and it's hard to fall asleep after that, but quite easy to stay asleep. Let's call it a day. You're out on your feet, even if you don't know it.”

When she stood, she did know it. She reeled and held on to the tabletop for a moment. “More questions and answers tomorrow?” she asked.

“As much as possible,” he said, leading her from the galley. “Your stateroom is down this passage.”

*   *   *

Barbara stood at the open door to the deck and took in long breaths of air. It tasted good, smelled good, and felt good on her skin. As far as she could see there was nothing but ocean, deep blue and deeper blue. She was dressed in blue jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, and she was clean and not sweating, even if her hair was still wet, but now it was wet from a long shower. Although the bottoms of her feet hurt, two toes had Band-Aids, and she had a swollen face, she felt good physically. And she was alive. She smiled wryly at how little surprised she had been to find her suitcase in her stateroom, her jacket on a hanger in a small closet. Nothing could surprise her any longer, she thought, savoring the ocean air. She took the next step onto the deck.

“Over here, Barbara,” Gabe called from a table under an awning.

As she approached, he closed a book and rose, to hold out a chair for her. “Good day,” he said. “Ten minutes ago I might have said good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Very well,” she said, sitting down. “Rocked to sleep, in fact.”

He peered at her cheek. “I don't think it will bruise much at all. A little discoloration for a day or two at the most. Good. Now, for something to tide you over until lunch, which will be at or around one thirty. Our cook, Franklin, doesn't like deadlines or schedules. I humor him when I can. Coffee, juice, some pastries. Or would you prefer something more substantial?”

He poured coffee from a carafe and juice from a pitcher. She lifted a napkin from a basket that held several sweet rolls.

“This looks fine,” she said, helping herself to a Danish. “Did you sleep at all?” The napkin, like the towels and washcloth in her bathroom, had the neat little iconic graphic of a house, such as a child might draw. A box with a triangle for a roof. Newhouse, his trademark that preceded all his films, much as the MGM lion did.

“I slept a bit before you arrived, in fact,” he said, “and out like the proverbial light as soon as your door closed. I always sleep well when we're at sea. Some people don't and I pity them. They're the ones who tend to get seasick. You seem to be a natural for life on the water.”

She shook her head. “I like to look out and see trees and mountains, little things like that. A river is nice, too.” She waved her hand generally at the ocean. “Doesn't that get monotonous after a time?”

“I've been sailing for about five years now, and it hasn't yet. If and when it does I'll do something else, I expect.” He was gazing out to sea as he said, “I had a rather serious heart attack six years ago and during my convalescence I realized it was time to get off the merry-go-round I was on, racing faster and faster day by day. I opted to go sailing, and it seems to have suited me. Maybe I should have been a sailor from the start, instead of a frivolous director.”

She knew he was referring to what Ronstadt had said or implied, and that it amused him. “Frivolous” was not the word to apply to him quite obviously. She changed the subject. “You said we were going to Cancún. Why?”

“It seemed a good idea to get you out of the country, and that's where I was heading,” he said with a smile. “I wonder what Santos thinks. Did you escape first and rescue Robert? Did he make a miraculous recovery and take you out with him? Did his friends of the forest come to his aid, and yours, of course? Did his own people spring both prisoners? Are they scouring the nearby forests searching for you?”

“Not that,” Barbara said. “Someone was following us in black car. They know we left by car.”

“That's too bad,” he said ruefully. “I like to think of them all out beating the bushes, searching.”

“When will we get to Cancún?” she asked.

“Sometime tonight. I'll ask Fitz for an estimated time of arrival if you like.”

“How can I enter the country without a visa or something?”

“It's been taken care of, but let's not talk about that right now. Have you eaten all you want?”

“Yes. And I want to talk about it now. I can't stay in Cancún. I have to go back to Belize.”

“You know you can't do that,” he said.

“I have to. I have unfinished business there. I don't intend to go home empty-handed. I came to do something and I have to do it.”

“I see,” he said. His easy relaxed air had changed subtly as he watched her and listened. He stood and said, “We'll talk about it later. First, there's something I want to show you.” There was a note of finality in his voice.

She rose and carefully put down her napkin. “Gabe, no more games. Okay? I understand that you're on your own mission, and I don't give a damn what it is or what's involved. I don't want to play spy with you. I fully understand that I'm as much a prisoner on this boat as I was locked in that room at the finca. But unless you have me locked up in a real prison, or throw me overboard, I tell you here and now that I won't remain in Cancún any longer than it takes to make arrangements to return to Belize. If you send me all the way home, I'll make the same arrangements there. I have my own job to do and I fully intend to do it. I have to go back to Belize.”

21

“Come with me, Barbara,” Gabe said. “Around this way.” He led her along the deck to another door and inside to a spacious lounge with two pale green sofas, rattan chairs with colorful flowered print cushions, a large television, and a rolled screen. Tables and lamps were by all the chairs and sofas. If there hadn't been a constant rhythmic undulation of the boat itself, the room could have been in any well-furnished home.

Gabe walked through the room to the far side and indicated an L-shaped desk with a computer and printer set up on one extension. On the desk was a large bulging white envelope.

“That's for you,” Gabe said, pointing to the envelope. “You'll find paper, notebooks, pens, the usual assortment of office supplies in various drawers. Feel free to help yourself to whatever you require. The computer is also at your disposal. As I said, lunch will be at around one thirty, but I'd guess closer to two. I'll be on deck if you want anything.” He turned, then paused to add, “I asked Franklin to make certain there was coffee for you, and I see he did so. On the sideboard there. See you later, Barbara.”

She sat at the desk without opening the envelope until he was gone, then slowly she undid the clasp and emptied the contents on the desk. Photocopies. Anaia's promised papers, photographs, copies of what appeared to be everything they had talked about and possibly more than that.

Barbara drew in her breath sharply as she moved the papers to uncover those still hidden and revealed a photograph of Anaia and another girl, her sister, Binnie's mother, or possibly her aunt. She gazed at it a long time. So similar, and so like Binnie, both of them. They were beautiful, laughing or close to laughter, with big dark eyes full of sparkle, dark blond hair that fell in waves to their shoulders where it was curlier. On the back on the photograph they had signed their names and the date, 1959. A note beneath the names read:
ON SHALA
'
S FIRST DAY OUT OF THE SISTERS OF MERCY SCHOOL
.

Barbara touched Shala's face gently, unable to stop the surge of mixed sadness and rage at what that lovely girl had suffered before death freed her. She put that photograph aside and picked up the next one.

It was of Lavinia Santos, their mother, when she had been about the same age as Anaia and Shala in their picture, and, as Anaia had said, Binnie resembled her grandmother even more than her mother and her aunt.

Barbara spread out everything and began to sort through it. The birth certificate appeared to be perfect, she thought after a rapid scan. Quickly she looked through the rest of the documents: Anaia's marriage certificate, her signature and that of Lawrence Thurston. His passport number. Augustus Santos's will. Anaia's account of the destructive hurricane, the cholera epidemic, why she sent her child away with Shala, only to receive news that they both had died at sea with the attack of pirates. Then, years later, the joyful discovery of her daughter's survival.

Absently Barbara opened the top desk drawer looking for paper clips. She began to clip papers together. A copy of the handwritten will went with the marriage license. There was a newspaper article about Augustus Santos's murder that included some details about the estate he had left to his daughter, Anaia Santos Thurston: the Santos Shipping Company, a sugar mill in Belmopan, the finca acreage, hacienda, other holdings. She clipped his will to that. Good—one anecdotal, one the real will. Barbara had not thought of the newspaper article, and appreciated that Anaia had included it. It could be helpful.

When she had things a bit organized, she started to examine more closely the various documents. Soon she got up and crossed to the sideboard for coffee, then sipped it as she read Anaia's will. Anaia had stipulated that her attorney transfer immediately 10 percent ownership of the shipping company to Binnie, and then continue to process everything else in accordance with the discussions they'd had previously to establish a nonprofit corporation.…

Her personal items, including but not limited to her jewelry, she bequeathed to her daughter, Lavinia Santos Owens. She had remembered to add Barbara's address as a contact for Binnie.

The will would take another careful reading or two, but Barbara felt satisfied that it did what it had to do, establish Anaia's claim of Binnie as her daughter, and to ensure that Binnie was not seen as penniless. She next read Augustus Santos's will and found it had included all children Anaia had or might have in the future. She leaned back in her chair, thinking how to present the material, how to arrange it to make a compelling narrative, wondering just how much she would have to reveal. If her birthright was not questioned or disproved, Binnie would be next in line to inherit the estate in the event of Anaia's death, if she died intestate.

If both Anaia and Binnie died, then Julius, as the only surviving member of the family, would get it.

After a few minutes, she opened desk drawers until she found a legal-sized notebook, and she began to make notes, now and then going back to the documents, now and then staring at nothing, now and then walking back and forth in the lounge, writing again.

“Barbara, lunch is ready.” Gabe's voice startled her. He was standing in the open doorway to the deck. “You can leave all that,” he said. “It's perfectly safe where it is.”

She glanced at her watch. It was fifteen minutes after two and she was hungry, although she had not thought of time or food since opening the big envelope. She stood, and walked around the desk.

“You've read it all, I assume,” she said, joining him.

“Yes. As I've said, we'll talk today, at lunch, after, whatever you decide. And, Barbara, I don't consider you to be my prisoner, but rather my very honored guest. I hope you like blue crabs. That's on the menu, or so Franklin tells me.”

They returned to the table under the awning. It had grown appreciably warmer, but a cooling and constant breeze had also increased, making the heat welcome rather than a problem.

“Why didn't you tell me you had that material last night, or even this morning?” she asked as she took the same chair she had used before.

“Last night was out of the question,” he said. “You wouldn't have slept at all, I'm afraid. As for this morning, my inclination is to get to the important things first, and that meant food, revelations later. Sore?”

“No. Relieved. I was afraid Papa Pat had returned it to Anaia. It didn't occur to me that he would have given it to you.” She became silent as a man approached with a tray.

“Barbara, this is Franklin, our man of all trades. And our cook. Franklin, meet our guest, Barbara Holloway.”

He looked to be in his forties and was built like a wrestler was her first impression. Bulging biceps, thick neck, blond hair in a ponytail. And a smile like an angel, was her second thought as Franklin grinned at her and put down the tray. She held out her hand to shake with him and his grin became even wider.

“If you don't like crabs, just say the word. I'll make you whatever you do like,” he said in a voice that sounded like a rumbling truck.

“I love crab,” she said, and pulled back her hand that he was still holding.

Gabe was laughing quietly. “Knock it off, Franklin. If you propose to her, I'll heave you overboard.”

Franklin held his hand in the air. “I'll never wash that hand again,” he said, and proceeded to serve them small dishes of avocado halves filled with something.

Barbara tasted hers. “My God, what is it?” The avocado was hot, the filling creamy smooth and delicious.