Legacy Of The Tropics

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

The jagged scar on Pablo’s belly protruded above his waistband and wriggled like a snake as he darted out of the yard to join his friends playing on the sidewalk. The mark started above his belly button and ran nearly to his pubic bone. Sweating in the tropical heat made it glisten, but the disfigurement never bothered him. Others were more conscious of it than he was. The erratic scar was the result of a surgeon who had been careless or, perhaps, in a great hurry to enter the child’s abdomen. Back in Colorado, where Ciara Malloy was from, a laceration like that would be cause for a thorough malpractice investigation. But things were very different here. Moving to Puerto Rico was a first-hand lesson in culture shock.

San Juan’s August humidity hung thick in the air. Even so, it was better to be out on the patio than sweltering indoors in front of the window air conditioner. Jalousies cranked tightly closed were neither capable of keeping out the humidity nor containing the cooled air.

The limp breeze finally picked up and carried with it spicy aromas of neighborhood cooking and the smell of fresh moisture. Moments later, the rain came. Huge drops made the fire in the barbecue spit and hiss.

Ciara ducked under the raised floral umbrella over the table. Rico dragged the hot barbecue across the concrete patio closer to the main house and under shelter of the eaves in order to finish cooking the game hens. His muscles flexed, and his torso glowed from standing too near the fire and from the late afternoon heat. Just like when she had seen him at a construction site. The sight of him reminded her of the first time she saw him at work. He wore only shorts and construction boots and with tousled wavy black hair, looked like a golden god in a hardhat as he tight-roped a two-story block wall supervising the construction crew.

Frequently in the Caribbean, rain showers passed over then ceased within minutes. This time, the rain continued. The air had been sultry and the breeze on the patio tempting. Maybe they would have to eat dinner indoors after all.

“It’ll pass,” he said, smiling in a way that said he would allow nothing to spoil this day. Being bilingual, his English retained a heavy Cuban Spanish accent. “Better today than tomorrow.” They both loved being outdoors.

Rain hitting the large flat leaves of the nearby avocado tree played a constant rhythm in the background. Drops hitting the tin roof next door added accompaniment. Their eyes met.

“Nothing bad will happen today,” Ciara said.

“You aren’t going to leave me, are you?” he asked. His smile was facetious.

Leave Rico Rey? She loved him with all her heart. She loved Pablo, his little boy, as her own. She could not understand why she and Rico had not set a wedding date. After a freak storm last year that blew down her shack on the edge of the beach, she had moved into the cottage behind his house on Calle Delbrey. Not being married, they lived separately for Pablo’s sake. That was the way Rico wanted things. They needed to maintain a level of dignity. Dictates of the Puerto Rican culture forced them to live in separate homes until they married. But to hear him occasionally allude to her leaving, if that’s what he feared the most why, then, did he hesitate about finally tying the knot?

“Was this the kind of weather you had when your wife left?” Ciara asked. They had always talked openly about the past. Wounds healed more quickly when feelings were aired. Or was it because when she and Rico met the bonding energy between them had wiped out the pain of old hurts?

“About the same,” he said. “Strange how bad things in my life happen on rainy days.” He smiled and shook his head. “Like the day your shack went down.”

“Sure, but we met the sunny day after,” she said. She remembered the day she was picking through the rubble of the shack and looked up to find this gorgeous Latino watching her with a most tender expression. How the sparks shot between them that day. “The weather is only coincidental to events occurring, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Wasn’t raining when Pablo was born,” he said. “But it stormed when his mother ran—”

Pablo came running around the side of the house. Rico looked down and tended the barbecue.

“Is dinner ready, Mama?” Pablo asked. His hazel eyes were large and round from the exertion of play. Then he saw his father at the barbecue near the back wall of the house. He smiled a silly precocious grin that clearly expressed the closeness that this father and son shared. “Hola, Papi,” he said. “When do we eat?”

“About ten minutes,” Rico said.

“I’m going back to the street then.” Pablo started to run away. “I’m winning all the races.”

“Hey-hey,” Rico said. “Be on time for dinner.”

“Si, Papi.”

Too tall, but mentally advanced for just under eight years old, Pablo never let a little rain slow him down. He and some neighborhood children ran races up and down the block in front of the house. Long-legged Pablo usually won.

Rico watched his son scamper away. He had that deep pensive look that he got in his eyes every time he had a moment to study his son. Ciara thought of her own parenting abilities, something she had yet to fully experience. If she could be as attentive to her children as Rico was to Pablo, or, as her mother was to her, then she would have no worries about the type of mother she might be. Ciara thought of her mom, the only example she had available to emulate. She wished that someday soon she might have a chance to be the type of mother her mom was. In fact, she now longed for children of her own, lots of them. Rico’s and hers would be sisters and brothers for Pablo, for whom she felt great adoration.

“You were saying?” Ciara asked.

“You know the details,” he said. “Pablo was born on a bright sunny day in a hot spell. The day construction stopped early because of torrential rain was the day I found my wife’s goodbye note.”

Rico told her everything back when he first disclosed he had a son. While still living in Cuba, having to shut down the construction site due to a storm, he came home from work early and found his wife’s hurriedly scribbled note saying that she had run off with their neighbor who had been, unbeknownst to Rico, her long-time lover. She told no one else and left the baby alone in his crib for Rico to find. Pablo was only two months old then. Rico’s wife only stayed in the marriage for the duration of the pregnancy. Once the child was born and her body healed, she called it quits. Rico had evidently been too slow at making the decision to leave Cuba in the wake of the upheavals and change of government introduced by Fidel Castro. His wife chose to leave with the man who would take her to safety and a better life in America.

“Nothing’s going to spoil our sail tomorrow,” Ciara said. “The weather will clear.”

“Besides, Pablo’s looking forward to this vacation before school begins again.”

“I hope you don’t let the weather dictate—”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “It rained a lot last year, too, when your shack on the beach went down.” Then he added, “But it hasn’t rained that much this year.”

“Freak storms happen anytime,” she said. “You really don’t believe rain is some sort of omen, do you?”

“No…,” he said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself.

But that’s all he said. As usual when conversation became too focused, he seemed distressed. Several times recently he had made an attempt at explanatory conversation. Something always got in the way. Some problem was eating at him and he needed to get it off his chest, but did not seem to know how to begin. The longer he waited the more desperation he seemed to harbor. Surely that was the reason he decided they take a week off, sail the ketch all the way to the Virgin Islands if time allowed. Get away from distraction.

Ciara was not too worried about anything. Rico had proposed. They were to be married. But then, that had been nearly nine months back. So, what he needed to say evidently had to be said before they could think about exchanging vows.

Certainly, he was not afraid Pablo would disapprove. His son already called her Mama, almost from the day they met when he was nearly four years old. She had been the only mother he knew. The way Ciara saw it, what woman would leave a devoted man like Rico, who so cherished his family? He had proven his love by refusing to participate in the double standard tolerated among the locals. Rico had no mistresses.

In the nearly four years she had known him, Rico had been every bit the man Ciara dreamed of spending her life with. Raising a son by himself was a monumental task, but an obligation he met head-on and at which he excelled. He was committed to the life he had been dealt, committed to making it all work for him and his boy, and committed to her. Though Ciara liked to go out Friday evenings, he soon taught her about Viernes Social.

Mistresses usually accompanied men on what was known in San Juan and all of Puerto Rico as Social Friday. To be seen in public with a man on Friday evenings usually got the woman labeled as the man’s mistress. Rico would have no part of it. Friday evenings were usually spent barbecuing, sometimes with neighbors, or participating in not-so-quiet evenings at home with energetic Pablo. Once in a while Pablo accompanied them to the movies or when other social activities allowed. That was respectable. Rico had teased saying he loved having a blonde on his arm, but wasn’t about to jeopardize her reputation just to show her off.

Rain pelted and poured off the eaves in torrents. Rico looked up from tending the hens. “Your house or mine?” he asked, smiling his silly smile as his eyebrows drew together.

He lived in the main house up front, with Ciara in the larger of the two rear cottages. “We’re closer to my doorway,” she said. “If you want to make a dash for it, I’ll hold the screen open.”

Once the hens were covered on a platter and safely indoors, they gathered up the eating utensils and some food out on the patio table and ran again for the doorway.

“You really loved your shack out at the beach,” he said as he toweled off then slipped into his shirt again. “You’ve decorated this cottage in the same island motif.”

“Your shack at the beach,” she said, bringing glasses of cool tropical punch to the table. “I only rented.”

“Even though you were warned it was about to fall down,” he said.

“I needed the solitude to write,” she said. “It was private. Plus, the rental agency said the owner would remodel.” She teased, not having yet met Rico at that time.

“It’s taken a lot to get around to doing that,” he said. “I’ll begin that job once we return from vacation. No freak storm will take the new structure down.”

“What about that house you’re building in the new Valle Arriba Heights? The one I helped you design.” Ciara watched that house go from a spark in her mind to blueprints. The real thrill was watching the actual house being built, one Rico had given her full reign on designing just to show that he appreciated her creativity and input. She felt immense satisfaction seeing that project nearing completion. That must have been why Rico so loved his work.

He only smiled. “Got less than a month before it’s finished,” he said. Then there was that twinkle in his eyes again, like he relished some sweet harbored secret.

Rico had involved her in all aspects of the floor plan design, elevations and every last detail of that house. Since he loved what she designed and went ahead with the building of it, Ciara guessed he would invite her to be a partner in his business. With that house alone, she had learned what it took to build a house from the ground up. The idea of a partnership enticed her as she daydreamed, but she knew to direct her efforts to writing and publishing her children’s books instead. Rico was of Latino origins and needed to feel in command of his life, his family. Ciara was not sure working together would be the best arrangement. But then, Rico did not exude a lot of machismo either. He had matured well beyond ego trips.