Bliss (12 page)

"Hey, Mr. Daniels!" the woman behind the wheel called
out. Her hair was in long, loose dreadlocks that tumbled
around her face and shoulders like black lace. Another
woman, older with her hair plaited around her head and
strung with cowry shells, hefted two well-wrapped packages
from the back of the jeep and walked toward the house.
When the driver noticed Sinclair sitting on the other side of
her father, she waved.

"Why doesn't that girl come into the yard instead of
shouting out my name to the whole neighborhood?" Victor
asked no one in particular.

The woman with the packages shrugged. "Young people."
Her smile teased Sinclair's father but he wasn't biting.

"Nikki's not home. She's on Market Street." He took the
heavier package from the older woman, then gave her an envelope. "But she told me to give you this with her thanks."

"Tell her I'll stop by on the weekend to see her and the
baby."

Sinclair watched their byplay with curiosity. This woman
was beautiful, with short but well-shaped legs and a tight
backside covered in mid-length khaki shorts. Sinclair looked
away wincing with sudden guilt. This woman was the same
age her mother would have been.

"That baby is four years old now, Della," Victor said.

"So what? He's her only one. Until you give her another
one, Xavier will stay the baby."

Victor opened the front door for Della and waved her
ahead of him. They disappeared into the house. In the meantime, the woman in the jeep made herself comfortable behind
the wheel. She dangled one bare foot outside the vehicle's
door as she lay back in the seat that was reclined as far back
as it could go. Sunlight poured over the subtle hills and valleys of her body like honey. The slim-fitting white tank top
and cutoff shorts gave Sinclair an excellent view of all that
beautiful dark skin. She gawked shamelessly, even tilted her
head to get a better view.

If she'd been someone else, maybe like Regina, she would
have walked up to the stranger in the jeep and struck up a
conversation, found out if she was into women. Her sleek,
athletic look screamed "dyke" but Sinclair wasn't one to risk
embarrassment on an assumption. Sinclair looked away from
the woman as her father came back out of the house.

"Della, this is my daughter, Sinclair. She's visiting me from
America for a few weeks."

"Hello," Sinclair said.

"Mercy! I thought that was Lydia sitting right there." So
she was rude enough to never speak to Lydia? Whoever that
was.

"Good to meet you, child." She looked at Sinclair again as
she shook her hand. "Sinclair? Does that mean you're Bev
Sinclair's daughter?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't ma'am me, young lady." She squeezed Sinclair's
fingers gently. "Well, I'll be .... I knew your mother a long
time ago. Used to even babysit for her. I can see that the resemblance to Lydia is only superficial. You have your mother's
mouth and eyes." She made as if to touch Sinclair's hair but
the younger woman moved back.

"Sorry."

Sinclair's smile put even more distance between them.
"That's OK."

Della dropped her hand. "Well, I'll just head out. Hunter
and I have a few more things to do before it gets dark. Good
to see you again, Victor. Take care, Sinclair."

Sinclair nodded in response and watched the older woman
walk away and climb back into the jeep. The woman behind
the wheel waved at Sinclair again before driving off.

She turned to her father. "Who was that?"

"One of your mother's old friends." He made an impatient
gesture. "A potmaker."

Sinclair smiled. "A potmaker?"

"That's what she does. Make pots. And other things, too.
Nikki spends at least half her paychecks on her clay." He
waved at the neat arrangement of potted plants ringing the
verandah then to the yard where all manner of sculpture sat
among the shrubbery and flowers. Nikki certainly had an eye
for arranging.

"Nikki must like her work, or her, a lot."

"They get along." Her father made a noise that could have
been anything. But Sinclair could see the emotion for what it
was. Jealousy. He was jealous of his wife's friendship with
Della. She looked at her father in surprise but didn't press the
issue.

They spent the rest of the afternoon talking, discussing the
books they'd both read and other things they had in common
despite the twenty years they'd spent apart. When Nikki and
Xavier came back the discussion continued over homemade
popcorn and checkers, lasting until dinnertime and beyond.
After Nikki and the boy went to bed, Sinclair and her father
went back to the verandah and beers. Their laughter rang out
in the warm air until the sun blushed the Blue Mountains a
soft pink. Only then did their drooping eyes force them indoors for sleep.

In the morning, Nikki and Xavier lured Sinclair out with
the promise of showing her the sea. They took Victor's motorcycle. Nikki crushed her fire hair underneath a black motorcycle helmet, then put a smaller one on Xavier's head. Earlier
she had urged Sinclair to leave her hair plaited so now the
thick mass had no trouble fitting under the helmet Nikki offered.

"Hold on tight to me, Xavie." Nikki's soft voice fluted
gently into the late morning air.

"I remember, Mama." He hopped up and down with excitement at the thought of riding the noisy bike.

Nikki and Sinclair got on the bike first, then they squeezed Xavier between them. He giggled when Sinclair's fingers
floated over his ribs before settling firmly around Nikki's
waist. And off they went.

Nikki was a competent and cautious driver, honking the
horn as they rounded narrow curves in the road to let other,
larger vehicles know they were coming. The wind stung
Sinclair's eyes, making them squint and water. At first, the
speed and vulnerability of it frightened her, but she remembered her childhood when she'd been where Xavier was now,
safe between two people who loved her. Then she relaxed,
enjoying the push and pull against her body as the bike
slowed down for traffic then sped up again.

Their journey ended on the beach, a quiet area of white
sand and lulling waves with only a few other people wandering its length. Nikki parked in a grove of tall coconut trees
and took off her shoes before unstrapping a small bag from
the back of the bike. Sinclair and Xavier hopped off the motorcycle and waited for her.

"This is my quiet place. Not many people know about it."
She slung the bag over her shoulder and took Xavier's hand.
When the boy offered his other hand to Sinclair, she smiled
down at him.

"It's beautiful here," she said.

"Yes, it is."

The women walked toward the water with Xavier strung
between them like a twinkling Christmas light.

"Ah! Bird!" Xavier broke away from them to chase a flock
of tiny seabirds.

"Careful," Nikki called after him, but did not follow.
Sinclair watched her young stepmother, smiling at Nikki's
ridiculously young age.

"How old are you, Nikki?"

"Twenty-two. "

She was too busy watching her son to see Sinclair's expression. When she turned back to her stepdaughter, Sinclair cleared
her throat. "Do we have to be back at a particular time?"

"Not really." Nikki looked at the little Timex on her wrist.
"We have almost the whole day to play."

"Great."

They pulled bathing suits from the bag that Nikki carried
and quickly changed in one of the tiny huts that lined the
beach before all three of them ran into the warm lapping
water. Sinclair sank into the wet embrace with a laugh while
Nikki and Xavier circled her, splashing each other and laughing at their own childish antics. The sun was hot on their
faces.

It wasn't long before Sinclair, who wasn't at all used to exercise, stumbled out of the water with her limbs heavy with
exhaustion. She collapsed on the blanket, breathing in the
light scent of sunscreen from her own body and the intoxicating salt of the sea. A sigh and an unwelcome thought disturbed her contentment. Sinclair rolled over onto her belly
and cradled her face in sun-warmed arms. She wished the sun
could burn it all away-the pain, the humiliation, that clawing part of her that still wanted Regina back. Sinclair dozed
in the sun, only stirring when Xavier poked her with his toe.

"Mama says come back to the water."

She squinted up at him. "Why?"

"Because-" he looked behind him. "Mama! Why?"

"Because she doesn't want to spend her time on this beautiful place spread out on the sand like a beached whale," Nikki
called back.

A whale? That's one thing Sinclair had never been compared to before. Had Nikki ever seen a whale? Then she realized that this was the longest sentence her stepmother had
ever spoken to her.

She sat up. "If I were a more physically substantial person,
I'd take offence at that."

"I'm sure they have skinny whales out in the sea somewhere," Nikki laughed back.

It served her right when Sinclair took a flying leap into the
water and doused her in a gigantic tidal wave that left her choking on water and her own laughter. Sinclair's young
stepmother was as much of a child as Xavier, with her high
infectious laughter and sweet playfulness. Sinclair could see
how she could make a lover feel young again, or very old.

Hours later, they rode back to the house in silence with the
grit of sand on their tongues and in the intimate crevices of
their skin. Nikki hummed as she drove and Xavier leaned
into her, his ear pressed against her back. Sinclair could
admit to being happy and being, at least for a little while, free
of any thoughts or feelings related to the recent past of the
city. Nikki and Xavier's unexpected friendship, like the sun,
had burned them away.

Sinclair suddenly blinked her wind-stung eyes to look
around her. This road seemed unfamiliar. The route from her
father's house had been filled with high forests of trees wrapped
in dark dripping vines dotted by the brilliant plumage of exotic
birds. By comparison, these streets were tame, paved avenues
leading to bigger houses, to ruthlessly pruned and controlled
gardens, and to money. They stopped at an intersection.

"Are we taking a different road home?" Sinclair asked.

"No. Just a little stop on the way."

Sinclair nodded as Xavier snuggled deeper into his mother's
back and giggled. They stopped at a house with a high steel
gate, where at least a dozen cars were parked out front. It
was tall and stately with a New Orleans feel, ringed by an
ironwork balcony upstairs and an identical one above that. A
hammock swung suspended from the lower verandah and
was stacked with colorful, inviting pillows.

"Let's go in." Nikki parked the bike and fluffed out her
hair. Sinclair was startled when Nikki touched her, brushing
sand from her face and collarbone, before straightening
Xavier's shorts and T-shirt, then her own red sundress and
the flowing black pants underneath.

"Come on."

Sinclair didn't bother pretending that she knew what was going on. She just followed. From the door, she heard a hush
of voices, then when Nikki rang the doorbell, all noise
stopped. After a moment's hesitation, Nikki opened the door.
She and Xavier took Sinclair's hand, leading her through a
sitting room that smelled vaguely of leather and lemon furniture polish. The house was beautiful, decorated in a soft feminine style that reminded Sinclair of something out of a
decorator magazine.

"This is a little strange, you know. They don't have laws
against breaking and entering here?"

They rounded a darkened corner.

"Surprise!" a chorus of voices sang out.

"Shit!" Sinclair jumped back, truly surprised.

"No, it's a birthday party."

Her father stepped out of a crowd of over a dozen people,
most of them unfamiliar. "Happy late birthday, daughter."

Sinclair's belly felt warm as if she'd drunk a glass of gin, no
tonic. She laughed nervously, feeling overwhelmed. "Thank
you." Who were all these people?

Her father turned to the room at large. "Everyone, you
know my daughter. Either you met her recently or knew her
when she was little before she left for America. Everyone, this
is my daughter, Bliss Sinclair. She likes to be called Sinclair
now, after her mother's family."

"Welcome home, Sinclair!" the group chorused, reaching
out to surround her. Embarrassed heat raced under Sinclair's
skin.

"Thank you."

"Come meet everybody," her father said.

Her father introduced her to people she had only the
vaguest memories of. Yet they all claimed to know her or her
mother in some way.

"America must be treating you well, you look good."

"A little on the bony side, though."

"I hear American men like that in their women."

"Well, you're in Jamaica, girl. Remember that Jamaican
men like a girl with meat on her bones."

Nikki's friend, Della, suddenly appeared at Sinclair's side,
laughing. "Don't let them get to you, girl. They're just jealous.

Of what? Sinclair wanted to ask. Della took her arm and
led her to the main dining area where a buffet had been laid
out. Sinclair stared at the extravagant arrangement of Caribbean food-okra in a clear, herb-scented broth, roasted breadfruit, both ripe and green, cut and displayed around a bowl
of ackee and saltfish, slices of starfruit, guavas, mangoes, hog
plums, pineapples, rice and peas, and jerk pork. Sinclair
gawked. A colorful platter of thinly sliced raw vegetables was
the most ordinary thing on the table. She hadn't seen a spread
like this-all the foods that reminded her so strongly of her
childhood-in almost twelve years, not since her grandmother
had cooked for her college graduation party. Her mouth pricked
with sudden hunger.

"It all looks good, doesn't it?" Della said, gesturing to the
table with a flourish. "Your father sure can cook." She scooped
a spoonful of perfectly steamed white rice onto a plate before
turning to Sinclair. "I hope you brought your appetite."