Joan Fuller sighed and gently eased herself out of the clammy feather
bed, unsure why she felt so oddly listless. Like as not it was the
patter of the noonday shower, now in full force, gusting through the
open jalousies in its daily drenching of the tavern's rear quarters. A
shower was supposed to be cooling, so why did she always feel hotter
and more miserable afterwards? Even now, threads of sweat lined down
between her full breasts, inside the curve of each long leg. She moved
quietly to the window and one by one began tilting the louvres upward,
hoping to shut out some of the salty mist.
Day in and day out, the same pattern. First the harsh sun, then the
rain, then the sun again. Mind you, it had brought to life all those
new rows of sugar cane marshalled down the hillsides, raising hope the
planters might eventually settle their accounts in something besides
weedy tobacco. But money mattered so little anymore. Time, that's the
commodity no purse on earth could buy. And the Barbados sun and rain,
day after day, were like a heartless cadence marking time's theft of
the only thing a woman had truly worth holding on to.
The tropical sun and salt air would be telling enough on the face of
some girl of twenty, but for a woman all but thirty--well, in God's own
truth some nine years past--it was ruination. Still, there it was,
every morning, like a knife come to etch deeper those telltale lines at
the corners of her eyes. And after she'd frayed her plain brown hair
coloring it with yellow dye, hoping to bring out a bit of the sparkle
in her hazel eyes, she could count on the harsh salt wind to finish
turning it to straw. God damn miserable Barbados.
As if there weren't bother enough, now Hugh was back, the whoremaster,
half ready to carry on as though he'd never been gone. When you both
knew the past was past.
But why not just make the most of whatever happens . . . and time be
damned.
She turned and glanced back toward the bed. He was awake now too,
propped up on one elbow, groggily watching. For a moment she thought
she might have disturbed him getting up--in years past he used to
grumble about that--but then she caught the look in his eyes.
What the pox. In truth it wasn't always so bad, having him back now and
again. . . .
Slowly her focus strayed to the dark hair on his chest, the part not
lightened to rust by the sun, and she realized she was the one who
wanted him. This minute.
But she never hinted that to Hugh Winston. She never gave him the least
encouragement. She kept the whoreson off balance, else he'd lose
interest. After you got to know him the way she did, you realized Hugh
fancied the chase. As she started to look away, he smiled and beckoned
her over. Just like she'd figured . . .
She adjusted the other shutters, then took her own sweet time strolling
back. Almost as though he weren't even there. Then she casually settled
onto the bed, letting him see the fine profile of her breasts, and just
happening to drape one long leg where he could manage to touch it.
But now she was beginning to be of two minds. God's life, it was too
damned hot, Hugh or no.