Page 25 of Fated

I inch toward them, taking slow, small steps while darting nervous glances back at the cottage where the man and his daughter are.

It seems I’m in a small beach community. Past these three women are a half-dozen more cottages. They’re small, square, probably no more than one or two bedrooms each. They’re painted bright colors—seashell pink, coral orange, turquoise blue. The sun and the salt air has weathered the wood, so peeling paint and gray wood peeks through on all of them. Even the glass windows have salt and sand coating them, so they don’t quite glisten in the sun.

There are tall palm trees spaced about, green coconuts hanging in clusters from some. A line of bushes weaves around the cottages. Bright fuchsia, pink, and salmon-orange flowers bloom in profusion. It’s a sunbaked postcard of a tropical paradise.

Slowly, so I don’t scare the women, I approach. I drop the dress over my head, the white cotton whispering over my skin. When the shade of the tree falls over me, the sand between my toes turns cool and the temperature folds from scalding to bearable.

“Excuse me,” I say, turning to Maranda. She seems to be the one in charge. At least the other two seem to take their cue from her, and she has a presence I recognize from business as that of a leader.

I glance back at the house again. The doorway is still empty.

I lean close, sweat prickling my brow. “I’m here against my will. The man in that house brought me here without my knowledge. I need help. Can I use your phone to dial the police?”

As I speak, a change drifts across the women like a stiff breeze. First confusion, then astonishment, and finally, laughter.

Essie snorts into her swollen hands, eyeing me like I just said the funniest thing she’s heard all year. The woman with salt-and-pepper hair cackles with a creaky laugh and slaps her thigh.

Maranda stiffens, her back straightening and her hair nearly standing on end from a sudden gust of wind from the sea. “You what?”

“My name is Fiona Abry. I’m a British and Swiss citizen. Please, if you let me use your phone, I will pay you.”

The laughter stops.

“A phone?” the woman with salt-and-pepper hair asks, her forehead wrinkling and creasing in confusion.

“Who’s Fiona Avery?” Essie asks.

“Me.” I point to my chest. “Fiona Abry. I need to contact the police.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Maranda asks, standing suddenly.

I was right, she’s only about four foot eleven and her shoulders are stooped, and her light green housedress nearly swallows her, but, she’s definitely the one in charge.

“No, I’d like a phone. I’ll pay you. A thousand dollars for a phone.”

“A thousand dollars!”

“What kind of dollars?”

“Shh.” Maranda cuts her hand across the chatter. “Dee, you know she doesn’t have a thousand dollars.”

Behind me the noise of a door slamming rattles. I swing around, goose bumps rising on my neck.

It’s the man. He’s standing on the front porch. He raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and then focuses on me under the shade of the tree. When his gaze lands on me, a hot shiver rolls over my skin and a drop of sweat falls down my chest and glides over my breasts.

I feel pinned in place by his gaze, like he’s holding me down beneath him, trapping my wrists in his hands and pressing his thighs over mine.

My mouth goes dry, my skin prickles, and a hot flush races through me, pooling finally in my abdomen.

“He’s grouchy this morning,” Essie says. “Didn’t you make breakfast? He’s always cranky if he doesn’t get breakfast.”

He steps forward, his eyes on mine. He’s coming this way. My heart beats out a painful tattoo.

“A phone,” I choke. “Get me inside and to a phone and I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.”

Dee lets out a wheezy laugh. “What did you do? He mad at you?”

“Probably he doesn’t like her running outside naked. It’s those new breasts. I told you, Maranda. Maybe I should get them. I’m tired of tucking mine into my trousers. Hanging too low. Next time I fly to Miami I’m getting some.”

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