Sun-Kissed Secret Baby by Leigh Jenkins
SABINA ISLAND BOOK TWO TEASER
The old Land Rover glided along the road through the dark cane fields like a boat upon the River Styx. As Saira looked out the window from the passenger seat, she could see hundreds upon hundreds of acres of sugar cane spreading out in all directions, undulating in the breeze like gentle waves. Patches of glowing orange and red dotted the landscape as wide swathes of the fields burned. The air was filled with the scents of caramelized sugar, burnt molasses, and scorched earth.
It was mid-May, the height of the sugar cane harvesting season in Sabina when cane farmers set their fields on fire to remove dead leaves and underbrush, not to mention chase away pests such as snakes, mongooses, rats, frogs, and any number of stinging and biting insects. While most of the fires were set by day under the vigilant eye of a foreman and his workers, many of them burned through the night as well. The practice went on for months, until all the cane was harvested and the season was over.
From what Saira could remember, there were days when clouds of ash invaded her parent’s house, as if a volcano had erupted nearby. It settled everywhere, on the floors and furniture, tainting curtains and leaving charcoal smears on the bedsheets. Pity the asthmatics, she thought.
“Sorry your mama and papa didn’t make it,” Uncle Baldy said sympathetically. Though not an uncle at all, he had been a favorite of Saira’s when she was a child. He was the estate foreman, managing the huge Ramtahali residential estate, with its many family dwellings and amenities.
He was well over 70 by now, Saira guessed, and yes, he was bald, as he had been 20 years ago, the last time she had seen him. Rumor had it that he began losing his hair as a teen, and that was how he obtained the nickname.
She gave him a slight smile, recognizing the delicacy with which he had framed the statement. They both knew that her mother and father, Aarti and Prem Dass, weren’t ‘unable to make it’. They had flat out refused, stating without leaving any room for argument that they would never again set foot on Ramtahali property.
All three of them had been invited to the grand celebration of the family matriarch’s 85th birthday, and ‘grand’ would be the operative word here. Ramtahalis did nothing by half measures.
Vaanya Ramtahali was the last surviving member of her generation, the stone-fisted ruler of the family business: the Vallée D’Or sugar cane plantation and rum distillery. And since the chief products on the island of Sabina included sugar and rum, that made the family one of the country’s wealthiest and most powerful.
Why her parents maintained such a distance from her grandmother, Saira never understood, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. As much as she pleaded with them to explain the cause of the rift, they remained tight-lipped, and simply murmured something to the effect that she would be better off not knowing. All she could remember was the hasty exit she and her parents had made when she was nine, flying off to the States with less than a day’s warning, eventually settling in Colorado.
But when the invitation had arrived, printed on heavy, gilt-edged linen paper, Saira had leaped at the chance. She was a Ramtahali, after all, and she was entitled to have a relationship with her family. Her decision to go had been met first with shock and outrage, and then with sullen resignation. “Well, you’re twenty-nine,” her mother had said. “You’re free to do as you please.”
She had the feeling this was going to be a visit that she would long remember, not just for the revelations she was hoping for, but for the sense of grounding she had been seeking her whole life, that family connection that would reveal more to her about her own identity.
She slumped into her seat, feeling the fatigue threaten to overtake her. The light breeze playing through the open window ruffled the long black flyaway hair that framed her face; the rest of it was coiled into a thick braid that fell past her waist. She lifted her slender golden-brown hand and brushed it away.
Uncle Baldy glanced at her. “Tired, huh?”
“Long flight,” she murmured.
“They always are, but this time looks like you drew the short stick.”
She smiled at that. He wasn’t half wrong. She’d flown out from Fort Lauderdale around seven this morning, a convenient airport since she had been living just outside the city for a couple of years now. The flight was supposed to make a single stop in Montego Bay. But the plane had developed problems and the trip was delayed several hours. Then she’d learned that the plane had been grounded and that the airline was scrambling to find alternative flights for the passengers. There was the usual hokey pokey, and for the rest of the day, Saira had enjoyed the ambience of in-transit holding bays at airports in St. Lucia and Barbados. She finally boarded a twin-prop bucket of bolts headed for Sabina, a craft so dubious it almost made her rediscover religion. She arrived almost twelve hours after she had expected to.
She’d felt nothing but weary gratitude when she’d exited the Arrivals Hall to see Uncle Baldy patiently waiting, sipping on a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
They entered her home village, Bourg Cayenne, which was made up almost entirely of families who worked in the sugar cane fields. By the time the Land Rover wheeled past the secure gate leading to the family estate, it was creeping up on midnight, the only thing Saira wanted to do was strip down and get into bed. As grungy was she was, she was certain that if she attempted to shower tonight she was likely to fall face down onto the tiles and not be able to muster the energy to lift her nose and mouth out of the water.
“Welcome home,” he said.
That made her smile. The estate hadn’t been ‘home’ since she was a kid. She looked around, startled to find that although it had clearly been modernized, it all felt familiar. Five large family homes shared the land with the main residence. In four of the houses, she knew, her mother’s four elder brothers lived: Adesh, Jihan, Vash, and Peter, along with their wives and many of their grown children. At the center sat a substantially larger mansion, like the hub in the middle of a wheel. Her grandmother’s house.
All was dark, the property illuminated only by floodlights in the gardens and security lamps overhead. Saira figured she would explore and reacquaint herself with everything in the morning.
They pulled up before the fifth house, which, she remembered, had been theirs before her parents’ sudden flight. Uncle Baldy got out, came around and helped her out, smiling at her. He collected her two bags, unlocked the front door, and set them just inside.
Saira had a sharp memory of this place involving the kind man. She’d been about seven and, like now, it had been the middle of reaping season. Uncle Baldy had been the first person to come running when her screams had pierced the air, to find a mapepire, the most venomous serpent in Sabina, coiled under her bed. An intricate pattern of diamonds was sprayed across its back: chocolate brown, tan, and cream. Looking back, she knew it had probably been a juvenile, less than five feet long, and had most likely fled the blazing fields outside. But at seven all she knew was that it was a snake. Uncle Baldy had quickly removed it, winning a permanent place in her heart.
“Want me to take your bags upstairs?” he offered.
She shook her head, holding up her carry-on. “I’m fine. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“Sleep well,” he said, and slipped out.
Exhaling tiredly, she trudged upstairs, picking the closest bedroom, the one that had been hers. All she could think of was the large bed that had been neatly made up, waiting for her. Swiftly, she stripped down to her panties and the tank top she had worn under her jacket. They would have to do in lieu of pajamas tonight.
Tea.The tempting word came unbidden, and immediately, the craving could not be denied. That was the very thing she needed to settle her soul before sleep. She crept softly downstairs, feeling as though in the silent darkness her footfalls were like the pounding of fists.
She flicked on the light in the kitchen and looked around, pleased to see it was sparkling clean and well stocked. A cup of microwaved water would have to do; she was too tired to wait on the brewing machine to heat up. While it boiled, she opened the cupboard: rows of canned vegetables and meats, coffee, sugar, salt. She placed several on the counter, gaining access to a yummy-looking box of oolong at the back.
In plopped a teabag, and all she had to do was wait. She held the cup in her hand, enjoying the swirl of brown as the water became infused.
A sound in the doorway. She froze, stunned. The house was empty, and it was well after midnight. All the other uncles’ houses were silent and dark in the distance, so what the hell?
Another sound, a creak of the floorboards, and Saira spun around, her heart in her throat. There was a man standing there; not just a man but a half-naked one, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. A huge man, looming over her five foot-nothing frame. He took a step towards her, and then another, and the cup of hot tea went crashing to the floor. She began to scream.
“Wait—”
Help,she heard a voice say in her mind, but she knew that help would not be coming. She had to help herself. Snatching up a can from the counter beside her, she threw it hard at the intruder, followed by another. He dodged the first but a can of creamed corn hit him dead center of his chest.
“Wait!” he said again, but it was too late. A can of red beans shot through the air, made contact with his left eyebrow with a resounding thud, and a spray of blood arced.
The big man went down like the Colossus of Rhodes.