Chapter 7

Victor walked out to the verandah with two beers in his hand. He closed the door behind him and approached Sinclair.

"Is Guinness all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

He offered his daughter a sweating bottle of the dark beer and sat down in the rocker next to hers. With a low sigh of contentment he arranged his long legs in front of him, cradling the beer in his cupped hands.

"Do you have a good life in America?" he asked, staring out into the sun-baked front yard,

"It's all right. Things have been a little hard since Gram died five years ago." She took a long sip of her beer, wincing at its bitterness. This was the first time she'd admitted to anyone that she'd been more than a little affected by her grandmother's death. "How about you? How is married life treating you the second time around?"

"Things are good. Nikki is a good woman. I feel like I'm finally doing things right this time."

Sinclair looked at him with a question in her eyes. As she opened her mouth to ask it, a pale blue jeep Wrangler pulled up to the gate. Its doors and roof had been taken off, leaving the driver and passenger unprotected from the midmorning sun.

"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."

Sinclair thought that was something she'd packed up years ago and left buried in a closet somewhere, but from the urgent noises coming from her tummy, that was obviously not the case. Still it was satisfying just to watch Della make her way down the long table, sampling from everything that looked good to her. Sinclair's gaze fell to her trim backside again. Where did all that food go?

A tall woman with her hair hidden by a brilliant orange head wrap approached Della, who looked at her with recognition and put her plate aside to hug her. Sinclair hung back. The tall stranger said something that made Della laugh, then she plucked a slice of pineapple from the older woman's plate and ate it. She leaned her mouth, still wet with pineapple juice, closer to Della's ear then whispered something that made her friend almost drop her plate. Della used her free hand to tap the woman lightly on the arm in reprimand then turned away to pay more attention to her food. But she was smiling.

Sinclair looked away from them to gaze around the rest of the room. Most of the furniture had obviously been cleared away to make room for the party. The peach-colored walls were hung with paintings of local scenes, women with baskets of fruit perched on their heads, long stretches of beach with nary a soul to spoil the view, vivid watercolors of jungle scenes, complete with waterfalls and exotic birds. Sinclair hoped that she'd get to see some of these things for herself while she was here, with or without the aid of her father's motorcycle. She smiled at the thought of Xavier and Nikki being her guides around the island. That wouldn't be a bad way to spend the month at all.

She looked away from the painting of dense mangroves and wilting hothouse orchids to see what looked like a familiar back and spill of hair.

It was the woman from the jeep. Up close she was even more impressive. White chinos and a sleeveless blouse, also white, showed off her perfect ebony skin and sleek body. Her dreadlocked hair was loose around a face that looked almost Ethiopian with its narrow cheekbones, nose, and full flower of a mouth.

Sinclair waited until the person that the woman was talking to wandered off before approaching. "Hello," she said before she could lose her nerve.

The woman turned around. "Hullo and happy birthday." She made a noise as if something suddenly occurred to her. "By the way, I hope you don't mind me being here since I am a stranger and all."

Her English was very precise, each word perfectly enunciated, yet made more interesting by a faint Jamaican accent. As if that wasn't enough, her voice was low and deep, reminding Sinclair of a tropical rain forest, or the version of one that she'd seen at an I-Max theater when she was younger. The woman's every word was infused with a low-grade heat that seemed to brush over Sinclair's skin, unexpected but pleasant.

"Not a problem. If Papa had only invited the people I knew it would have just been him, Nikki, and my little brother, Xavier." Sinclair unconsciously rocked back on her heels and linked her hands behind her back.

"You've got a point there. By the way, I'm Hunter. Hunter Willoughby."

"A pleasure. And now we're not strangers anymore."

"True." Hunter nodded, then looked behind her, briefly, into the crowd. "How long are you going to be down here for?"

"About a month. Or until Papa and Nikki get tired of me, whichever comes first."

The other woman's eyes settled on her with more than casual interest, moving over her braided hair, slight body, and the loose terra-cotta-colored sundress. They were the same height, Sinclair noted as she met Hunter's eyes again.

"Della was right," Hunter said. "You do look a lot like Lydia, more so a few features than the whole package." Her eyes flickered down Sinclair's body again, as if responding automatically to some stimuli. She ate from her saucer of carrot sticks as she spoke, dipping the stalks of vegetable into the herb-flecked ranch dressing. Sinclair felt her face heat up, as if Hunter's mouth was nibbling at every feature, tasting her, comparing her flavor to the mysterious Lydia's.

She cleared her throat. "I haven't met this Lydia person yet so I don't know."

"Really?" Hunter looked surprised. "She should be around here somewhere. It seems a little strange that you haven't met your own sister yet."

Sister?

"Hey, there you are." A low voice came from behind Sinclair. She turned around.

"Hey." Hunter greeted the woman with a soft kiss on the cheek, but the woman pulled slightly away. Still, Hunter's hand rested lightly on the woman's waist. "I heard that you haven't met your sister yet."

"No, I haven't." The woman smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Lydia."

She really does look like me, Sinclair thought, staring at the narrow face and full, heart shaped mouth with amazement. Her hair, though, was very different. She wore it straightened and parted down the middle to frame her vulpine face and brush her shoulders in a perfect silken fall. Lydia was shorter and her body was fuller, more voluptuously rounded than Sinclair's. Her skin, too, was lighter, a light-through-amber color compared to Sinclair's red oak. An impressive wealth of cleavage lay in the scooped neckline of her yellow dress.

"Sinclair." Her sister's hand was soft. Up close she smelled like rosewater and couldn't have been any younger than twenty-five.

She felt an acute sense of disappointment. Not only that Hunter was obviously involved with her, but even worse, that their father had cheated on Sinclair's mother.

"Do you live around here?" Sinclair asked.

"This is my house."

"Ah." Sinclair's eyebrow twitched in surprise. "You have wonderful taste. I especially love the paintings in this room."

"Hunter did some of them, actually. The ones you saw when you first came into the house. She's a computer scientist with a soul." She turned to the woman at her side. "Unfortunately the only way you can see it is through her paintings."

Hunter chuckled. "Thanks, Lydia. Good to know how you feel about me."

"Are you two dating?"

They looked at her as if surprised that she could see the level of their intimacy.

"Not at all." Lydia said. "We're good friends who sometimes get together for nocturnal activities." Her grin was devilish.

"Stop it." Hunter shook her head, though her own lips twitched as if fighting a smile. "Don't let her tease you. We are seeing each other."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy. I just thought that-" she gestured to Hunter's hand still draped across Lydia's hip. "This meant you were together. Sorry."

Hunter moved her hand away with a guilty start. "No need for you to apologize, though," her voice lowered to a mocking whisper, "perhaps I should because Lydia's not really out to her family."

"I don't hide it either." She grabbed Hunter's hand and forced it back on her hip.

The dark woman sighed and took her hand back. "Did I mention that your sister was temperamental?"

Sinclair glanced from one woman to the other, curious to see how their little game was going to play out.

"Hey, Sinclair." Her father appeared suddenly at her side. "Having a good time?"

"Yes, thank you. I just met Lydia."

He spared his other daughter an affectionate glance. "Good. She was nice enough to lend her house for this party. I hope you two get to know each other well. She's a good person." No explanation about why she had a twenty-five-year-old sister when he and her own mother were still together that exact amount of years ago. Maybe it just didn't matter. Maybe that was the way men and women dealt with each other here. What's a lover or two in a marriage?

"Thanks, Papa. All that because I lent you my house for the afternoon?" Her teasing smile gave Sinclair a hint to the sort of relationship they had.

He shared an affectionate look with his middle child before turning to the woman beside her. "Hunter."

"Mr. Daniels." They shook hands, but that was the extent of their interaction. Sinclair made a mental note to ask him about that later on.

"Come dance with your old man, Sinclair. All this good music is playing for you and I haven't seen you dance one step yet."

"I was taking my time. You know, warming up." Truth was, she wasn't much of a dancer. Being out there in front of all those people made her self-conscious. She'd never even danced for herself in the privacy of her own apartment.

"You've had enough time. Let's go." He dragged her out to the middle of the room where two couples and three children danced to an old Beres Hammond song.

Over her father's shoulder, she watched Lydia and Hunter talking. The ebony-skinned woman caught her eye and toasted her with a glass of clear liquid. Sinclair smiled, then turned her attention back to her father.

"Thank you again for doing this for me. This whole thing was very unexpected."

"That was the idea." He chuckled. "I'm glad you like it. Now maybe you can go out with some of these people while you're here. They can show you some real island sights.

"What are you going to be doing in the meantime?"

"Working mostly. But not all the time. In the middle of all your new socializing just remember that I'm going to want some of your attention, too."

"No problem. I'll always have a space on my dance card for you."

They twirled around the floor, surprising each other with their fancy footwork.

"Can 1 ask you something?" Sinclair asked.

"Yes, yes. Anything."

"Who is Lydia's mother?"

He didn't seem surprised by the question. "A bush woman I knew for a while."

"Did she know Mama?"

"Yes. But not very well. She used to come down from the hills to sell her fruit and things. I think that was how they met."

"Should I be upset that you had an affair with her?"

"Why? Your mother knew about her. I'm sure that she had herself an outside man too."

"You're sure about that?" Or does the thought of it just make you feel better?

"I'm sure. She was happy at times when I didn't give her any reason to be. She had somebody else. I'm very sure of it."

Just like she had been Regina's somebody else, Sinclair thought suddenly and tripped over her feet.

"You all right?"

"Fine. Just a stray thought."

He swept her into an intricate turn and shimmy that didn't quite work. They both laughed and threw themselves back into the dance. Two songs later, they walked away from the dance floor and headed for the bar.

"Have some rum punch," he said. "It's the best on the island."

"What's in it besides rum?"

"There's something in it besides rum?" he asked innocently. At the look on her face, he laughed. "Just try it. The thing won't bite."

A tall pitcher of punch landed on the bar in front of them. Her father poured two tall glasses. He hoisted his glass.

"To my daughter. Happy birthday and welcome home."

Their glasses touched with a sound like music.

Four hours and four glasses of rum punch later, most of the party had already gone home. Lydia and their father sat in the sunroom laughing about familiar things and, drunk from one Heineken and a shot of white rum, Nikki had already curled up for a nap in the guest bedroom with her son. Sinclair walked out to the back patio with her fourth glass of rum punch in hand and sat down at a small table to feel the night breeze on her face.

"Having fun?"

Sinclair would have known Hunter's voice anywhere. She peered into the dark to see the other woman rocking in a hammock a few feet away. "Yes, I am. Thanks for asking."

Sinclair drank the last of her rum punch and put the glass very carefully in the middle of the table.

"Is everything here what you thought it would be?" Hunter asked.

"Not quite." She still wondered if her mother really had taken lovers like Victor obviously had. "I certainly never expected to find Lydia."

Hunter chuckled. "I can imagine. Jamaican men think nothing of having more than one woman at a time; the more pussy around the better." Her teeth flashed in the dark.

Sinclair realized then that Hunter was more than a little drunk. The British precision in her voice had mostly disappeared, leaving it softer and more mellow.

"What about you? Do you believe the same thing applies to you?"

"The more pussy the better?"

Sinclair nodded. Then, realizing that Hunter probably couldn't see her in the dark, voiced her answer.

"Nah. I've always been the one-woman kind. My father and I had that in common. It was my mother who fucked around and got caught." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "I guess that just proves that some people want more while others just want the best."

"Hmm." That sounded nice. The best. "Is that what you have with Lydia? The best?" Sinclair looked over at the other woman in the dark, more imagining her shape than seeing it. Did Hunter mind her asking these intimate questions?

"Don't have us engaged already. She and I just recently got together. We're trying this dating thing to see how far it takes us. So far she's a nice woman. A very nice woman." Hunter sounded faintly amused. "What's your story, then? You looking for the perfect vacation fuck or what?"

"I'm not looking for anything here." Except maybe a temporary rest from my life. "I had a bad experience a few weeks ago and I'm just trying to take my mind off it."

"Somebody in the States broke your heart?"

"She broke it in a million pieces."

A scented night breeze drifted over them, ruffling the tiny hairs at Sinclair's temples and the cloth over her breasts. She closed her eyes as a voluptuous sigh eased from her throat. Her head felt pleasantly weightless, like it was a balloon floating into the night sky.

"So was she any good?"

"What?"

"I hoped you got some nights of good loving out of her before she turned her back on you. Sometimes that's the only consolation a girl can have."

Sinclair flashed Hunter a look in the dark, at her bare leg rising like a dark mountain in the hammock, the color of her skin disappearing and appearing again in the inky darkness of night.

"We were good together." Images of her and Regina entwined bombarded her brain. "But in the end it wasn't enough."

"Did you want more than that?"

"I don't know. I think I just expected more. Before her I was with a boy, and he and I met, we went out for drinks, then dinner, then we slept together. After that we just kept seeing each other, building toward something for the future. I suppose that I expected the same thing to happen with her."

"Not every love affair ends up like that, you know."

"Obviously. Some people just want to fuck and dump you." She looked across at Hunter. "Sorry."

"It's all right. If you can't say these things to a stranger, then who else can you tell them to?"

Sinclair laughed wryly. "Thanks for listening to me go on about this. I know it's boring."

Hunter chuckled. "It's life. It's not always squeals and giggles."

"That's an interesting way of putting it." Sinclair reached for her cup then, remembering too late that it was empty, drained it dry of its last few drops of punch anyway. "What about you? Is there something troubling your soul that you need to vent about?"

"No, not really. I tend to meditate for that sort of release."

"What about your other kind of release." Shit! Sinclair almost bit her tongue off. "I didn't mean to ask you that, sorry."

Hunter laughed softly in the dark. "It's OK. I didn't take offense. You'll find out soon enough that it takes a lot to offend me." She moved in the hammock, popping the vertebrae in her back before settling once again into the cushions. "These days it's me and my own right hand. Lydia and I aren't quite there yet. It takes a lot for her to become intimate with somebody."

Really? Sinclair would have thought the opposite. She eyed the other woman again. "Your patience is admirable."

"Hey, you asked."

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Sinclair murmured, amused.

"I'll be sure to hold back next time."

"Don't be too hasty now." They both laughed.

The night fell in gracious silence around them, bathing their stillness with meaning and possibility. She's your sister's woman, be careful.

Sinclair shook her head. Hunter was like a cliché. Dark, stormy, and wicked. She'd be the one in those old black-and white movies to twirl her mustache and smile viciously. Sinclair took strange comfort in that. She wasn't the type to fall for a cliché. She needed depth in a woman. Something that would make her interest last beyond the frantic fuckfest of the first few weeks. Her eyes slid to where she imagined Hunter's mouth to be. Hmm, but what a fuck fest that would be....

"So what do you do in the big city?" Hunter asked.

Sinclair swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. "Accounting."

She laughed. "Seriously?"

"Why is that so funny?"

"Maybe I watch too much American TV like a lot of my neighbors." She laughed again. "I thought model or actress or escort would be the default job for people who looked like ff you.

"Are you saying I look like a whore? I'm insulted." But she couldn't get the energy to appear truly so. The best she could do was a narrowed gaze, which Hunter couldn't see anyway.

"You'll be fine," Hunter said, chuckling.

Sinclair closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. "I should go back in," she said, not moving a muscle. The rum punch spun her head faster than any number of gin and tonics she'd ever had. Sitting at this table seemed the best cure for her spinning head and lack of judgment.

Fabric rustled as Hunter turned to her. "I thought you were leaving?" Laughter rubbed against her voice like a mischievous cat.

"I was, but my legs weren't ready to go yet."

"I've been there a time or two myself. Let me guess, rum punch?"

"Yep. Right on the money."

In the darkness, Hunter laughed again. The sound dragged like silk over Sinclair's sensitized pleasure centers. "What is it with you Americans and money metaphors and clichés?"

"You Americans," Sinclair mocked. "Don't try that condescending tripe with me. Like you are above needing or wanting money."

"I didn't say that, but I don't incorporate it into my everyday speech."

"A girl makes one comment and she's indicted along with the rest of a capitalist society for being too fiscally focused." She rolled her eyes. "You're no fun. This time I am going inside." She stood. "Goodbye."

But it was deadly boring inside. People were talking, though not about anything interesting. The truth was that Hunter's company was far too interesting. Even if she was drunk and had a dirty mouth. Instead of going back out to the back verandah, she crawled into the queen sized bed with Nikki and Xavier, hoping that neither of them snored.

"Wake up, sleepyheads."

Sinclair rolled over when she heard Lydia's voice but didn't immediately get up. She opened an eye. "What time is it?"

"Not that early. Come on, we made breakfast."

Hunter poked her head through the open door. "Actually, I made breakfast. She just made the tea."

Sinclair blinked at the unexpected treat of seeing her first thing in the morning. Of course, she looked divine. Their eyes met briefly and Hunter winked. Did she spend the night on the couch or in Lydia's bed? Had last night been the night to wear down her girlfriend's chastity?

"Come into the dining room, ladies. Breakfast has been served." Hunter's head disappeared from the doorway.

Lydia poked Nikki's shoulder. Sinclair's stepmother had slept like the dead. Even after she'd joined her in the bed last night, she hadn't moved from her position in the center of the bed. By morning they had ended up in the spoon position with Sinclair, being the taller one, behind her. Nikki groaned and slowly woke under Lydia's unkind ministrations.

"Hey," she said, blinking up at Sinclair. "Where is Xavier?"

"At the breakfast table with the rest of the family like you should be."

"I guess that's a strong hint then, huh?" Sinclair slid off the bed. "Do you have a spare toothbrush or something that I could use on this breath?"

"Everything you need is in the bathroom cabinet." She motioned toward a door to the right of the bed. "Use whatever you want."

"Thanks."

By the time she made it out to the dining room with clean teeth and face, everyone was sitting at the table eating, including Nikki who looked much more alert than she had earlier.

"There's water for tea on the stove," Lydia said as she reached for the platter of scrambled eggs. "Coffee is in the machine on the counter, you can get cold water from the dispenser on the fridge. Everything else is on the table."

"Thanks."

Sinclair sat beside Nikki with her glass of water. "Pass me a plate, please. Thanks."

"Did you have a good time last night, Sinclair?"

"It was great. I haven't had a birthday party in years."

"Good. It was Papa's idea." Lydia smiled over at their father.

"Thank you for having it at your house. I know how hard it must be cleaning up after a party."

"Well, that's what family and friends are for." She looked pointedly around the table. "Hint, hint."

"We can definitely stay to help you," Nikki said.

"So can I."

Sinclair didn't miss the look that her father threw Hunter as the woman volunteered her time.

"You don't have to stay, Hunter," he said. "We can manage. "

"I'll take all the help I can get, Papa," Lydia said. "The sooner we finish then the sooner we can enjoy the rest of this gorgeous day. Maybe we can have a cookout on the beach or something."

Hunter and Victor exchanged a glance of cool understanding. Sinclair watched the two of them, wondering what that was all about.