Receive Me Falling (15 page)

Meg stepped through the shadowed room, careful not
to entangle herself in the growth.
 
As
she was about to pass into the stone hall leading to the kitchen and out of the
back of the house, something caught her eye.

It was a painting of an apple in a hand, cracked
and peeling on the wall beneath the vines. Meg scanned the perimeter of the
wall and thought that she could make out other sections of what must have been
a mural: an unclothed leg, a tree, a cloud.
 
She was reluctant to tug at the vines fearing to disturb the creatures
that may have lived within the coils, but her curiosity to see the painting
overcame her squeamishness.

The vines proved much stronger than they looked,
and it was with some effort that Meg cleared a section of the mural.
 

A
serpent, a woman, a cherub.

Meg continued pulling at the growth until the
entire painting was exposed.
 

The
Garden of Eden before the fall.

Eve stood lustily gazing at the apple with the
serpent coiled up the Tree of Knowledge and around her arm.
 
Adam wore a look of innocence because he had
not yet bitten the apple.
 
The serpent’s
head was that of a cherub—a sinister and disturbing representation meant to
depict the beguiling and charming attributes of the beast.
 
The likenesses of Adam and Eve were somewhat
familiar. Meg searched for a signature on the mural, but the limited light made
it very difficult to find.
 
Eventually
she located it—
West, 1811
.
  
Meg knew of an American painter, Benjamin
West, but she could not recall the time period in which he painted.
 

If this mural was the work of a famous painter,
the selling price of the property would climb significantly.
 
She took pictures and jotted down the name in
her journal.
 
She planned on researching West
when she got back to the villa.
 
Meg had
not yet unpacked her laptop—she had been reluctant to bring it.
 
Now, she was glad that she did.

Instead of going to the beach, Meg spent the
remainder of the afternoon on the computer.
 
Benjamin West was an American painter and a Quaker.
 
He had traveled to England in 1763, and spent the rest
of his life there.
 
She found a great
deal about his upbringing, his life in London,
and the provenance of many of his works.
 
Many of his paintings were listed, but nothing caught her eye.
 
The colors and figures he had used were
similar to those in the mural at Eden,
but that could have simply been a result of the elements and the passage of
time.
 

5:00.

Meg stood and stretched.
 

Cocktail
Hour
.
 

She mixed herself a
Planter’s Cocktail
.
 

Meg’s alcohol consumption had lately been on the
rise.
 
Graduation from college saved Meg
from what was about to become an alcohol problem.
 
She had taken her job very seriously and
limited herself to a single glass of wine on weeknights. But the recent events
involving the governor, the wedding, and the death of her parents brought about
Meg’s return to familiar bad habits.

Richard Owen had been a heavy drinker.
 
Meg could scarcely remember a time when her
father was without a tumbler of Scotch or a glass of wine.
 
He was a jovial drunk, and quick to pass out.
It had been Anne’s routine every evening to scoot Richard off to bed before he
could pass out on the couch.
 
She had
been able to figure out the precise right moment of intervention after too many
nights of missing the moment and having to leave him snoring in the family
room.
 

Meg’s mother was driving the night of the
accident.
 
She usually drove
Richard.
 
The paper said that the rain
and the wind were what caused them to slip over the cliff along the Severn River.
 
The
pictures were terrible.

Meg thought she must be crazy to be sitting in her
villa on the Internet on a tropical island.
 
She finished her cocktail and went over to the table to disconnect her
laptop, but as she leaned over the screen, something caught her eye.
 
She scrolled down the screen to reveal a
picture of the entire painting.

An angel,
a woman, a man, a serpent.
 

           
The woman’s face was nearly
identical to the face on the mural in the house.

           
The
Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise.

The
restaurant at The Plantation Inn was located in the dining room of the
hotel.
 
The entire hotel was designed and
decorated to resemble an early plantation home, with each of its rooms arranged
as large-scale replicas of what an historic plantation home in the Caribbean would have been.
 
Named The Overlook because of its fabulous
views of the Atlantic Ocean side of the
island, the entire outside wall of the restaurant was hung with magnificent
floor-to-ceiling windows.

           
“Grand Star Resorts designed and built
this hotel six years ago.
 
It is one of
the most lucrative on the island.
 
Tourists love that authentic plantation experience.”

           
Meg stifled a laugh as she silently
wondered if brutal beatings and near starvation were included in the vacation
packages.
 
Yesterday, Meg would have said
such a thing out loud, but everything was different now.
 
She needed to sell the land, and if Desmond
was going to make an offer, she didn’t know how she could refuse.

           
“It is a beautiful hotel.”

           
“Beautiful, yes, but not very
large.
 
The Plantation Inn has only fifty
rooms, and doesn’t even have enough acreage for a full-sized golf course.
 
The spa is only half the size of spas at
competing resorts, and our Ballroom can only seat eighty people comfortably.
 
We are unable to book large weddings and
conventions, but have been approached by countless groups looking to do just
that.”

           
A young Nevisian woman approached
the table to fill the water glasses.

           
“Return this soup to the kitchen and
bring us some that is warmer than room temperature.”

           
Meg looked up startled at Desmond,
and then back at her half-empty bowl of soup.

           
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,”
apologized the waitress as she cleared the dishes.
 
Meg was left with her spoon in mid-air and
quickly placed it on the table top.
 
Bisque
from the spoon seeped its pink stain onto the white tablecloth.

           
“As I was saying, there is a growing
need for hotels and resorts to accommodate larger functions—particularly on Nevis—which brings me to why I asked you to dine with me
this evening.”

           
“You overheard my conversation last
night about the land I own.”

           
“I did.
 
And I wanted to approach you and see if you
would be willing to sell it.”

           
Meg was silent for a moment.
 
She surveyed the room and listened to the
pleasant din of the diners, the clinking of silver on china, the hum of the
symphony music playing from speakers in some unknown location.
 
The waitress returned and placed two
steaming, hot bowls of bisque before Desmond and Meg.

           
“I would have to speak with my
lawyer first, and get an independent appraisal of the land.”
 
And an
art historian to look at that mural.
 
 
“I could let you know after
that.”

           
“So selling isn’t out of the
question?”

           
“No.”

           
“That pleases me tremendously,” said
Desmond.
 
“Now, I hear there is also an
abandoned house on the property—Eden?”

           
“Yes.”

           
“What a name for a resort:
 
The Plantation Inn and Resort at Eden.
 
The Paradise Plantation Inn at Eden.
 
Maybe Eden: Paradise Resort and Spa.
 
What a marketing dream.
 
The old
house could be restored for historic tours, lavish gardens would abound—the
possibilities are endless.
 
Is there a
beach?”

           
“Yes.”

           
“Splendid. We could put up high
gates or do mass plantings on either side of the property to keep the locals
from using the beach, and truly make it a getaway. There’s nothing worse than
enjoying a daiquiri on a resort beach and having to deal with islanders.”

           
Meg smiled half-heartedly as Desmond
rambled on.
 
The only pauses in his
palaver came while he ate—which wasn’t nearly enough.
 
Meg had lost her appetite after the bisque
and could only choke down enough to keep from being embarrassed.

           
“You know, the land wasn’t the only
reason I asked you to join me for dinner,” he said.

           
Oh
God, here it comes.

           
“You are very attractive, and I
can’t help but notice that you are unattached.”
 
His eyes shifted to her left hand and traveled back to her face.

           
Meg glanced down and saw that she
had forgotten her engagement ring.
 
She
had taken it off before her shower, and now regretted that it was still lying
on the dresser.

           
“Thank you, Mr. Foxwell—“

           
“—Desi.”

           
“Desi.
  
Thank you, but I am actually engaged to be
married.
 
I forgot to put my ring back on
after getting ready earlier today.”

           
The smile left Desmond’s face.

           
“Pardon me.”

           
The check seemed to take an
interminable amount of time to arrive, but once it did, Desmond made a big
production about paying for the meal.
 
Meg practically ran to the jeep, but Desmond stopped her before she
could leave, and passed her his business card.

           
“Call me after you speak to your
lawyer,” said Desmond, “or whenever you get lonely while on the island.”

           
Meg shut the door and drove back to
the villa as quickly as possible.

6

Under
the cover of night, the group that was once three had grown to six.
 
The Silwells and Jonas Dearing were the
original members, joined by another small farmer, the orating Quaker from
outside of the church, and his cousin—a nervous, twitching man who looked
strongly as if he would rather not be there.
 
They met at
three o’clock
in the morning in the Silwells’ hotel room.
 
The outsiders had snuck into a side entrance to the Bath Hotel so
suspicions were not aroused.

           
After introductions were made, Albert
Silwell questioned each of the men regarding slavery practices, law-breaking
plantation owners, and insurgents.
 
The
newest small farmer, Caleb Whitting, was passionate in his hatred of the Hall
family.
 
Mr. Whitting was convinced the
Hall’s overseers were sabotaging his small tobacco crop and gardens at night,
and had taken to sleeping with his militia musket in hand, ready to shoot and
kill any trespassers.
  

           
“All the big planters’ slaves live
in thatched huts within walking distance of the cane fields—yet they don’t have
to replace them,” said Caleb.
 
“There’s
some exception in the law regarding the size of the dwelling.
 
My house isn’t much bigger than a slave hut,
but I still have to tear it down or re-shingle.
 
It will ruin me.
 
I know many as
angry as I who have come up with a plan to ruin the big planters.”

           
“Taking the law into your own hands
would be dangerous and foolish,” said Albert.
 
“My son and I did not come here to raise rebellions.
 
We are working within the confines of the
law.”

           
“That could take years!
 
We don’t have time.”

           
“The Council reconvenes at the end
of the week,” said James. “We have spoken to several of the lesser plantation
owners on the Council.
 
There is a chance
that the law will be overruled.”

           
“The three largest planters have the
most leverage,” said Caleb. “The law will not be overturned because they want
our land.
 
You are a fool if you think
they can be persuaded otherwise.”

           
“Caleb,” said Jonas.

           
“I am not wasting any more of my
time here.
 
Your kind of help won’t do
any of us any good.”

           
Caleb’s chair scraped against the
hard wood floor of the hotel room as he stood.
 
Grabbing his hat, he crossed the room and slammed the door behind him.

           
“I’m sorry about that,” said
Jonas.
 
“I had no idea he would be so
unreasonable.”

           
“No apologies necessary,” said
Albert.
 
“I just hope he doesn’t do
anything foolish.
 
Have you any idea what
his plan is for the Hall’s?”

           
Jonas looked at the floor and shook
his head.
 
He turned his hat around in
his hands like a wheel and slouched in his chair.

           
The Quaker said that he agreed that
they should work within the confines of the law.
 
He had heard many rumblings amongst the small
planters and other Quakers about revenge, and had persuaded many to reconsider.

           
“It seems that these angry farmers
want to strike at the hearts of the large plantations.”

           
“And what exactly would that
entail.”

           
The Quaker looked at Jonas and back
to the Silwells.
 

           
“They want to burn the mills and
boiling houses.”

           
“Don’t they realize that many of
these large planters have slaves and overseers working around the clock during
the major harvest seasons?” said James.
 
“They’ll
surely be killed.”

           
“They know that, but they are
desperate.
 
Besides, no slaves work in
the mills on Sunday nights.
 
If they
strike, they will do so on a Sunday night.”

Catherine
was relieved to see the light of the sun blazing in through her shutters the
next morning.
 
She thought that she would
tell her father that the field burning should be done later that night if the
weather cooperated.
 

           
Catherine washed and dressed for the
day, and made her way downstairs to see if Esther had yet arrived.
 
As she was coming down, she met Leah carrying
a large basket for collecting soiled linens.

           
“Good morning, Leah.”

           
Leah looked at Catherine out of
shadowed eyes rimmed in red.
 
She mumbled
a reply without stopping, leaving Catherine staring after her.
 
Catherine continued down the staircase and
into the dining room, where her father sat at the table.
 
      

           
“I trust you will have me tell
Phinneas to prepare for the rat-burning this evening?”

           
“Yes, thank you,” said Catherine as
she sat at the table. “Today I’ll be in the food storehouse taking inventory to
plan for next week’s menu and prepare a list for the market.”

           
A soft shuffling sound drew
Catherine’s eyes to the door of the dining room.
 
Esther stiffly entered the room bearing the
breakfast tray.
 
She kept her eyes down
as she set the food on the table and filled the glasses with fruit juice.
   
She refused to meet Catherine’s gaze, and
exited the room as swiftly as possible.
 

           
Cecil stood and announced that he
was not hungry.
 

           
“I’m meeting with several Council
members in town this afternoon, so I’ll eat then.”

           
Catherine knew that Cecil’s meeting
would likely take place in a Charlestown
pub, and that the only nourishment he would get would be rum, but he was out
the door before she could protest.
  

           
She ate her breakfast as her
thoughts returned to Esther.
 
The soft
clink of Esther’s preparations in the kitchen summoned Catherine out of her
chair and out of the dining room.
 

           
Eden’s kitchen was attached to the house, but
separated from the dining room by a long, cool, stone hall.
 
This was an unusual arrangement as most
kitchens of the day were located in outbuildings to keep away the danger of
fire.
 
The hall had been designed,
however, to isolate the kitchen enough to lessen the danger of fire, while
increasing the convenience of having it just off the dining room.
 
The smells of baking bread, citrus, and herbs
hung perpetually in the hallway and stirred in Catherine the warm familiarity
of her childhood play.
 
She and Leah had
spent hours running through the hall and kitchen, stealing bits of food and
bothering Esther.
 
Somehow they had both
managed to learn a great deal about cooking in spite of their endless mischief.
  

           
As Catherine stepped down into the
heat of the kitchen, she spied Esther moving around in the shadows.
 
The oven cast a strange, orange glow about
the room, but largely it remained dark as a cave.
 
Even the light of day just through the door
leading outside was kept from entering the grotto.

“Good morning, Mami.”

           
The whites of Esther’s eyes were all
Catherine could see.
 

           
“Good morning,” she replied.

           
“Are you well?
 
You were not here yesterday, and I could not
find you at the village.”

           
“We must have just missed one
another.”

           
Catherine continued to stare at
Esther, trying to make out what it was that troubled her about Esther’s
appearance.
 
Her dark brown face and
black hair blended with the shadows.
 
Her
white, cotton dress appeared to hang in midair and float from place to place,
like that of an apparition.
 

           
“I’ll be back after I inventory the
food storehouse to go over next week’s menu with you.”

           
Esther nodded and seemed relieved to
be left alone.

           
Catherine crossed the room and
stepped out into the daylight.
 
She began
to walk away from the house and thought of how strange everyone had behaved
that morning.
 
Leah had been quiet and
sullen, her father seemed in a hurry to get away from her, and Esther seemed
stiff and peculiar.
 
Catherine’s heart
began to pound, and she pivoted back toward the kitchen.
 
She crept to the doorway and stepped back
into the dark room.
 

           
Esther had not heard her enter.
 
She was standing by the oven—its flames
illuminating her back, revealing long welts scraped down her legs like the claw
marks of some ferocious animal.
 
Catherine
could not stifle a gasp.
 
Esther turned
quickly, failing to look down and hide her swollen eyes and nose.

           
“When did this happen?” asked
Catherine.

           
“That is not of your concern.”

           
“Why did this happen?”

           
Esther was silent and began chopping
vegetables.
 

           
“It was because of me, wasn’t
it?
 
Someone found out that I was present
at the birthing.”

           
Only the sharp, wet crunch of the
blade slicing through raw potatoes could be heard.
 

           
Catherine stepped closer to Esther
and saw tears running down her face.
 
Catherine’s
misery transformed to anger, and she charged out of the house and toward the
sugar fields.
 
She plunged into the
darkness of the path through the rain forest and out again into the scorching
island sun.
 
Acres of fields lay below
her as she sprinted down through the slave’s quarters, passed the sugar mill
and boiling house, and toward the coast.
 
Slaves watched her with curiosity as she dashed toward the dark figure
on the horse.
 
Her pace slowed as she
neared Phinneas.

           
Phinneas was in his late thirties, but
looked much older.
 
His face was scarred
from a bout with smallpox he suffered as a child, and his skin had the hue of
burnt ochre from so much time spent in the sun.
 
He had fair hair that looked dark due to a lack of washing, and squinty
green slits for eyes that gave him a menacing look.
 
It had been widely thought about him that he
had no conscience.

           
After being born in a brothel in
Paris, Phinneas was taken care of by his mother in her dirty little room for
several months, but Madame made her give up the child.
 
His crying could be heard throughout the
house, and it made the patrons uneasy.
 
Reluctantly,
Phinneas’ mother wrapped him in blankets, asked Madame (the only literate
person in the house) to write his name on a piece of paper, carried him in
secret to a nearby convent, laid him on the stoop, rapped at the door, and
disappeared into the night.