What had Tully’s father said? Tully and I are survivors. Can we survive this?
Terrible things happen.
Things that rip your heart apart and smash your bones. Horrible things that sneak around a corner or rise from under the bed and slam the door in your face. You pray you’ll be ready for those sorrows—but can you truly prepare for every heartbreak?
I sink to the floor, feeling my chest ache and gasping for air, fighting back the tears I can’t stop. I bury my face in the folds of my pink gown and weep.
Maxi finds me on the floor, a sobbing mess, and immediately begins to piece me back together. Working swiftly and silently, she helps me stand, leads me to the bathroom, and guides me onto the vanity stool, where I collapse, still weeping.
She douses my face with cold water. “Stop crying,” she says sternly. “You’ve shed enough tears.”
But have I? It isn’t what Tully said that disturbs me. It’s thelook in his eyes, the coldness of his stare, and the finality of that kiss.
“What if Jamaica is a fool’s errand, Maxi? What if there’s nothing that can save Tully and me? No miracles, no spirits, no sacred silk cotton tree?”
It’s the truth: The real reason I must journey to Jamaica’s Cockpit Country, the real reason I must join Katherine’s expedition, the real reason I have persuaded my husband to join me on this journey is Clifford. I must talk to him. His ghost will forgive me. The duppies, the ancestors of the sacred silk cotton tree, will help me talk to him.
Turning slightly, I catch sight of the crumpled pink fabric in a pile on the bedroom floor. “I ruined my evening gown.”
“Don’t worry about that dress,” Maxi replies as she picks it up from the floor. “You have others.” She takes the gown into my walk-in closet and comes out with a mint-green sheer chiffon dress. “This one looks great on you, and the neckline will showcase your father’s gift perfectly.”
I had forgotten about the dress, its gorgeous puff sleeves and matching green rose corsage. “I wish you’d come with us to Jamaica.”
“I told you, I’ll never return to the Cockpit or Accompong.”
Maxi has told me this before—numerous times—but she rarely shares more than a few words about the reason. I know it involves Obeah, a healing practice from her village that is rooted in African tradition but also illegal in Jamaica, as I learned from Katherine.
I glance in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and my hair is a mess. “God. Should I even bother?”
“Bother to go to Jamaica or to the reception, or both?”
I am tempted to respondboth, but before I can, Maxi is brushing my hair, and none too gently.
“It doesn’t matter what you say. You’re doing both. So, let’s wash your face again, fix your hair, and put on this dress. Your silk slip will look lovely beneath the sheer chiffon.”
“If you insist.”
“I insist. Now, let’s get you into this gown. The car has already left to pick up Miss Dunham. They’ll be here any moment.”
CHAPTER 6
ZINZI
Myrtle Bank Hotel, Kingston
Istep into Byron Tynesdale’s hotel suite, my stomach protesting with every step. Hurrying to the first closed door, I pray it’s the bathroom—and I’m right. After several long minutes bent over the toilet bowl, I finally feel better and offer a silent thank-you to Byron Tynesdale.
Standing unsteadily, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. I grab a hand towel and dry my face while taking in my surroundings.
The sea-blue bathtub’s gorgeous tiled archway and the penny-round-tile flooring of the bathroom captivate me. The blue color confirms my love for bathrooms and baths, which I attribute to the Cockpit. As a child, I dreamed of the rare river or stream, often seeking them out to indulge in fantasies of becoming a mermaid. But not just any mermaid—River Mumma, the magnificent goddess my father described, who sat on the rocks by the riverbanks, combing her long black hair.
Momma Jayden, an elder in the Maroon village where Iwas raised, told me about her. My mother was upset when she found out I knew the story. She had a less romantic view of the goddess: “If you look at River Mumma for too long or dare to touch her, she will put you in a trance, drag you out of the mountains, and drown you in the Black River.” My mother aimed to scare me with her superstitions and rituals, and would’ve succeeded if my father hadn’t taught me how to swim. He didn’t mind that I loved mermaids.
I reluctantly step out of the bathroom to look around. Byron’s suite is similar to those at the Constant Spring Hotel. The décor features an abundance of rattan, wicker, and bamboo, as well as carved mahogany furniture, lamps with tulip-shaped shades and fringe, two large ceiling fans, painted vases filled with freshly cut gardenias, and green plants in clay pots. French doors open to a balcony that offers a stunning view: the sea with its rolling waves, tranquil palm trees swaying in the gentle night breeze, all bathed in moonlight. I could stay on the balcony all night, but I should leave.
Walking through the dining room, I notice a typewriter on the table with a sheet of paper in the carriage. It appears to be a list, and I pause to read what is typed.
The very next second, I sit at the table, lift the typewriter carriage, take out the sheet of paper and read from the top. In less than a minute, I lean back in my chair, pondering the detailed recipe for gallons of rum I am reading. It’s not that I know rum recipes by heart, but what Jamaican isn’t familiar with rum? My mother makes rum. Everyone in the Cockpit has a jug of rum or wine they’ve concocted. And every large sugarcane plantation has a rum operation.
