“It was my father and his private detective. They told me.”
“Do you even care about the labor union movement? Why are you here? To tell me more lies?”
“Zinzi, please. I swear. My father will do or say whatever he can to keep me under his thumb. He told you lies and half-truths. He wants you not to trust me, for he knows if you don’t, neither will Allan Coombs. He wants you to be afraid of his power. That’s why he’s leading the discussion on taxation against the Maroon people over rum. He’s a bully: putting police officers in his pocket, sabotaging rallies, andarresting labor union organizers and volunteers.” Byron exhales. “His first step is to have you arrested.”
“Why me? Why not Allan or any of the organizers?”
“Bernard Tynesdale knows I care about you and believes you influenced my support for the labor union movement.”
The air on the veranda rises toward the sky and disappears into the clouds. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing in my throat. “I can’t be arrested. I couldn’t bear being trapped in a jail cell.”
The lines across his forehead deepen. “Trust me. I’ll find a way to stop him. But I can’t do it yet. I need more time and for you to be patient.”
I sense he’s not saying something. “What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t go to the Kingston Waterfront rally. Leave town.”
“Run away? The Waterfront rally is too important to miss.”
Byron leans forward, elbows on the table, palms pressed together. “Consider my father’s threat a promise. He will have you arrested.”
The hotel’s veranda is too crowded, and our conversation is attracting onlookers. Or it’s my imagination. Either way, I need to leave. “I can’t sit here. Can we go for a walk?”
“Yes, sure.” Byron asks for the check, although I don’t recall ordering anything. Soon, we make our way through the lobby when a crack of thunder explodes. Then lightning and a downpour begin.
“Let’s go upstairs to my suite,” he says. “We can sit on the balcony and watch the rain.”
We climb the stairs in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
In his suite, he stops in the small entranceway. “I hope you know I didn’t want any of this to happen. Since we met, I’ve felt a connection to you that isn’t only about the labor movement.”
He’s talking about the kiss, and if not, I’m thinking aboutit. I feel a flutter in my stomach, a kaleidoscope of butterflies making themselves known. “Oh you do?”
Byron looks down at me with gentle eyes. “I’ve known you for a week, but I want to know you better and longer.” He chuckles shyly. “I think I’m falling in love with you, or maybe I’m already in love.”
Rarely in the past ten years have I been at a loss for words. In this moment, I am speechless. I have spent most of my thirty-two years either in love or afraid of love. I cherished my father, my fiancé, and the Cockpit, along with the thatched-roof hut where I grew up. I loved everything from tilling the soil during planting season to digging for root vegetables in the fall and picking ackee fruit, Jamaican cherries, and strawberries in late spring and early summer. But love can destroy as much as it heals.
That’s why I fear it, and that fear has kept me safe for a decade. Byron, with his passion, determination, quiet strength, and even his anger—damn him—takes my fear away. Without knowing how, I find myself in his arms, sharing a kiss that is so passionate, so consuming, so sensual I forget why I waited so long for another kiss and now, that kiss is not enough. I want to feel his body pressed against mine, his lips on my throat, my breasts.
Passionately, my arms wrap around his neck. He has one hand on my waist, and I don’t notice where his other hand is until I feel his palm gently cupping my chin. I forget about time, sugarcane, and fear as we make the kind of love I had given up on, a feeling I haven’t experienced in too long. Since leaving Accompong, I have been with other men. My body craves what it craves, but with Byron, I discover something more intimate and profound—something deeper than I can or want to define.
Afterward, we lay in his bed, naked, our bodies glowing from the love we’ve shared. Admittedly, however, I don’t recall how we got to the bedroom or where we left our clothing.
Curled against his body, I decide that I might as well give him my answer.
“All right—”
“All right what?” he says with surprise, squeezing me tighter.
“I’ll stay away from the rally, but your father is dangerous.”
“I am my father’s son, but I won’t let him jeopardize the family business because of his inability to change.” Byron inhales deeply. “I’ll make it right, Zinzi. Trust me.”
CHAPTER 22
VIVIAN JEAN
The SSTalamancaat Sea
