Page 25 of Cutter’s Lady

“What’s your real name?”

“My real name? What do you mean? Cutter is my real name.”

“No, I mean, your first name.”

He rubbed his hand across his neck, his thumb coming to rest in the space between his clavicles. “Don’t have one.”

“Everyone has a first name. Just tell me an initial, at least.”

He shook his head. “My name is Cutter. That’s all.”

Leslie made an exasperated face. It teased at her curiosity. Somehow she was going to have to find out his name. But for the moment, it was better for their fragile peace to let it drop.

She glanced around at the vegetation. Trees and brush grew thick on either side of the road, like a living green wall. Nearly all the trees were green, even though it was the middle of winter, and there were several that were even in bloom. Of course, with temperatures like this, Leslie guessed there really never was a winter.

“What’s that tree over there with the big red flowers?” she asked, pointing.

Cutter followed her finger. “African tulip tree.”

“Why is it in bloom?”

“It has flowers all year round. But see that one over there, with the tiny little pink flowers, kind of hairy?”

“Yes.”

“That’s mango. This is the time of year when it blooms. Then it has fruit in March.”

“Mango growing wild. That’s amazing. It feels exotic.”

“Everything in this country does.”

“Do you like San Cristóbal?” Leslie asked. “I can’t tell by what you say if you love it or hate it.”

Cutter shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about whether I liked it or not. The people are usually kind and friendly. It’s always warm here. It’s beautiful. But it can be almost too much of a good thing. Cloying. Overripe. Like this jungle. Nice trees, flowering vines, but so thick it closes you in. Everything these people have, they have to tear from the jungle. In some ways it’s a nice life. No cold, no snow, food just hanging off the trees all the time. But, believe me, this place makes you pay the price for it. Can you imagine trying to farm around here? Having to hack every bit of land out of this jungle, using primitive tools?”

Leslie shook her head. She couldn’t even picture it. She pulled off a strip of the white coconut meat and popped it into her mouth, then began to lift another section. But this part had not been sliced from its shell with the machete, as that above it had, and Leslie could not tear it from the shell. She tugged and tried digging in with her fingernails, but she couldn’t separate it. Cutter reached over and took it from her. He dug in and ripped it up quickly, breaking off a small piece.

“Open,” he said, holding out the piece of small meat, and Leslie opened her mouth. He popped the piece into it, and as she closed her lips, they grazed Cutter’s fingers. They were warm and a little roughened and tasted of salt. Leslie felt a crazy urge to run her tongue out and slide it across his fingertips. It startled her, and Cutter could see the surprise and sensual awareness in her eyes. The look on her face, suddenly soft and a little dreamy, stirred him as much as the satin touch of her lips on his fingers. He would have liked to bend and kiss her softened lips and slide his tongue inside to taste the sweet milk of the coconut in her mouth.

Instead, he turned away abruptly. “Let’s go.”

“All right.” Leslie was too shaken to want the moment to continue. Hurriedly she rounded the car and opened the passenger door. She sat down inside and pulled a tissue out of her purse to wipe the coconut juice from her fingers. Cutter had returned to the drink stand, and Leslie was grateful to have the moment alone to collect herself.

Cutter returned with two extra coconuts and set them in the back seat. “In case we get thirsty along the way,” he explained, and started the car.

After that, neither of them spoke. Leslie studied her interlaced hands and tried to think of something to say. The silence was oppressive, too heavy with the memory of the moment that had just passed between them. It seemed as if the longer the silence stretched, the more significant the little incident became. Leslie was about to resort to asking about more of the dense foliage when she felt Cutter tense beside her. She followed the direction of his eyes and saw a small white car pulled off onto the side of the road ahead.

“There they are,” Cutter announced unnecessarily as they drove by.

The driver was sitting with a map spread out before him, studying it. Cutter kept glancing in his rearview mirror after they passed the car. “And there they go. They’re pulling onto the road now.”

“I suppose it could be coincidence,” Leslie said doubtfully.

“Not likely. But we’ll give them another chance or two. Before Chempua it doesn’t make much difference if they’re on our tail. You could go almost anywhere from Chempua; three major roads run out of it. We could be going up to Metapeque to see the Mayan ruins; that’s a fairly big tourist attraction in San Cristóbal.”

“I’d go sightseeing while I’m waiting for word about Blake? After I’ve flown all the way down here from New York because I was so worried?”

Cutter shrugged. “You could do it to pass the time. I’m not saying it’s likely, but they can’t discount it. Even if they figure we’re headed for the mountains, we could go north or south from Chempua and still turn to the west later. The road I’d planned to take splits about fifteen miles past Chempua. After that our goal is obvious, so we have to lose them in Chempua.”