Chapter Seven

"Rich!" Susan ran the last few yards when she her new husband waiting outside her house. Rich stood and caught her in an embrace as she flew to him. Their lips locked as they spun around, Susan's feet lifting off the ground from the force of their impact. Finally they parted, and Susan brushed the hair from her eyes as she realized they weren't alone.

"Rogelio," Rich said to the man sitting on the bench in front of her house, "this is..."

"I can guess who this is," the man said, rising from the bench.

"Say it anyway," Susan urged.

"...My bride, Susan Garrison," Rich finished. He kissed her again, on the forehead, and hugged her tighter. "That sounds so wonderful to say. I'm going to have to introduce you to everyone I know."

"And this is...?"

"Pardon me. This is Rogelio Valderrama, my friend and neighbor. I persuaded him to help us move you in with me."

"It took little persuasion. I had to come to see what he called 'the most beautiful creature to walk the Earth.' And I can tell you he was right." He took her offered hand and kissed it.

"You're sweet, Senor Valderrama. But I'm taken."

"Call me Rogelio."

"OK, you're VERY sweet, Rogelio, but I'm VERY taken." She kissed Rich again to punctuate the sentence.

"And it's getting very late," Rich said. "Not that I don't enjoy this, but we have a lot to do tonight."

"Not so much as you'd think," she said, leading them through the door. On the woven rug in the center of the small living room was a wooden crate labeled "El Tropicano... Los Mejores Cigarros!" and filled with books, dishes, pictures and records. Next to the crates were two suitcases and a portable phonograph.

"This is it?" Rogelio asked, picking up a picture from the top of the crate. Rich picked up the suitcases and took them outside.

"That's all there is. The furnishings all belong to the government, just like the house." She looked at the photo. "That's me with my father, on my graduation day."

"So when was this taken? Last year?"

"You're here to carry, not to flatter," Rich said, taking the picture away and stuffing it back into the crate. "Now grab the other end and help me put it on the wheelbarrow."

Susan picked up the phonograph and held the door while the men grunted and shuffled the box outside. With a collective "oooph," they lowered it onto the wheelbarrow.

"I'll get these, you get that," Rich said, picking up the suitcases again.

Susan pulled the door closed with a squeak. "That's the last time," she said. She caressed the door with her fingertips, as if trying to memorize its feel. Then, she slid the S. HILL nameplate out of its slot, and tossed it into the open crate. She squared her shoulders and gave Rich a brave smile. "I'm moving to a new home!"

"You first," Rich said to Rogelio, with a nod toward the door. "I don't want you walking behind her."

"Are you going to let him malign my character like that?" Rogelio asked Susan in mock indignation.

"He knows you better than I do," Susan said. She waved him on with a nod and a flip of the wrist. Rogelio hoisted the handles of the wheelbarrow, and the three of them set off down the road, down the hill, toward Susan's future home.

As they descended the hill, they passed the marketplace, a number of farms, the pub where they met, then the cigar factory that marked the edge of El Santo, the island's capital.

"Where is it?" Susan asked as they passed a couple of beautifully landscaped apartment blocks, bringing the palace into view. "It feels like we've been walking for months."

"Valencia," Rich answered. "We're most of the way there already."

"I've never heard of that place."

"It's not an official name. We named it," Rogelio chimed in. "Not us two, but the residents did."

"Where is Valencia?"

"On the north coast, near the tourist area."

"Well, it sounds pretty," she said, hopefully.

Rogelio shot Rich a questioning look. What does that mean? Susan thought. She started to get an uneasy feeling.

The trio trudged past the president's palace, the diplomatic embassy, the high school and a corn farm. "The tourist area is that way," Susan said apprehensively, pointing back toward the road they had just left.

"It isn't IN the tourist area," Rich said. "It's on the coast, nearby."

They emerged from the edge of the cornfield. Susan dropped the record player, clapped her hand to her mouth and gasped.

Ahead, huddled along the rocky coast, was a cluster of ramshackle wood and sheet metal shacks.

To Be Continued