the cork. It opened with an ear-splintering blast. When she looked again, he held only a jagged bottle in his hand. At the door was the shadow of a man and the glint of a sun.
They were crawling through a small, dark hole. Sweat rolled from her. Somehow she knew they were winding through ducts, yet it was like the tunnel to the cave— dark, dank, suffocating.
“Just a little bit farther.”
She heard him speak and saw something glitter up ahead. It was light beaming off the facets of an enormous diamond. For a moment, it filled the darkness with a wild, almost religious light. Then it was gone, and she was standing alone on a barren hill. “Lord, you sonofabitch!”
“Rise and shine, sugar. This is our stop.”
“You worm,” she muttered.
“That’s no way to talk to your husband.”
Opening her eyes, she looked into his grinning face. “You sonofa—”
He cut the oath off, kissing her hard and long. With his lips only a breath from hers, he pinched her. “We’re supposed to be in love, sugar. Our friendly chauffeur might have a grasp of some of the cruder English expressions.”
Dazed, she squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “I was dreaming.”
“Yeah. And it sounds like I didn’t come off very well.” Doug hopped out to retrieve the baskets in the back.
Whitney shook her head to clear it, then looked through the windshield. A town. It was small by any standard and the air had a scent that brought fish to mind rather sharply. But it was a town. As thrilled as if she’d woken in Paris on an April morning, Whitney jumped from the truck.
A town meant a hotel. A hotel meant a tub, hot water, a real bed.
“Douglas, you’re wonderful!” With the pig sandwiched and squealing between them, she hugged him.
“Jesus, Whitney, you’re getting pig all over me.”
“Absolutely wonderful,” she said again and gave him a loud, exuberant kiss.
“Well, yeah.” He found his hand could settle comfortably at her waist. “But a minute ago I was a worm.”
“A minute ago I didn’t know where we were.”
“You do now? Why don’t you fill me in?”
“In town.” Hugging the pig against her, she whirled away. “Hot and cold running water, box springs and mattresses. Where’s the hotel?” Shading her eyes, she began to scan.
“Look, I wasn’t planning on staying—”
“There!” she said triumphantly.
It was clean and without frills, more along the lines of an inn than a hotel. It was a town of seamen, fishermen, with the Indian Ocean close at its back. A seawall rose high as protection against the floods that came every season. Here and there, nets were spread over it to dry in the sun. There were palm trees and fat orange flowers growing in vines against clapboard. A gull nestled at the top of a telephone pole and slept. The straight lines of the coast prevented it from being a port, but the little seaside town obviously enjoyed a smatter of tourist trade now and then.
Whitney was already thanking the driver. Though it surprised him, Doug didn’t have the heart to tell her they couldn’t stay. He’d planned to replenish supplies and see about transportation up the coast before they went on. He watched her smile at their driver.
One night couldn’t hurt, he decided. They could start out fresh in the morning. If Dimitri was close, at least Doug would have a wall at his back for a few hours. A wall at his back and a few hours to plan the next step. He swung a basket over each shoulder. “Give him the pig and say good-bye.”
Whitney smiled at the driver a last time, then started across the street. There were shells crushed underfoot mixed with dirt and a stingy spread of gravel. “Abandon our first-born son to a traveling salesman? Really, Douglas, it’d be like selling him to the gypsies.”
“Cute, and I understand you might’ve formed a bit of an attachment.”
“So would you if you hadn’t been thinking with your stomach.”
“But what the hell are we going to do with it?”
“We’ll find him a decent home.”
“Whitney.” Just outside the inn, he took her arm. “That’s a slab of bacon, not a Pomeranian.”
“Ssh!” Cuddling the pig protectively, she walked inside.
It was marvelously cool. There were ceiling fans lazily circling that made her think of Rick’s Place in Casablanca. The walls were whitewashed, the floors dark wood, scarred but scrubbed. Someone had tacked bleached, woven mats to the walls, the only decoration. A few people sat at tables