The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,14
shop of horrors, almost as if he’d had a pile of mental health brochures by his side to use as a blueprint. No wonder some of the programmers cracked up trying to rescue him.
The plane begins to descend and Kora directs our attention to one of the islands near the tip of the chain. “That’s Abigail Key, the Salvador estate.”
“They have their own island?” I ask. “I thought they lived in Key West. I saw a picture of their mansion in Time magazine last year.”
Kora nodded. “You’re thinking of Casa del Sol. They own that, too. Mr. Salvador conducts most of his business from the Casa and entertains there as well. That’s where my own office is located, in fact. But he prefers to keep Abigail Key private, for family use only.”
“Abigail was the name of Diego’s late wife,” Dad explains. “Abigail Brooks. She was a world-class pianist. Passed away a few years ago.”
I vaguely remember this from the magazine article. Some kind of rare bone cancer, I think.
“The island estate was Diego’s gift to her,” Kora says. “It’s where the family retreated when she became ill.”
I peer down at the island, a lush green paradise growing right out of the sea. A runway cuts through the trees along the eastern shore. On the opposite side I spy the top of a sprawling mansion with a crystal-blue pool winding along the back of it like a river. I can also make out a pair of tennis courts, a boat house, and a dock with several boats anchored to it, including a small yacht. An incredulous snort escapes from my nose or mouth or wherever snorts primarily originate. Abigail Key looks just like the fantasy island template in the MEEP, only it’s the real thing.
This is what Wyn Salvador is running from? His own private paradise?
A few minutes later we taxi down the runway and soon we’re released into the hot island air. I feel my hair immediately frizz in the humidity while my black T-shirt and jeans cling to me like foil on a baked potato. So this is why people wear white in the tropics. A crisply dressed chauffeur (in white, as if to prove my point) shuttles us from the runway to the house in the queen mother of all golf carts, with gold-stitched leather seats, a small refrigerator (we may help ourselves to its contents, says the chauffeur), and even a rooftop air conditioner, which blows a cool mist onto my neck. Suddenly I feel like I’m in Disneyland, only I forgot my tiara and princess dress. Right now I look closer to someone’s rotten stepsister with my big rebellious hair and melting mascara.
Kora leads us into the mansion and I try to act cool, like I’m not completely agog at the palatial furnishings, the artwork, the total dripping-in-wealth feel of the place. We go up a grand staircase, down a hall, and into what Kora calls the conservatory, like we’re playing a big game of Clue. The vast room is all skylights, blossoming plants, fresh-cut flowers, and wicker furniture scattered about. An ivory-colored grand piano sits in the middle of the room, though its keyboard is closed, its embroidered bench tucked up beneath it like a foal snuggling its mother. I draw closer to look at the framed photograph ensconced between two vases of small pink roses on top of the piano. A pretty woman with light brown hair and kind green eyes smiles out from the photo.
“That’s my Abigail,” a voice says, and I turn around to see Diego Salvador walk in. “This was her favorite room in the house.”
“I can see why,” says Dad, walking over to shake hands with his boss. Though Dad has cleaned up well for the occasion, shaved the Neanderthal beard and trimmed his hair, he still looks like he belongs in a grassy field hefting boulders and throwing hammers for fun. In contrast, Diego Salvador, though almost as tall as Dad, has the lean, muscular look of a soccer player or distance runner. The thought flickers through my mind that they would make an interesting match for each other on the battlefield. Dad would have extra strength and heft on his side but Salvador looks a little lighter on his feet, and faster perhaps.
“Isn’t that right, Nixy?” Dad says, and I realize I’ve spaced out and missed part of the conversation. Dang. I nod and agree with who-knows-what, then smile at everyone, trying to cover for my brain lapse