Mother’s footsteps echo on the metal staircase as she goes up to her studio.
Kammi unfolds her bag onto the rattan luggage rack at the foot of the bed. She unzips it, shakes out a few sundresses, all but unwrinkled, and hangs them in the closet. I was right: she packs like Mother, and her clothes are so tiny. I’d never fit in them. She leaves the rest and then follows me.
In the kitchen, Martia is smiling like she always does when she sees children.
“This is Martia,” I say.
“Bon bini,” Martia says. “Welcome.” Martia wipes her hands on her apron and takes Kammi’s small hands in hers, giving them a big squeeze. Not for the first time, I wonder what Martia’s family is really like, what her children do while she’s here with us. Martia only goes home on Sundays. Does she wonder, too, whether they think of her here in the fancy house?
“Thank you,” Kammi says, smiling, a bigger smile than when she saw the pink-flowered bedroom.
“Such a pretty little girl come to Curaçao,” Martia says. “You will be liking it here. You come see Martia you need anything. I make your favorite foods. So you no homesick.” She shows Kammi the glass bowl. “Tonight we have shrimp and mango and a big salad. You like it?”
“Yes,” Kammi says. I wonder if she is telling the truth or just being polite. The way she smiles, I bet she thinks Martia is unbiased, an ally.
She’s wrong. Martia is mine.
Chapter Three
“COME ON, there’s more to see,” I say, motioning Kammi away from Martia, who is still smiling as she turns to continue preparing dinner.
Kammi follows me into the living room. Nature books and shells are arranged on the side tables. Big cushions with palm-tree prints line the white rattan furniture. Island décor just like something out of a magazine. Martia keeps everything looking that way. She sweeps the sand, fluffs the pillows, and repositions the shells.
“What’s up there?” Kammi points to the metal staircase.
“You’re not allowed up there.” Like Bluebeard’s castle.
Kammi’s face goes sour.
“I’m not allowed up there, either,” I say. “No one is. Except Mother. It’s her studio.” I picture the bottles and tubes of blue. Will Mother notice the Prussian blue is missing? Maybe she’ll assume the paint dried out in the bottom of the tube and she threw it away. Or maybe she’ll think that she forgot she threw it away, because she drank too much. Yesterday, before she was even fully unpacked, I stole a nearly empty tube of Scarlet Lake from her art bin and dropped it in the garbage. If she missed it, she didn’t say. It wasn’t one of the blues, after all. The Prussian blue is still in my pocket. Evidence of a crime committed right under Mother’s nose, but I can’t bear to destroy it.
“Oh, I hope I get to see her work,” Kammi says, and smiles. Her face lights up. “Before I came, she said I might. I want to paint, too.”
The breath goes out of me. Before she came. All spring in Maine, Mother encouraged me to send Kammi a “get-acquainted e-mail.” Kammi sent one to me, along with a photograph of herself under a beach umbrella. I couldn’t make myself reply. I didn’t have anything to say.
“Mother’s very busy.” That’s a lie, but I say it anyway. “Come on. I’ll show you the beach. There are places where you have to watch the riptide.” I want out of the house.
I want her out of the house.
Before I open the French doors to the patio, the phone rings. Martia answers it in the kitchen. Her words turn stiff.
I hate it when the phone rings now. How the voice on the other end can change Martia with a simple hello. It’s been that way since last year when the phone finally rang after Dad disappeared. Mother had been standing at the window facing the sea, as if she could will the boat to appear on the horizon. She didn’t even turn when Martia answered the phone on the fourth ring, but I saw her face.
Martia walks into the living room. “It is Mayur Bindas. For you,” she says, frowning. “I tell him you are busy. You have a guest.” Martia is my ally, but Mayur and his parents are rich. They know the Dutch owner of this house. They might make things difficult for Martia if she were rude to Mayur.
“I’ll take it.” Mayur. I’ve been wondering when he’d call. He’s waited until three days after we arrived. Mayur would wait just to make me wonder.
Kammi stands by the French doors, looking toward the sea, as if she’s trying to give me some privacy. If she’s curious about Mayur, she doesn’t show it.
“Hello,” I say into the phone.