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  The Empty Hammock

  A Jamaica Treasures Book

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person or persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2011 by Brenda Barrett

  *****

  Discover other titles by Brenda Barrett:

  The Pull of Freedom

  Private Sins (Three Rivers)

  Loving Mr. Wright (Three Rivers)

  Unholy Matrimony (Three Rivers )

  If It Ain't Broke (Three Rivers)

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  PROLOGUE

  Cádiz, Spain

  September 22, 1493

  Juan Pérez stared at the buzz of human activity before him. There were at least two of his ships at the port—their broad sails flapping in the wind as their crew tied ropes around the billowing cloth. He counted the ships; there were seventeen of them, all being prepared for the journey to the New World.

  At least five shipping companies were represented at the port, and Juan couldn’t help wondering if the owners were as crazy as his father, to dedicate so many ships to this foolhardy venture of Cristóbal Colón.

  Colón had told them of a new world, filled with gold and precious stones and unsurpassed beauty. Yet, why would one believe that such a place existed; the possibilities simply defied the mind. He had tasted the sweet juicy yellow fruit of the pineapple, and had seen the scared-looking natives that Colón had brought back, but gold and precious stones sounded like a calculated bid for the funding of his next voyage.

  Colón’s voice was replaying in Juan’s mind as he announced to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, “I have found a shorter route to Asia; the islands I have seen are unrivalled in beauty.”

  Everyone had welcomed his announcement in awe. However, with the passage of time, there were rumours that he was a liar and a fortune hunter, disguising himself as an explorer. Some said he was a spy; there were those who even implied that he was distracting the sovereigns from the true route to Asia.

  The Queen’s palace was always rife with rumors and innuendos, and he barely paid attention to it, most of the time, but he became skeptical when his father decided to involve two of their ships to transport animals and plants on Colon’s second voyage to the unknown. He had personally volunteered to supervise the packing of the ship because he was averse to this risk.

  The men were happily bustling about their business. The anticipation of seeing the unknown was thick in the air, and even Juan’s skepticism was slowly melting in the face of such energy and expectancy.

  “Look at them,” Philippe Vásquez whispered near his ears.

  Juan jumped; he hadn't heard his approach. “Look at whom?” he asked, following his friend’s eyes as it raked over the busy port in contempt.

  “The stupid goats,” Philippe spat.

  Juan laughed. Some men were leading goats, sheep and cattle into his merchant ship. He had no idea that his friend, who also owned a shipping line, had a problem with goats.

  “There is no need to sound so put-out by the goats,” Juan said, glancing at Philippe’s scowling expression. “I think the horses and the cows deserve some anger too.”

  “I am talking about the men,” Philippe growled, “they have latched on to this idea of a new world and they are giving up their lives here for it. They are as stupid as goats.”

  “I guess we aren't as adventurous as they are. You have Millicent and your children, and I,” he pointed to himself with a flourish, “have a business to run with a father bordering on senility, and a few ladies in Isabella’s court who think me attractive and couldn't do without my presence for a single day.”

  “You are full of it, mi amigo,” Philippe said, looking at Juan. He was tall and broad shouldered. He had thick black hair and green eyes, which looked like polished jade. His nose was straight and lips sensual. Women were always throwing themselves at him, even the Queen herself was known to give him audience on a regular basis.

  He looked down at himself. He was portly; his belly round from consuming too much liqueur and paella. He was a slave to paella, the succulent dish of rice, saffron and olive oil topped with meat and vegetables, which he consumed at least six times per day. It was never going to make him sleek and buffed like Juan. He looked balefully at his friend’s handsome profile and squelched a sigh.

  “There he is,” Juan said and gazed through the sea of men to focus on the man who was whispering to himself and stumbling through the men unheeded. He had what appeared to be a parchment paper in his hands.

  “The fool,” Philippe sneered. “I wish that Pinzón had reached port first. Then he wouldn't walk around with such an air, as if he knew it all, as if he made the discovery of the century.”

  “Your anger confounds me,” Juan said, frowning. “It matters not who came to port first; he was the one who came up with the idea to sail to look for new lands. Pinzón’s ships were inferior. The Pinta is now a wreck of a ship because he raced it to death to reach Spain before Colón.”

  “Word is he raced the ship to reach a doctor,” Philippe murmured. “He caught a deadly disease from one of the natives. The poor bugger must have seen all of that naked beauty and couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

  Juan gazed at Colón, who was advancing to their side of the port. The stench of gutted fish was becoming stronger in the air as the sun became hotter. Colón was clutching his rosary beads and his lips were moving as if in prayer.

  The rumors that he must have been lying to the King and Queen, and that there was no gold or precious stones, seemed incongruous to the humble figure striding toward them. What if Colón was telling the truth?

  His palm felt damp and his heart sped up. The sense of adventure he had killed as a youth, after he had taken up his post as head of his father’s shipping business, reared its tempting head. He was just five and twenty. His mother was not from the merchant class, but she was the only daughter of a Vizconde, and he was her only heir. He could afford to fritter away his time at court or go to this new world and see for himself what attracted Colón and these other men.

  How could he rest until he saw the New World, be a part of history in the making?

  He glanced at Philippe as he snarled at the approaching Colón, and he knew what was ailing his amigo. Philippe was tied down with his burden of family and other obligations and he was angry with anyone who seemed to be enjoying the freedom of traveling to uncharted lands.

  Colón stumbled up to them, muttering. He bowed slightly to Juan, acknowledging his royal connections, and then looked balefully at Philippe. His soft hat was brimless and bright red, which matched his tight hose and soft shoes. The man was dressed like royalty.

  Philippe stiffened. “Colón,” he addressed the man wearily. “Are you now totally loco that you walk around muttering to yourself?”

  Colón flushed and gazed squarely at Philippe. His light gray eyes flashed with anger. “I am now called the Admiral and I would appreciate it if you would use my title. As for my mental state, I was royally and divinely commissioned to find a shorter route to India, and to Christianize the people there.”

  Philippe’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “As you wish Admiral: discover new lands, Christianize the heathens. Conquer for Spain.” His voice was sarcastic. He bowed slightly and then spun around, intending to walk away.

&
nbsp; “Ehem,” he cleared his throat and turned back. “By the way, I do not believe a word of what you are saying. There is just something that tells me that I should not trust a man whose name I do not even know. Your name is not really the ‘Christ Bearer’, is it? Are you really Cristóbal Colón? Rumor has it you are part Jew and part spy for the Portuguese king.”

  Colón glanced at Juan furtively then sighed. “I have nothing to hide; I work for Spain.”

  Philippe snorted derisively, saluted to Juan and then walked off.

  “What does he mean by not knowing your name?” Juan asked curiously.

  “I…I don’t know,” Colón said hurriedly. “The man hates me as do some of the rich merchants in his class. Your father and a few others were not as skeptic. Are you coming to the New World with us, Juan? We sail in three days.”

  Juan allowed the change of topic and looked down at Colón. He was at least five inches taller than him and he wasn’t really tall, by any means. “I was just thinking about it. The adventure would be good. It would give me something to tell my children about in the future.”

  Colón nodded eagerly. “You could travel on your own ship.”

  “That I would do.” Juan looked at the bustle of activities on board the ships and grinned. “I have not sailed in a while. My captain, Pablo will relish my company when I return to sail on El Dragón.”

  “I have a feeling this trip will mean a lot to you,” Colón said and pointed at the treasure chest, which was at Juan’s feet. “You could fill that with gold, or better yet, carry a bigger one.”

  Juan picked up the chest and rubbed his initials at the side. “I could do that, couldn’t I?”

  He stared at the calm sea at the port in Cadiz and envisioned a new world with seas of different hues of blue. He could feel the wind swirling around him as he sailed, the golden sunset beckoning him to an island made of pure gold.

  “I will speak to my father about my absence,” he said thoughtfully. “I wouldn't want him to worry; my mother will think I will be eaten by savages and will try to stop me.”

  Colón guffawed. “The people I have met so far are the kindest and gentlest you will ever meet. They are so innocent; it’s as if they are not of this world.”

  Despite the noonday sun, Juan shivered. There was a premonition in the air. He sucked in his breath and nodded as if forced. “I will come with you and I will bring this chest.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jamaica, 2007

  Ana stared at the motivational quotes that she posted around her office. She suddenly felt annoyed at herself for falling into such an emotional and professional slump, that she depended on influences of men, who were long dead, to get through each day.

  She looked at a quote from Sir Winston Churchill and repeated it wearily. “History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”

  She sat up straighter and repeated it forcefully: “I will write my history. I will not let my life just happen.”

  She slouched back into her chair and stared balefully at the piles of paper on her desk, and then swerved to look at the gray skies outside her office window. The clouds looked angry and black, as if in revenge mode—the air conditioner seemed colder. Ana’s thin jacket felt inadequate and her short fashionable skirt, which had seemed so smart and chic earlier, barely kept her shaking legs together.

  “I need to walk. I can’t take this anymore.”

  She paused and looked at her reflection in the office window. She hadn't taken the time to give herself a good assessment in a while. She looked liked a tired career woman. She straightened her spine and pushed up her small chin—her heart-shaped face was too thin, and her skin was ashy and had a grayish cast to it. Before her promotion, to vice president of marketing, it was honey-toned and glowed with health.

  She smoothed a hand over her bushy eyebrows. Must go to spa right after the meeting with the shareholders, she scribbled in her appointment book.

  She fingered her hair as she contemplated an uninterrupted afternoon at the spa with nothing but good smells and soothing massages. It is possible she would need to squeeze in a hairdresser appointment in her schedule. She was tired of screwing her curly black hair into a bun. She could see herself in auburn highlights with straight hair, or just straight hair. She was tired of the curls.

  She closed the appointment book and decided to go sample the sorrel and ginger tea she had seen in the kitchen earlier.

  “Miss Méndez,” her secretary’s nasal voice whined over the intercom. “Your mother is on line two. She said it's urgent.”

  Ana made a face at the telephone and counted to three before she answered. “Thank you, Harriet.”

  She pressed line two slightly bemused; her mother’s call was always urgent. If she counted the cat’s waking hours, and it was not the full fourteen, according to her new cat book, it was cause for an emergency, and Tubby would need to see the vet. God forbid, if it was one of those you-need-to-get-a-man calls.

  Ana sighed and answered. “Hi, Ma.”

  “Ana,” her mother said excitedly. “Guess what?”

  Here we go again, Ana grumbled in her mind. “Ma, I'm busy. I was just about to go to a meeting,” she said, thinking of the ginger and sorrel teabag.

  “Ana, this is phenomenal,” her mother continued, ignoring the note of irritation in her daughter’s voice. “I was rooting around in the garden and I found a treasure chest.”

  Oh no, she is getting senile just like Dad did, was Ana’s first thought.

  “Ma, I'm coming home this weekend. I will call Carey,” she said, referring to her brother, the doctor, “and ask him to check up on you today.”

  “Ana,” her mother gasped, “are you implying that I'm off my rockers? Well young lady, let me tell you. I am completely sane, and I've already called Carey. God knows that I cannot open this treasure chest on my own. It’s too big and too heavy and someone will have to lift it out of the garden and...”

  “Oh, so it’s not a figment of your imagination,” Ana said and exhaled loudly and leaned back in her chair. This sounded intriguing. Since her mother moved to Rio Bueno in St. Ann, she took up gardening with a vengeance. “Ma, I'm coming home this weekend to see this discovery and to start my three-week vacation.”

  “Yes,” her mother chirped cheerfully. “You can also help to clean out the basement; all your father’s things are down there. See you in two days then. I will ask Carey to put the chest on the back verandah, and then we wait until you come to sort out the gold that’s in it. Bye, sweetheart.”

  “Bye, Ma,” Ana said and smiled. Her mother was eccentric and sometimes ditzy, but she knew how to make her daughter smile.

  She was still smiling when her boss, the Managing Director of Probe Inc., Howard ‘The Prude’ Wilkins, strolled into her office.

  “Ana,” he said, sitting before her, his big bulk taking up every square millimeter of the chair. “I am not sure Tanya can take over your responsibilities when you are gone on vacation. Probably she needs more training.” He peered at her above his glasses, his bulbous nose flaring.

  Ana stared at him intently and wondered briefly if she was hallucinating. She had nightmares about this, that when her vacation was finally here, something would happen to snatch it away.

  “Howard,” she said, shrugging and struggling to keep her voice level, and thinking of the mortgage on her new apartment. “I'm burnt out. I can hardly concentrate. I have been doing sixteen-hour days. My eucalyptus plant died yesterday. I eat my breakfast, lunch and dinner in the company’s cafeteria, and just last week, after living in my apartment for seventeen months, I found out that my neighbor is a famous drug dealer.”

  Howard stared at her open-mouthed and she realized that finally she had snapped, and was on the verge of shouting. The busy office that had forty employees on her floor sounded a bit too quiet. They were listening intently to the conversation; she couldn't even hear Harriet’s nasal whine through the open door.

  Mortgage or no, Probe In
c. could not pay her enough to give up her vacation. She was twenty-six and couldn't recall being happy during the last three years. It was get up and go to work, climb the corporate ladder, kiss every butt that was kissable and make money for the company.

  Now after three years of hard, slugging work, she was the Vice President of Marketing. The newspapers described her as young, ambitious and ahead of the pack. But she was just young, disillusioned and would prefer not to see a computer screen for the next three weeks.

  “Okay, Ana,” Howard sighed, eager to pacify her. “We will just have to struggle along until you get back. It was wrong of me to even suggest delaying your vacation, especially since you won that big account last week.”

  She nodded at Howard and tried to inject a conciliatory tone. “I’ll see what I can do with Tanya for the next couple of days. She is, after all, the marketing manager and should be able to perform most of my job functions. I will ask the clients, who tend to be more difficult, to go easy with her and explain that she is new.”

  “You are the best.” Howard winked and walked out of the office.

  Phew, that was close, her vacation was almost snatched away and she was on the verge of clobbering her boss. She headed for the kitchen to prepare the sorrel and ginger tea and literally counted the minutes leading up to her vacation.

  Ana drove into her apartment complex Tuesday night. She was finally free. There would be no more Howard Wilkins, no more office memos, or Harriet’s wheedling, whiny tones for three whole weeks. This was her first vacation in three years—she felt like singing all the parts in Handel’s Hallelujah.

  Her apartment complex was well maintained and the lawns immaculately groomed. She had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living room and a well-equipped kitchen on the second floor with a balcony at the back.

  At one point, she had a dog, but he ran away and lived with the neighbours on the first floor. They happily accepted him and then wrote her a long letter about her irresponsibility, and something about starvation. That must have been a year ago. She let herself into the hall and sighed.