Chapter 4 At The Beach

Luna Belle Fernandez POV

Just one more minute.

I let a little air from my lungs and sink deeper into the cool water. The salt no longer burns my open eyes. A wedge of sun rays pierces the surface and fans out to the bottom. Bubbles catch the light. Like tiny beads of fragile glass, they stick to my arms and legs. Life under the water is muted, the sounds dispersed. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the break is a distant lullaby. The tide gently rocks me to that beat. Forward and backward. Push and pull.

If I could, I’d stay here forever, but I can only hold my breath for so long.

I swim up and gulp in the air when I break the surface. Treading water, I catch my breath. It’s warmer in the water than outside. The late afternoon sky already glows with a champagne-colored tint. The whining of a violin drifts down from our garden. It must be the string quartet Mom hired for the party.

I’d rather make the most of the last hour of daylight and swim until my muscles cramp than listen to Aunt Betty’s critique of the latest performing arts drama or pretend Uncle Ferdie hasn’t told the story about how he walked into a bank robbery for the trillionth time. I’d give all my pocket money to sit on the sand and watch the bioluminescence in the water instead of telling Aunt Mildred that no, I’m not too thin, and yes, I’m eating enough. But this is my party, and I’m already in trouble for being late as it is.

Unable to put the inevitable off longer, I swim to the shore and surf the waves to prevent myself from being tumbled and crushed in the roaring mass of foam. Once my feet touch the ground, I waddle out of the water. The fine sand is dusted with flecks of gold. The shallow water is like a magnifying glass on the shiny particles that, once upon a time, were majestic shells and pearly abalone.

I dig my toes into the wet sand, enjoying the tickle as the water pulls back and the sand sucks my feet deeper. A breeze picks up from the sea. Goosebumps run over my arms. A woman’s shrill laughter pierces the music coming from the hill, reminding me the guests are waiting.

Pulling my feet from the soft suction of the sand with a sigh, I run to the cave at the foot of the cliff where I left my clothes. Hurriedly, I pull my denim cutoffs and shirt on over my bikini. The thin linen doesn’t do much to warm me. In the darkness of the cave, the sand is cold, and the musty air is humid. I should’ve brought a sweater, but I wasn’t planning on staying so late.

The tide has come in. The river that feeds the lagoon flows too strongly now to swim across. On the other side of the river, a bridge spans over the lagoon to connect the beach with the island. Another bridge at the back of the island leads to the main road that runs to town. A ninety-degree bend on the right diverts to the beachfront. Our mansion stands on the highest hill at the end of that road, right on the edge, overlooking the massive dunes and a stretch of sand so long you can see Himamaylan in the north and Dancalan Bay in the south.

Instead of going via the road, I climb straight up the steep side of the biggest dune. It’s high, and by the time I’m three-quarters up, I’m panting from the exertion. The vegetation that caps the top is dense. I have to crawl down the secret footpath I’ve walked out over the years. The fine bush forms a tunnel around me until I exit on the other side. From here, I veer left and jog around the edge of the outcrop until I reach the tar road.

Our house can only be accessed from the back of the hill. I circle the hilltop and cut across the neighborhood via a smaller road. As I turn the corner, a sound coming from one of the trashcans on the pavement stops me. Going closer, I pause and listen. There it is again, a faint scratching. My pulse quickens. It can be a snake, but it can also be a hedgehog trapped inside. Carefully, I throw back the lid and peer over the top, my body poised for action, and then my heart melts on the spot.

A small furry face with big yellow eyes and long white whiskers stares up from the trash. His fur is black except for a white patch over his left eye. At the sight of me, the kitten mewls. The cry he pushes from his chest is loud for such a tiny thing. He tries to claw his way outside only to sink deeper. From the state of the torn bags and the waste spilling out of them, he’s been trying to get out for a while.

“You poor thing,” I exclaim, reaching inside and carefully lifting him out.

He’s so tiny, I can feel his fragile ribs beneath the softness of his fur. His little heart is pounding between my palms. He mewls even louder, pawing at the air.

“There now.” I hug him to my chest and stroke his head. “You’re safe.”

The kitten settles with a purr that vibrates in his ribcage. He meows again, hauntingly this time, and instinctively I know the little creature is hungry. He’s too small for solid food. He needs milk.

As I huddle the hungry, helpless animal, trying my best to soothe him, anger heats my blood. Who abandons a kitten and throws him away with the trash? I have a good mind to knock on the door of the house and give them a piece of my mind, but anyone could’ve driven here and left the kitten in the trashcan. Besides, the priority is feeding him. But how do I smuggle him into the house? My mom will have a fit if she finds out.

A few cardboard boxes are stacked next to the trashcan. I go through them until I find one that’s clean and empty before lowering my charge inside. He protests loudly at being separated from the heat of my body.

“Don’t worry.” I stroke his back. “I won’t leave you. I promise.”

His claws are minuscule but sharp. I earn a scratch on my hand for my efforts. After some petting, the kitten calms again.

“I’ll call you Kitty-Kat. That’s a cool name, right?”

Kitty-Kat doesn’t like his new prison. He puts his front paws on the side of the box and tries to climb out.

“Don’t be scared,” I say, closing the flaps. “You just have to stay in there for a little while.”

Kitty-Kat mewls again when I straighten with the box in my arms. I ignore the little meows of distress, making my way home as fast as I can without jostling him.

The double gates that give access to our property are closed. The driveway leading up to the house is visible through the bars. The front parking is already packed with luxury cars. After ensuring that no one is hanging around the entrance, I fish my key from my pocket and let myself in through the pedestrian gate before sneaking around the side of the house.

Caterers carry crates of food from a cool truck parked on a strip of paving. On the front lawn, where the guests are mingling, waiters are serving champagne and oysters. Aunt Mildred, my late grandmother’s sister, stands at the edge of the garden, wearing a powder-blue lace dress and matching hat. She talks animatedly, waving an empty champagne glass to emphasize whatever point she’s making.

My sister, Cressilda Fernandez, faces her with a solemn face. Dressed in a mauve silk dress and matching heels with a short string of pearls around her neck, Cressie looks older than her eighteen years. Her fiancé, Jack Montgomery, stands like a puppet in his tux at her side, offering a stiff smile at anyone who makes eye contact. A man I don’t know talks to Dad. Dad slips a finger into his collar and cracks his neck. It looks as if his bowtie is already strangling him.

Great.

How am I going to get through this evening?

Falling into step behind one of the caterers, I manage to arrive at the side door that the staff use to access the kitchen without being spotted by any of the guests. Just as I exhale a sigh of relief, Dorothy, our housekeeper, waggles through the door. Blotchy patches redden her cheeks, and perspiration shines on her forehead.

She shuffles down the path, waving a dishcloth in the air. “Hey, you. Yes, you with the mustache. Come back here.”

I duck, trying to make myself small, but the man I’m using as a shield steps aside to let her pass and thereby exposes me.

When her gaze falls on me, her eyes bulge. Her face turns pink as she takes in my state.

“It’s about time you show your face,” she says with a scowl. “You should’ve been ready two hours ago. What an insolent girl you are.” She points toward the kitchen. “Get inside now before I call Mrs. Fernandez.” Throwing her arms in the air, she hurries on her way. “Hey, you. Are you deaf? I told you to wait. We need more ice.”

Holding my breath, I glance at Dorothy’s retreat from over my shoulder. She’s in such a flat spin with the party arrangements that she didn’t pay attention to the box in my hands.

“Where the hell is your manager?” she asks the poor man she cornered. “You’re running late with the starters.” Grabbing his arm, she drags him in the direction of the cooler truck. “This won’t do. It won’t do at all. It’s not my job to…”

Her ranting trails off as she and the man disappear around the corner.

“Not in the mood for the party either?” someone with a deep voice and a slight foreign accent asks.

XXX