Ameera, Unveiled (20 page)

“Lime? Where’re you ladies headed?” he asked, opening the cooler for the mix after he’d filled glasses with ice and vodka.

“Throw all the lime in mine,” I said.

Polly put her thumb up to signal that that was okay with her. “Jamaica,” she said. “We’ll be teaching belly dancing classes there for a week.”

The bartender’s head lurched back. “Y’all are belly dancers? Really?”

I had my own answer to that, but it was too philosophical. I yielded to my experienced roommate, who loved an opportunity to flirt and get a rise out of someone.

“We are,” Polly said, turning on a sensual cougar smile. “Can you make those cocktails special?”

He winked at her and poured a bit more vodka before he added the mix. “Help yourself to the granola.”

Oh my lord, I thought. I left a tip, blessed his heart, and moved back to our chairs.

“To our adventure,” I said, raising my glass.

“Our glittery adventure,” Polly amended. She looked at the bartender and pulled an olive off her toothpick with her teeth.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m trying hard to believe I’m here with Palmetto Oasis.”

Polly laughed. “What do you think about the troupe so far?” She grabbed some of my granola and swung her leg over the arm of the chair.

That was a loaded question. As someone who’d worked for an adoption attorney for twenty-three years, I’d assessed plenty of birth moms and adoptive couples. As a result, I’d honed a social worker’s eye. I took pride in my confident professional skills and personal growth goals, but I was still cutting my dance molars. They hurt and kept me off balance.

“I trust Sybil,” I said. “I feel pushed a little, but I can’t turn away from the flickers of sisterhood she’s imparted to us during a year of lessons. At Piccolo Spoleto, I wanted to be part of the giggles and inside jokes. I wanna be part of something safe and protective of my dance goals. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely,” Polly said. “Sybil’s the glue that keeps the group together.”

“I can tell you one thing—I’d put money on the fact that I wouldn’t have met most of those women if it hadn’t been for belly dancing,” I said, glancing at the wall of clocks. “Hey, we need to move on in a few minutes. I wanna grab something on the way for lunch.”

“Yeah, I better go freshen up.” She ate the last olive. “Watch my stuff?”

I gazed out the plate-glass windows at the parked aircrafts, waiting on Polly’s return. I pondered her question again. What did I think about Palmetto Oasis? Ask me on the way back, Polly. My stomach tightened at the idea of performing a show before we returned.

“Let’s go,” Polly said, startling me. She pulled up her baggage handle, looked at the bartender, and yelled to him, “Thank you! Loved the drink.”

“Good luck, you two,” he answered.

I waved as we headed to the elevator, chatting about lunch plans and our remaining flight itinerary. I suppressed the urge to panic as we headed toward Concourse E.

“Next stop, Concourse E . . . Stand back until the doors have opened . . . Concourse E,” a robotic voice intoned. Gripping the monorail poles and our bags, we gently swayed with each stop in heels and sparkly outfits. The aroma of my roast beef sandwich wafted from my book bag. How’d I swung from panic to happy to thoughtful to anticipatory? We were now two hours and fifteen minutes from Jamaica when I’d stop being Kat. In the turn of a glittery cape, I’d become Ameera: a glittery stranger from the States amusing guests at a Jamaican resort.

The train doors opened. We made our way silently to E-7. Steve and I’d walked the “E” hallway often, chatting excitedly about scuba or surfing. As we’d done this, we’d always left our responsibilities and worries behind. So this morning I felt as if Steve had sent me off with a lunch box full of costumes and prepared me to walk this hallway confidently on my own.

Before we made it to the seating area, the intercom paged, “Mrs. Kathleen Varn, please approach the podium at E-7.”

Polly and I shot each other glances. Had I messed up again? Slow computer in Charleston . . . now being paged publicly?

“I’ll sit with the bags while you see what they want,” Polly volunteered.

Nervously, I approached the podium. A male and female agent manned the computer. They looked up. “I’m Kat Varn,” I said.

The male agent smiled. “Flying to Montego Bay?”

“Yes,” I said and gulped.

“We noticed you’re Medallion status. Would you be interested in an upgrade?” he asked.

My mind went blank. I’d been with Steve the only time we’d asked for an upgrade. I couldn’t recall an invitation. “Upgrade? What does that mean?” I asked.

“We’d like to offer you a seat in First Class,” he said nonchalantly.

“Oh!” I remembered Steve’s words about using the credit card if I needed to. “How much is it?”

“You’re Medallion. There’s no charge,” he said, showing his pearly whites.

I looked back at Polly.

“Can my friend join me?” I asked. The agent looked her way, focused on his computer, and paused for at least a minute. “I can upgrade her for $100,” he said, looking over his spectacles.

I quickly said, “No problem,” and whipped out the credit card I’d been encouraged to use.

“Can you get your boarding passes and passports?” he asked. With a spring in my step, I scurried to Polly.

“Grab your passport and boarding pass and follow me,” I said. “They’ve upgraded us to First Class!”

Polly looked stunned, “How much?”

“No worries, mon,” I said. We returned to the podium and handed in our old tickets. I considered throwing away my roast beef sandwich. “Should we ditch our carry-on food?” I asked.

The female agent looked up. “Oh, don’t do that. This flight’s got little-to-no amenities due to the short flight time. Order drinks!”

We laughed and kept our sandwiches tucked in our bags. Within five minutes, we were heading with our new boarding passes to our seats. “Zone 1! Jamaica, baby!” I said. If the trip was off to this type of karmic start, where else could it go? I couldn’t wait to tell Steve.

“What can I do to pay you back?” Polly asked as we pulled our suitcases down the gangway.

“Buy me a drink,” I said and winked.

Approaching the door of the plane, my imagination shifted to time travel. The doorway was the portal that’d take me to a world in which Ameera reigned. Only eight troupe members knew my real identity. In Jamaica, I’d write whatever I wanted on a blank slate. Before I stepped over the threshold, I took a last breath as Kat and entered First Class as Ameera. I felt a shiver from my head to the base of my spine. Cool, maybe Ameera has a chance!

An hour into the flight, we’d eaten our roast beef sandwiches and had a Bloody Mary.

“I could get used to this,” Polly said, buckling her seatbelt. “While I was in the bathroom, I was thinking about our hotel . . .”

“Grand Lido?” I filled in.

“Yeah, that one,” Polly said. “I looked it up online. It’s unbelievable. Lots of cream stone pillars, beautiful light fixtures, tennis courts, and a spa. Water streams running beside the grand hallway.”

“I forgot about Sybil touring the Jamaican hotel group properties. Guess she worked on getting them to invite the troupe at the same time,” I said. “She never ceases to amaze me.”

“You won’t believe how luxurious everything looked. I took a virtual tour,” Polly said. “It looked like the type of place executives and wealthy people stay in. Like you, Ms. Medallion!”

“Geez, Polly. I’m a middle-class military brat,” I said, popping her on the shoulder. “I can count on the fingers of one hand how many plane rides I’d taken or hotels I’d stayed in before I married Steve. Your naval adventures trump mine!”

Memories of watching friends and family traveling and vacationing as a child, or while I raised my children and ran a law office, crept in. I exorcised them from my Ameera First-Class portal. The airplane was a chrysalis, and when I passed through the doorway into Montego Bay, I wanted a glittery aura illuminating my hot outfit.

“Earth to Kat?” Polly prompted.

“Sorry, exorcising Debbie Downer memories.” I offered her a reassuring smile. “They’re gone.” I closed my eyes, made my hands undulate, and exhaled like a good yogi. Well . . . half yogi and half belly dancer. “Another cocktail? You buy.”

She laughed, scanning the aisle for our flight attendant. “Let’s talk about the troupe.”

“You first. Share your thoughts on Sybil,” I said, dipping my chin and looking at her with my best intimidating eyebrow.

“That’s easy. I love her and I understand why she pushes us,” Polly said easily. “Her life experiences benefit us all. She’s danced more venues and countries than we ever will. Her poker face makes me dig deep inside when she tests us in class. I think she saw our hunger to continue dancing after the first six classes. She could’ve shoved us into her Wednesday class, but she wanted to mold and sculpt us faster. She saw something in us . . . even in you, Kat.”

I tried to put her last statement into my “dancer’s confidence” file. It went in, but with resistance. “I agree, but I still wanna step up my game,” I said. “So pick a girl. Tell me what you think first.”

“Jennifer,” she said.

I got excited. Jennifer had fascinated me from the first time she’d entered the nursing home performance and sat at the end of the table at the restaurant afterwards. From the chain mail draping her face to the henna on her feet, she’d inspired my desire to infuse belly dancing into my own life.

“If you look into her warm, brown eyes, she seems gentle and accepting. It may sound clichéd, but that scene in Alice in Wonderland where the Cheshire cat turns invisible but can’t hide his smile? That crescent-moon smile she displays always reminds me of that,” Polly said. The analogy was unlike Polly. She rarely used the words warm and gentle. “Her laughter’s engaging.” She paused and looked at me.

“I agree. There’s a natural sensuality about her, from makeup to personality. She’s encouraged me during our practices. She’s easy to talk to. Her stories are fascinating and risqué. Who owns a gypsy wagon and pulls it to dance festivals and dances around bonfires . . . or Piccolo Spoleto?”

Polly chuckled. The flight attendant appeared with two Bloody Marys.

“Thanks,” Polly said. “I think we’ll enjoy being with her and getting to know her better.”

“Cheers! Me too,” I agreed while we clinked our last cocktail.

“You pick the next one,” Polly said.

“Okay.” I thought of the other Forte sister. “Lara,” I said. The plane shuddered and I looked at Polly, eyes wide. “Was that weather or the name ‘Lara’?”

“Boo!” Polly said, flicking her fingers at me. “Lara’s a force to be reckoned with. She and Jennifer share physical family traits, but Lara’s not a follower. And Jennifer prefers to get along.” She played with her cocktail as the plane shuddered again.

I looked out the window, as I had periodically for two hours, trying to catch a glimpse of emerald-and-blue waters. All I’d seen were white-cotton billows of clouds for miles, shielding us from ocean views. Now the clouds were higher, warning of a storm. I felt the initial descent earlier and tried to work at clearing my ears.

“Did I tell you when I went to Lara’s house to learn her dance, we realized we’d met before?” I asked. Bing, bong over the intercom. I suspected the flight attendants would clear the cabin for our final descent so I took a swig of my drink. I knew I was numbing the panic of facing civilians in Jamaica who’d assume I knew what I was doing.

“Really? I first met Lara at Piccolo Spoleto . . . sweat, her infectious laughter, energetically sensual, raunchy humor. Flying hairpiece. She’s my kinda girl,” Polly added. “How’d you know each other?”

“After our last practice at her house when she taught me her dance, she invited me to have a beer while she finished cooking supper. I was telling her where I lived, and she asked if my husband’s name was Steve and if we lived at the end of a cul-de-sac. I said, ‘yes.’ She laughed and said, ‘I did the construction cleanup when you finished building your house.”

“How small is Charleston?” Polly asked.

We heard the wheels lower and knew the mystery was about to unfold.

We descended, and the clouds teased me as I tried to catch a glimpse of the water. Finally, as we glided under a cloudbank, the colors of the water did not disappoint. Polly was straining over my shoulder to see the clear, deep-blue patches. The clouds cast a shadow across the transparent water. Coral heads gave the illusion of freckles under the Caribbean Sea. The diver inside me hoped we’d find a chance to snorkel between classes and practices.