Read Online Cry in the Night by Carolyn G. Hart - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
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different color, rose and aqua, lemon and orange. The effect was enchanting.
Even in the brief moment that I surveyed the patio, I knew it was a work of art, as imposing in its way as the house. Here the lava was tamed. The cost must have been enormous, much like quarrying rock. A gently sloping lawn with graveled paths spread down to the rugged cliff of lava. The lights, the occasional wrought-iron benches, the paths and fountains, all were in perfect harmony. Vines flowed over trellises and clung to the lava cliff. Flowers spread apparently without plan but on second glance were artfully sown. All the paths led to a central tiled fountain where water fell in a graceful circle from what I later realized was a miniaturized version of Tlaloc, the great water god. Dominating the whole was the cliff of lava. The cliff emphasized the delicacy and perfection of the garden and, at the same time, reminded how insubstantial is man’s handiwork. The garden was both beautiful and disturbing. I wondered it that had been its creator’s intent.
All of the garden, neat and perfect, could be seen from where we stood. Whatever the cause of that cry in the night, it had left no trace here. The benches sat empty. The paths lay smooth and unmarred. The central fountain splashed softly in its tiled circle.
“Look there,” he urged, pointing toward a bush behind the nearest bench. He bent down and scooped up a smooth stone and flung it.
The bush quivered and broke apart. In its shadow were sleeping peacocks. They stirred and ran. Two of them spread their magnificent tails. Feathers with huge eyes shone like ripples of quicksilver in the soft lamplight. Two outraged cries sounded, high and shrill and near enough to a scream to satisfy anyone.
Tony Ortega watched them scurry away.
“You see?”
I nodded. The peacocks cried, yes, but that was not the cry I heard. I nodded without answering. We turned and moved back into the house. He touched the switch and the lovely lights behind us faded and dimmed.
I thanked him and again turned down an offer to swim and once more apologize for disturbing him, but I was quickly reassured. It was all very pleasant and civilized. I felt let down because I liked him very much and felt very strongly, deep in my bones, that he was hiding something in this elegant house, hiding something both sad and frightening.
My vague feeling of disappointment crystallized abruptly when we reached the stairs and I looked up. I felt, confusedly, that his exclamation when we met must have been patently phony for there, standing at the top of the stone steps, was a truly beautiful blonde. I felt not only disappointed but like a fool. I am a garden-variety honey blonde with regular-enough features and a sprinkle of freckles. I have always been a little proud of my green eyes because they are nicely shaped and a bright, clear sea green, but I know they aren’t anything spectacular.
The blonde standing at the head of the stairs was spectacular in any language, English, Spanish, what have you. Most men probably wouldn’t care whether she spoke anything at all.
Tony Ortega stopped at the foot of the stairs. The hand politely guiding my arm gripped it harshly for one fleeting moment, then dropped away.
She was one of those women who can make every other woman in a room feel like a drudge. She stood gracefully, one hand clasping the folds of her ice blue dressing gown, and her soft golden hair swirled to her shoulders, shining like moonlight.
She spoke Spanish and her voice was low and husky and sounded like the smoke that wreathes gently upward in a cocktail bar.
Tony replied in English, “Miss Ramsay, our guest from New York, was wakened by one of the peacocks. She mistook the cry for a person and hurried to see if anyone was hurt.”
He turned to me. “Miss Ramsay, I don’t believe you have met Señora Ortega.” He paused, then added expressionlessly, “My father’s wife.”
I said hello as gracefully as I
Even in the brief moment that I surveyed the patio, I knew it was a work of art, as imposing in its way as the house. Here the lava was tamed. The cost must have been enormous, much like quarrying rock. A gently sloping lawn with graveled paths spread down to the rugged cliff of lava. The lights, the occasional wrought-iron benches, the paths and fountains, all were in perfect harmony. Vines flowed over trellises and clung to the lava cliff. Flowers spread apparently without plan but on second glance were artfully sown. All the paths led to a central tiled fountain where water fell in a graceful circle from what I later realized was a miniaturized version of Tlaloc, the great water god. Dominating the whole was the cliff of lava. The cliff emphasized the delicacy and perfection of the garden and, at the same time, reminded how insubstantial is man’s handiwork. The garden was both beautiful and disturbing. I wondered it that had been its creator’s intent.
All of the garden, neat and perfect, could be seen from where we stood. Whatever the cause of that cry in the night, it had left no trace here. The benches sat empty. The paths lay smooth and unmarred. The central fountain splashed softly in its tiled circle.
“Look there,” he urged, pointing toward a bush behind the nearest bench. He bent down and scooped up a smooth stone and flung it.
The bush quivered and broke apart. In its shadow were sleeping peacocks. They stirred and ran. Two of them spread their magnificent tails. Feathers with huge eyes shone like ripples of quicksilver in the soft lamplight. Two outraged cries sounded, high and shrill and near enough to a scream to satisfy anyone.
Tony Ortega watched them scurry away.
“You see?”
I nodded. The peacocks cried, yes, but that was not the cry I heard. I nodded without answering. We turned and moved back into the house. He touched the switch and the lovely lights behind us faded and dimmed.
I thanked him and again turned down an offer to swim and once more apologize for disturbing him, but I was quickly reassured. It was all very pleasant and civilized. I felt let down because I liked him very much and felt very strongly, deep in my bones, that he was hiding something in this elegant house, hiding something both sad and frightening.
My vague feeling of disappointment crystallized abruptly when we reached the stairs and I looked up. I felt, confusedly, that his exclamation when we met must have been patently phony for there, standing at the top of the stone steps, was a truly beautiful blonde. I felt not only disappointed but like a fool. I am a garden-variety honey blonde with regular-enough features and a sprinkle of freckles. I have always been a little proud of my green eyes because they are nicely shaped and a bright, clear sea green, but I know they aren’t anything spectacular.
The blonde standing at the head of the stairs was spectacular in any language, English, Spanish, what have you. Most men probably wouldn’t care whether she spoke anything at all.
Tony Ortega stopped at the foot of the stairs. The hand politely guiding my arm gripped it harshly for one fleeting moment, then dropped away.
She was one of those women who can make every other woman in a room feel like a drudge. She stood gracefully, one hand clasping the folds of her ice blue dressing gown, and her soft golden hair swirled to her shoulders, shining like moonlight.
She spoke Spanish and her voice was low and husky and sounded like the smoke that wreathes gently upward in a cocktail bar.
Tony replied in English, “Miss Ramsay, our guest from New York, was wakened by one of the peacocks. She mistook the cry for a person and hurried to see if anyone was hurt.”
He turned to me. “Miss Ramsay, I don’t believe you have met Señora Ortega.” He paused, then added expressionlessly, “My father’s wife.”
I said hello as gracefully as I
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