Sweet Revenge

and spinning in Lord & Taylor’s window display while the bitter wind had blown through her fur-collared coat and the smell of hot chestnuts had drifted around her. In New York there would be bells ringing on every corner, music piped into every store. Carrier would be wrapped in its bright bow. Along Fifth Avenue the sea of people would be so thick that you could get caught in the current and be swept along for blocks.
    Exhilarating. There was no other place in the world that was more exhilarating than New York at Christmas. And for Adrianne, there was no place more depressing.
    Christmas had been forbidden in Jaquir, even public celebrations for the tourists and Western workers. There could be no ornaments, no carols, not even a branch of pine.No little glass balls with snow dancing inside. The law forbade it.
    There were memories of Christmas, some happy, some sad. She knew they had to be faced, but not in New York, where she had decorated her last tree, trying desperately to involve her mother in the festivities. It was in New York that she had wrapped her last bright packages, boxes Phoebe had never opened.
    It was in New York five years before that she had found her mother dead on the bathroom floor in the predawn hours of Christmas morning. That last Christmas, where she and Phoebe and Celeste had sat together, drinking eggnog and listening to carols on the stereo. And her mother had gone to bed early.
    Where Phoebe had gotten the scotch or the bright blue pills Adrianne had never learned. Wherever they had come from, they had done their work.
    So she ran at Christmas, though she knew it was weak. Monte Carlo, Aruba, Maui—wherever the sun was hot. Sometimes she worked when she ran, sometimes she did nothing. On this trip she would do both, and tomorrow morning, when the bells rang for Christmas, she would have completed the job.
    It hadn’t been nerves that had made her decide to spend the day away from the St. Johns’ resort. She’d simply wanted to be alone, anonymous. After two days she’d had enough of cocktail parties and chummy chats by the pool. She chose the beach bordering the El Presidente, not as Princess Adrianne or as Lara O’Conner, but as Adrianne Spring.
    Thirsty, with her legs beginning to ache, she paddled toward the beach. Carrying her mask and flippers, she crossed the sand to the thatched umbrellalike hut that shaded the rest of her gear. Easily, she ignored two men who lay sunning nearby, sipping Dos Equis and hoping for a score.
    “Adrianne.”
    Still rubbing her hair dry, Adrianne turned toward a woman approaching her. Her body was lush and golden, set off by two narrow strings that made Adrianne’s bikini look like a suit of armor. Her hair was dark, cut short and swingy at the chin. For a moment there was only annoyance at being disturbed. Then there was recognition.
    “Duja?” With a laugh Adrianne dropped the towel and opened her arms to her cousin. “It is you.” They exchanged kisses on both cheeks then drew back, one to study the other.
    “This is wonderful.” Duja’s low musical voice brought back memories both sweet and sad. Long, stifling afternoons in the harem, a cool arbor in the garden where two young girls had listened to stories told by an old woman. “How long has it been?”
    “Seven years, eight. What are you doing here?”
    “Pouting, until now. We were in Cancán, and J.T. decided to sail over because he thinks the diving’s best here. I can’t believe I nearly stayed back at the hotel pool. Are you alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll catch up.” She linked her arm through Adrianne’s and started toward the bar. “I read about you all the time, Princess Adrianne attending the opening of the ballet, Princess Adrianne arriving at the Spring Ball. I suppose that you’ve been too busy to come to Houston for a visit.”
    “I couldn’t. While Mama was alive it wasn’t easy to travel. After …” She watched as Duja lit up a slim brown cigarette. “I didn’t think I could bear seeing you, or anyone from Jaquir.”
    “I grieved for you.” Duja touched on the subject of Phoebe’s death as lightly as she touched Adrianne’s hand. “Your mother was always kind to me. I have warm memories.
Dos margaritas, por favor”
she told the bartender, then glanced at Adrianne. “All right?”
    “Yes, thanks. So much time gone. It doesn’t seem real.”
    She blew out a stream of smoke. “A long way from the