This story is copyright of Destinie 21 and RenzaJones please don't reproduce. Enjoy.
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Usually at this hour the beach was not nearly so deserted as it was now. Only a few lethargic sunbathers remained, and up the coast a little ways you could see a group of local boy engaged in their daily game of fútbol, a sport which to me would always be thought of as soccer.
The sun was beginning its daily descent and submitting readily to dusk which would soon slip quietly and gently into the night. The sky for the first and only time today was distinguished from the blue-green of the water. As the daily phenomenon of nightfall crept upon it there were streaks of pink purple and red-orange making their way across the horizon as the fiery ball of the sun became muted and appeared to slowly drown in the rich waters.
I turned away from the sunset, barely touched by it's beauty. I had been in Rio for five years now, and although I had tried to assimilate myself into the culture I feared I would always have the sleek healthy appearance of a rich American in a foreign land. I had known poverty in the states and been what the government would have sanctioned as poor, but my arrival in Brazil at the age of 23 had taught me that the way I had lived was leaps and bounds beyond the poverty of the masses in this country. Still it's beauty and the spirituality of its people had me loving it from the first moment I stepped off of the airplane.
It was two days before Christmas and as my feet traced the steps to our house I found myself reminiscing and reliving the past. As I walked I saw that someone had put a Christmas tree and for the first time it was lighted. Even after all these years of spending holidays here I found the appearance of a Christmas tree odd. The northern fir all luminescent with lights and decorations seemed out of place in the heat, as if someone had put it up as a lark in July, trying for what they thought might be bohemian. I walked along the mosaic sidewalk that smacked of old Portugal influences and thought.
I couldn't fool my body into my daydream but my mind wandered back to a time when I had lived in New York. I knew it was slightly neurotic the way I was constantly reliving the past but knowing did not cause me to stop. Instead it was reason for worry, I had thought that I wouldn't start reliving the past until I was middle aged. But here I was wishing for snow, black ice, down coats and the discomfort of a broken radiator in a little tiny apartment with White Christmas blaring from a clock radio, and a table top tree winking away in the night.
I would perhaps have talked to my psychiatrist about this issue had it not been so very personal. The reason I was reminiscing and pining so for the days before I became a best selling mystery author and before Isabel had become a household name was because I missed what we'd had then.
In the first months of our "marriage" I had loved to lie in bed on Sunday mornings watching Isabel slumber. In those days she had loved to sleep until at least eleven. I on the other hand have always been restless and compelled to rise early, fearing that in my slumber life might be passing me by. I would lay in bed and watch her sleep at times dozing back into dreams myself. I couldn't believe she had agreed to spend the rest of her life with me, just that fact alone kept a smile on my face.
She would rise late and we would eat a breakfast of whatever was in the house. Generally it wasn't much unless she had gotten a good acting spot and therefore a good check. My check always went to pay rent and some utilities. Isabel was an actress, well a struggling one anyway. In the meantime she waited tables. I was a writer for an up and coming gay and lesbian magazine simply called Pulse. The pay was good enough and besides that they were the only magazine hiring or at least the only one willing to hire me. So there we were
For the two years of our union we had struggled and at times it was a miracle that we had made ends meet, but we had done it. Sometimes we'd had to rob Peter to pay Paul but the important bills were always paid. I was still at Pulse although my real passion was a novel that I was writing on the side. Still I was practical and I knew I had to do what would pay the bills. Right about the time I finished the book, Bella landed a job on soap. We would both laugh until tears ran down our face at the lines her character had to speak but at the show she was the epitome of professionalism and she played the role as if it were a Spielberg movie
As such things go she stayed on the soap for only six months before the character was killed off in a horrible boating accident, of course the body was never found so there was always the hope that she would be recast, but no such luck. Two or three months after her role on the Soap ended she was advised by her agent to go to a casting audition for a movie. Apparently the wife of the producer was a die-hard fan of Bella's soap and had requested that she be invited to try out. Nearly everyone had taken her as a joke because she had only a few commercials and a daytime drama as background, but after the first audition no one had been laughing. The rest as they say is history. I was genuinely happy for her, why wouldn't I be when I loved her so? For me things were going less great, every publishing house I'd sent my work to had sent me rejection letters. I literally felt that with each rejection my heart was being ripped out. Nobody wanted a first time author especially in the mystery category. Apparently this genre required a steady fan base and as an unknown I was too risky, I spent my time sulking although I was already working on my next novel. This one wasn't a mystery instead it was a bodice ripper with barely any content and predictable results. This book only took only a few months to pen, instead of the year and a half I'd spent slaving over research and forensic science books for my first novel.
I'd sent it to the romance peddlers under the pen name Bella S. Menina Barely anyone got the joke but the book was published. The book in my mind felt like some sort of cosmic joke, I was laughing all the way to the bank with the royalties' check.
Eventually I'd had enough money to self publish and print my books. Selling them hadn't been a problem, once I got an up and coming actress who also happened to be my wife to endorse them. After I had an underground "cult" following publishing houses had been falling all over themselves trying to pick me up.
At the time struggling hadn't seemed quite so quaint as it did in retrospect, but at least I'd had Bella to struggle with and that made it bearable. Now we were both living our dreams but the togetherness was gone. Sure we lived in the same house, hell we even shared a bed but the bond that had once been the strongest thing in my life seemed weak and frail. I couldn't put my finger on what exactly made me feel at once too comfortable and quite uncomfortable with the woman I had loved for eight years.
Bella had wanted, no needed to move to Brazil to care for her ailing father dying too young from skin cancer. Years of working bare back in the Caribbean sun without the protection of SPF had proved to be his demise.
She had put her flourishing career on hold to care for a man she barely knew; Not coming with her had not even been an option in my mind. After we'd gotten here we had both fallen in love with the landscape as well as the people. We had decided to stay on even after the death of Bella's father. The reasons were far less superficial than a liking for the tropical atmosphere, in support of the Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra, or the MST Bella had chosen to live on the land that her father owned. By doing so she could ensure that the land would be used to contribute to the advancement of the Brazilian economy. Instead of being used for crops that would be used only for export. In such cases where export was the main goal the economy took a beating, since the sale of the crops would benefit only the owners of the land on which the crops grew (which would be foreign corporations).
