questions,” he pointed out.
“Where have you lived since you were born?” asked Reba, smiling triumphantly at having squeezed two questions into one.
Chance saluted her silently, admiring her quick intelligence. “I was born on the New Mexico-Texas-Mexico border. No one knows for sure where we were when mother couldn’t walk any further and lay down to have me beside the trail. Dad, as usual, was dragging her from one place to another on some damned fool treasure hunt and, as usual, his map was a smudged twentieth-century copy of a seventeenth-century liar’s tale.” Chance shrugged, but his eyes were the pale, transparent green of glacier ice. “New Mexico is listed as my birthplace on my passport.”
Reba listened intently, watching the subtle shift of expressions across Chance’s face.
“Eventually we went to Lightning Ridge. I don’t remember much from that time. I was too young. But if I had a home, I suppose it was Australia. Whenever Dad failed in one part of the world, we’d go back to Lightning Ridge until we’d found enough opals to buy another bloody treasure map.” He smiled grimly to himself. “There’s nothing crazier than a Texan with a treasure map, hellbent on wealth. Unless it’s that Texan’s son, hellbent on proving himself a man.”
“You?” she asked softly.
Chance shrugged. “I was thinking of Luck, but I suppose the description would have fitted me when I was fourteen.”
“How old is Luck?”
He said nothing. Then, “Luck is dead.”
Reba put her hand over Chance’s. His fingers curled around hers, accepting her wordless sympathy.
“I was almost fifteen when he died,” Chance continued in a voice that no longer drawled. “Luck was twenty-four, older but not smarter. He broke the first and only law of the South American jungle: Never drink with a diamond miner . When Luck didn’t come back to camp one night, I went looking for him. I didn’t find him, but I found the miner who had cut Luck’s throat.”
Reba waited, but Chance said no more.
“Afterwards, Glory—my older sister—sold the diamonds miners had given her and took me to Australia. Dad didn’t want to leave Venezuela. He’d heard that there was an even bigger diamond strike in Guaniamo, a few miles over on a tributary of the Orinoco River. Glory didn’t argue with Dad. She just bought our way out of the jungle and never looked back. We went to Lightning Ridge because that was the only place we’d been to more than once in our lives. She started up a small business hauling drinking water to the opal gougers.”
“What did you do?”
“Gouged opals with the best of them,” Chance said sardonically. “It gets in your blood worse than malaria.” He put his hand under Reba’s chin and tipped her head so that light flowed across the earrings she wore. “I could have been the one to tear these opals out of the earth,” he said softly, “sweating and bleeding in a tight black hole so that you could wear gems to equal your beauty. But they don’t equal it,” he murmured, brushing her ear with his soft moustache, smiling as she shivered beneath his touch.
The waiter appeared with two platters. A scarlet lobster crouched on each large plate, surrounded by crisp vegetables and pots of butter as clear as amber. While the mouth-watering scent of lobster rose up to Reba’s nostrils, the waiter poured a bit of wine in Chance’s glass. He tasted the wine, nodded, then handed the glass to Reba.
“It was your choice, after all,” he said, smiling. “You should have a chance to approve it.”
She tasted the wine and turned to the waiter. “Yes, we’ll take this one.”
For a time there was only silence and the sounds of lobster shells cracking as both Reba and Chance pried out succulent bites of pearly flesh. Reba had discovered long ago that there was no prim, civilized way to eat whole lobster. For the duration of the meal, fingers were considered nothing more than especially useful
“Where have you lived since you were born?” asked Reba, smiling triumphantly at having squeezed two questions into one.
Chance saluted her silently, admiring her quick intelligence. “I was born on the New Mexico-Texas-Mexico border. No one knows for sure where we were when mother couldn’t walk any further and lay down to have me beside the trail. Dad, as usual, was dragging her from one place to another on some damned fool treasure hunt and, as usual, his map was a smudged twentieth-century copy of a seventeenth-century liar’s tale.” Chance shrugged, but his eyes were the pale, transparent green of glacier ice. “New Mexico is listed as my birthplace on my passport.”
Reba listened intently, watching the subtle shift of expressions across Chance’s face.
“Eventually we went to Lightning Ridge. I don’t remember much from that time. I was too young. But if I had a home, I suppose it was Australia. Whenever Dad failed in one part of the world, we’d go back to Lightning Ridge until we’d found enough opals to buy another bloody treasure map.” He smiled grimly to himself. “There’s nothing crazier than a Texan with a treasure map, hellbent on wealth. Unless it’s that Texan’s son, hellbent on proving himself a man.”
“You?” she asked softly.
Chance shrugged. “I was thinking of Luck, but I suppose the description would have fitted me when I was fourteen.”
“How old is Luck?”
He said nothing. Then, “Luck is dead.”
Reba put her hand over Chance’s. His fingers curled around hers, accepting her wordless sympathy.
“I was almost fifteen when he died,” Chance continued in a voice that no longer drawled. “Luck was twenty-four, older but not smarter. He broke the first and only law of the South American jungle: Never drink with a diamond miner . When Luck didn’t come back to camp one night, I went looking for him. I didn’t find him, but I found the miner who had cut Luck’s throat.”
Reba waited, but Chance said no more.
“Afterwards, Glory—my older sister—sold the diamonds miners had given her and took me to Australia. Dad didn’t want to leave Venezuela. He’d heard that there was an even bigger diamond strike in Guaniamo, a few miles over on a tributary of the Orinoco River. Glory didn’t argue with Dad. She just bought our way out of the jungle and never looked back. We went to Lightning Ridge because that was the only place we’d been to more than once in our lives. She started up a small business hauling drinking water to the opal gougers.”
“What did you do?”
“Gouged opals with the best of them,” Chance said sardonically. “It gets in your blood worse than malaria.” He put his hand under Reba’s chin and tipped her head so that light flowed across the earrings she wore. “I could have been the one to tear these opals out of the earth,” he said softly, “sweating and bleeding in a tight black hole so that you could wear gems to equal your beauty. But they don’t equal it,” he murmured, brushing her ear with his soft moustache, smiling as she shivered beneath his touch.
The waiter appeared with two platters. A scarlet lobster crouched on each large plate, surrounded by crisp vegetables and pots of butter as clear as amber. While the mouth-watering scent of lobster rose up to Reba’s nostrils, the waiter poured a bit of wine in Chance’s glass. He tasted the wine, nodded, then handed the glass to Reba.
“It was your choice, after all,” he said, smiling. “You should have a chance to approve it.”
She tasted the wine and turned to the waiter. “Yes, we’ll take this one.”
For a time there was only silence and the sounds of lobster shells cracking as both Reba and Chance pried out succulent bites of pearly flesh. Reba had discovered long ago that there was no prim, civilized way to eat whole lobster. For the duration of the meal, fingers were considered nothing more than especially useful
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