Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

Shamelessly, I go through his drawers. He also seems to have a fetish for expensive watches and cufflinks. Where does he wear all of these formal clothes?

A glass of orange juice and an apple are set out on a small table next to the tub. Heat creeps into my cheeks when I spot the discarded condom in the trashcan next to the vanity. Ian hasn’t even made an attempt to hide it. The evidence of our intimate act is there in plain sight for anyone to see. Grabbing a tissue from the box on the vanity, I let it float down into the trash. I’m not modest, but certain things are private.

Crunching into the apple, I go back for my clothes. I washed them in the hotel before Ian kidnapped me, but I find them dry and folded. Opting for a quick shower instead of the tub, I use my own shampoo but Ian’s body gel as I didn’t pack any. The smell reminds me of our first and second times together. Under different circumstances, it’s a smell I could’ve gotten addicted to.

After dressing and drying my hair, I step out onto the deck and give a start. A woman dressed in a batik-motive dress with a matching turban is offloading dishes from a tray onto the wooden table. The dishes are covered with cone-shaped wicker lids.

“Ah,” she says with a bright smile. “You’re awake.”

The reeds next to the river rustle. A child’s voice rises above the rush of the water.

“She’s awake,” he says in Tswana.

Giggles follow.

The woman scolds and shoos with her hand. Replying in Tswana, she says in an angry voice, “Why aren’t you in school? Go now or I’ll take the skin off your backsides. You know it’s dangerous to walk by the river.”

Two boys, one not older than five and the other about ten, run from the reeds for the shelter of a tree.

I smile and say in Tswana, “It seems my arrival has been announced.”

It’s her turn to give a start. “You speak our language.”

“I grew up on a farm. My nanny was from Botswana.”

Approval flickers in her dark eyes. “The boys are just curious. You mustn’t tell Ian. He’ll be cross.”

“I won’t.”

She motions at the dishes. “Breakfast.”

“Um, thank you.” I wipe my hair behind my ear. “Where’s Ian?”

“He’s busy, but he’ll be back for you by lunchtime. You shouldn’t wander around alone. There are wild animals and our property isn’t fenced into camps.”

“Is this a game farm?”

She flashes a set of white teeth. “The big five. My name is Shona. I take care of the cooking and housekeeping, so if you need anything, just ask. You can use the two-way radio in the room to dial me at the main building.”

“There’s a radio?” I haven’t noticed one during my exploration.

“In the top drawer of the dresser.”

“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already turned on her heel.

She goes down the steps to where a man dressed in green bush khakis with a rifle in his hands leans against a tree. For protection against the wild animals, I presume. A brick and mortar prison couldn’t have been more effective. I know better than anyone how dangerous wandering in an unfenced property with wild animals is.

Breakfast is a spread of sliced fruit, cheese, butter, fig preserve, and a mini loaf of bread. The bread is still warm, steam escaping when I break off the crust. I taste a bit of everything and pour a cup of coffee from the flask that came with breakfast. I sip the strong brew while appreciating the view. I’m too tense to enjoy it, but it’s impossible not to admire such beauty and the abundance of fresh air. I missed this in Rustenburg. After six years of living in my apartment, I got used to the cramped space, but I never stopped longing for the borderless fields of the farm.

A commotion in the Marula tree next to the deck pulls my attention. A monkey swings down to the lowest branch and perches on the end, watching the food on the table with cunning interest. Ah-ha. That’s what the cone-shaped covers are for. I cover the leftover food and get a disgruntled squeal from my friend on the branch.

“Sorry, buddy.”

If I feed him, he’ll get used to begging, and he’ll stop hunting for food himself. It’s a sure way of killing a wild animal with kindness.

To be on the safe side, I carry the tray with the dishes inside when the sun gets too hot to stay out on the deck. I make the bed, pulling the sheets straight and fluffing out the pillows. My mom taught me if you slept in it, you make it, and it’s a habit that stuck.

With nothing else to do, I scan the books on the bookshelf in the bedroom. Ian has an eclectic collection of mostly self-help and educational books. The topics cover everything from warfare and computer coding to Chinese medicine. After the second shelf, I give up. The subjects are too intellectual to hold my attention. I’m too on edge. What I need is a movie that requires no thinking, something with a lot of action. As there’s no television or laptop, I switch on the ceiling fan and settle in the rocking chair in front of the sliding doors.