“We’re here,” announced the chauffeur into an intercom perched beside a
metal fence that seemed to have been erected more to keep wildlife out than
to prevent interlopers from getting in.
The gate opened. Slowly.
The SUV rolled down a winding road
teeming with bougainvillea,
hibiscus, frangipani and Boucle d’Oreille, the national flower of Mauritius,
along the sides. The driver opened his window, inviting in a sea breeze
carrying a swirling scent that also included fresh
jasmine mixed with rich
roses. Gardeners in smart gardening attire waved sincere waves. One shouted
“Bonjour” as the vehicle sailed by. Another said “Bonzour” as two fat doves
the size of a trucker’s fist hopped along a stone path.
The billionaire’s house was low-key. The design was of the beachfront
chic sort. Kind of a Martha’s Vineyard cottage meets Swedish farmhouse feel.
It was both sensationally beautiful and completely private.
A massive veranda at the back of the home extended over the ocean. A
muddy mountain bike leaned against a wall. A surfboard rested near the end
of the driveway. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows were the only extravagant
architectural flourish. More precious flowers were meticulously arranged
along a deck where a trolley supporting hors d’oeuvres, assorted cheeses and
a service of fresh lemon tea with precisely cut slices of ginger waited. Sun-
bleached gray steps wound down to a breathtakingly lovely beach,
the type
seen in the travel magazines the elite crowd like to read.
Amid all this exquisiteness, an isolated figure stood on the milk-colored
sand. He made not one movement. Perfect stillness.
The man was Eiffel Tower tall, shirtless and bronzed, and sporting a pair
of loose shorts with a camouflage pattern. Canary yellow sandals and uber-
stylish sunglasses, the kind you might purchase on Via dei Condotti in Rome,
completed the surfer Zen meets Soho swagger appearance. He peered out into
the sea, remaining still as a star in the big African sky.
“There,”
said the entrepreneur, pointing. “We finally get to see our host.
The illustrious Mr. Riley,” she noted energetically, picking up her pace as she
hustled down the wooden stairs that led to the seashore. “Look at him! He’s
just hanging out by the water, soaking up those rays and totally lovin’ life.
Told you he’s special. So happy I trusted my gut and agreed to this wonderful
escapade. He’s been true to his word, in a world where too many people say
things they never do and make promises they fail to keep. He’s been super-
consistent. He’s treated us so well. He doesn’t even know us, and yet he’s
really trying to help us. Zero doubt in my mind he’s got our backs. Hurry up,
will you,” she urged her slow-moving
companion as she waved an
encouraging hand. “I feel like giving Mr. Riley a giant hug!”
The artist laughed as a baby gecko jaywalked across a broad plank. He
took off his black shirt in the dazzling sunshine, exposing a Buddha-sized
belly and man breasts the size of fleshy mangoes.
“Me, too. He does walk his preach. Man, I need to get some sun,” the
painter murmured as he sped up to stay close to the entrepreneur. He breathed
hard.
As the two guests walked toward the man at the water’s
edge of this
Nirvana of an ocean compound, they observed there were no other houses in
sight. Not even one. Just a few wooden fishing boats with paint peeled off
from the passage of years moored in the shallow waters near the shore. And
aside from the sun worshipping empire-builder in Italian shades, there was no
other human being in evidence. Anywhere.
“Mr. Riley,” shouted the artist, now on the sand hungrily sucking air into
his extraordinarily unfit lungs.
The slender figure remained as fixed as a palace guard awaiting the arrival
of the royal motorcade.
“Mr. Riley,” echoed the entrepreneur passionately.
No response. The man just kept looking out at the sea and at container
ships the size of football stadiums that sat sprinkled across the horizon.
The artist soon stood behind the set of intensely tanned shoulders of the
figure and tapped three times on the left one.
Instantly, the figure spun
around. The two visitors gasped. The entrepreneur put a slender hand over her
mouth. The artist jerked backward, instinctively, before falling to the sand.
Both were stunned by what they saw.
It was The Spellbinder.
Chapter 7
Preparation for a Transformation Begins in
Paradise
“A child has no trouble believing the unbelievable, nor does the genius or the madman. It’s only you
and I, with our big brains and our tiny hearts, who doubt and overthink and hesitate.”
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