Beachbound (Pineapple Cay Stories Book 2)

by Junie Coffey

  “Hmm,” said Nina. “Did Miss Rose ever complain about his music or his habit of walking around in the nude?”

  “What?” asked Pansy, giggling. Ribbons of dark-red hair fluttered wildly around her face in the breeze. “Is that what he’s up to these days? Miss Rose never mentioned any noise. She was pretty hard of hearing the last few years. Couldn’t see that well, either, come to think of it. She wore glasses with very thick lenses.”

  “That explains a lot,” said Nina. “I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s him, but he’s really getting under my skin. I think it’s him.”

  “Did you talk to him?” asked Pansy.

  “Yes,” replied Nina. “He told me that Duran Duran was vital to his fulfillment as a human being and that I needed to loosen up. He also told me that I’d messed up my chances with him because I’m too uptight. Darn.”

  Pansy laughed. “Oh, that’s too bad, Nina.” She paused for a second, her head cocked to one side. “Sometimes I feel a bit sorry for Les, even though he can be an annoying know-it-all. It always seems like he’s trying to prove something, even when no one is really paying much attention.”

  They had arrived at the turnoff to the dirt road that led to Veronica’s farm. Pansy slowed down to slalom around the potholes. In a couple of minutes they crested a low rise, and the orderly rows of Veronica’s orange and mango groves, her greenhouses, and the vibrant green squares of her herb and vegetable gardens lay spread out before them. Among the gardens and orchards stood a white clapboard farmhouse with a wraparound porch. The backdrop to the whole spread was the sapphire-blue Atlantic Ocean, its surface whipped up to frothy whitecaps. As they rolled to a stop at the front door of the farmhouse, Nina could hear the thunder of the waves crashing against the beach below the cliffs that formed the back perimeter of the farm.

  Nina unfolded herself from the golf cart and stretched her arms above her head, taking a deep breath of the fresh sea air. The sun warmed her shoulders and back like a deep muscle massage. A couple of dogs lay stretched out on the veranda in front of the screen door, snoozing in the midday heat. They barely opened their eyes as Pansy and Nina stepped over them. Delicious smells wafted out to meet them.

  “Mmm. Smells like Veronica baked a key lime pie. Yum,” said Pansy.

  Nina pulled open the screen door and called out, “Hello! We’re here, and we’ve brought wine!” They followed the divinely mingled smells of lime and curry to the kitchen. Veronica was standing at the stove, stirring something in a tall copper-bottomed pot. Her long, cornrowed, silver-streaked black hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, revealing dangling gold medallion earrings. Her fingertips flashed pink polish, which matched the fuchsia silk blouse she wore. Veronica was by far the most glamorous farmer Nina had ever met.

  The style of her kitchen, however, was homey comfort. A square wooden table stood in the middle of the room. It was surrounded by four chairs and topped with a checked blue-and-white tablecloth and a mason jar filled with blossoms. Nina opened the fridge and put the wine in to chill.

  “Hello, ladies! How is it?” sang Veronica. “I made curried sweet potato–coconut soup. Let’s go out to the garden and pick some salad greens to go with it.” She turned down the heat under the pot, passed them each a basket of the type made by local women and sold in the market, and pushed open the back door to the porch. It was furnished with a couple of white wicker chaise longues with faded cushions angled toward the water view. Sheets and towels snapped in the breeze on a clothesline that ran between a porch post and the corner of an outbuilding off to the side. A few steps away was Veronica’s kitchen garden.

  “Oh, these tomatoes are looking good. Let’s have some of these,” Veronica said, plucking plump red, yellow, and orange cherry tomatoes from waist-high plants neatly staked along one side of the vegetable patch. “Pansy, cut some of that coriander and dill, eh? Nina, there is arugula, green-leaf lettuce, and some spinach in that row next to you. That’ll make a nice mix.”

  Nina tiptoed carefully between the orderly rows of plants and bent down to pinch off a basketful of leaves of different shades of green. They carried their baskets back into the kitchen, where Nina washed the tomatoes and greens and made the salad while Veronica mixed a dressing and Pansy gathered dishes and utensils.

  They ate outside at a table under the shade of an ancient mango tree. The wine was cold and crisp, the curried soup delicious, and the company entertaining. Nina felt the wine warm her brain and a sense of well-being envelop her.

  “So, Veronica, you know everything that happens on this island. What do you know about Les Jones?” asked Pansy. “Nina says he’s back.”

  Veronica snorted and shook her head slowly, then took a sip of her wine.

  “That boy arrived in Coconut Cove with a big wad of cash four, five years ago. He tore down the little chattel house next door to Rose’s place—your place now,” she said, smiling at Nina, “and hired the Johnson brothers to build him that bungalow. Paid for the whole thing in twenty-dollar bills, Joe Johnson told me.”

  “Why cash?” asked Nina. “And how did he come by enough of it to build a house?”

  “Well, he tells everyone he meets at The Redoubt that he’s a professional card player. Who knows? He disappears for months at a time, and then suddenly he’s back, in the bar every night, telling stories about the night he fleeced a Saudi prince in an all-night poker game in Macau, et cetera. The young college girls on spring holiday eat it up, hanging on his every word. Baffling to me, but then I’m not twenty years old anymore, thanks to God.”

  They all chuckled at that.

  “Funny thing,” continued Veronica. “Leslie always comes in alone. Doesn’t always leave alone, but I don’t know anyone on the island who would say they know him well.”

  “There was that girl who came here on holiday and caused a scene in The Redoubt one night, remember, Veronica?” said Pansy. “She poured a pitcher of beer over Les’s head and told him off. Something about how she’d thought he was a real man, but he was just an overgrown teenager.”

  “Yes, I remember,” nodded Veronica. “Some women take men far too seriously. Like they’re some form of mystical creature. The best approach is to take them at face value. Literally. What they’re thinking is usually written all over their faces.”

  Nina thought of her conversation with Blue earlier that day. His laser gaze and the photo on his desk that she hadn’t had a chance to sneak a peek at.

  “What about Blue?” asked Nina. “What does his face say?”

  Pansy giggled. Veronica raised an eyebrow and looked at Nina for a moment before replying.

  “Ah, well. Blue,” Veronica said. She took a sip of her wine. “He might be a special case. That one has got the stone-faced look down pat.”

  “What’s his story?” asked Nina. “Did you know him growing up?

  “I used to babysit him when he was little. His parents were very strict. Devout. Like his sister, Agatha. He was a quiet kid. Read a lot. Had a pet lizard, I remember. His parents sent him away to high school to some cousins up north, and I didn’t see much of him for ten years. He’d changed quite a bit by the time he came home.” She laughed lightly.

  “Does he have a girlfriend?” asked Pansy.

  “I heard rumors about someone he’d met in college, but he came back here on his own, must be close to fifteen years ago now. He doesn’t talk much about his private life,” said Veronica. “He comes and goes a lot to the main island. It’s possible he has someone over there, but he’s never told me, and I’ve never asked.”

  “And what about you, Veronica?” asked Nina. “What’s the story? I imagine men throw themselves at your feet on a weekly basis. Successful businesswoman. Amazing cook. As fit as an Olympian, and all-around fabulous. Where are you stashing them?”

  Veronica chuckled and shook her head.

  “In my experience, men are an unsubtle flavoring to life. If you aren’t careful, they can overpower the dish,” she s
aid. “I got married right out of high school. Just like the rest of the girls in my class. Had my babies boom, boom, boom. One right after the other. Next time I looked up, my babies were in high school themselves, and their daddy was living on the main island with his new girlfriend. That was just fine with me. I was thirty-six years old when I signed the lease for the restaurant. All on my own. My granny left me this farm shortly after that, and I haven’t had any regrets. Like my granddaddy used to say, ‘Don’t look back―something might be gaining on you.’” She threw her head back and laughed.

  3

  The next two weeks were busy for Nina. She made several trips to the Plantation Inn and a flurry of calls to New York to finalize arrangements for the conference. In between, she nursed the flowers in her window boxes with the medicine Blue had recommended. The cottage she had bought off the Internet in the middle of the night less than two months ago felt more like home every day, but it still needed some fixing up. She devoted one morning to painting her bedroom walls robin’s-egg blue, and the next to covering the bathroom with a nice leaf-green on the walls and fresh white trim. The following day she started the daunting task of sanding the pine floorboards down so that she could varnish them. At least she’d have muscle tone in her arms when her renovations were finally done, she told herself.

  As she had every day since she moved to Pineapple Cay, Nina made a point of stopping whatever she was doing in the late afternoon. She’d peel off her sweaty work clothes, put on her bathing suit, and take a dip in the sea in front of her cottage. The silky water felt exquisite on her tired muscles as she took a few strokes back and forth, then lay on her back in the water, facing the beach. She looked with satisfaction and contentment at her sweet yellow cottage set in a grove of tall, graceful palm trees. Her own piece of paradise. After her swim, she took a warm shower, put on her favorite soft flannel shirt and jeans, mixed herself an exotic cocktail from the tropical drinks recipe book her friend Louise had given her as a going-away gift, and sat on her veranda watching the sun sink into the sea. As she did every evening, she let her eyes drift up toward the fishing lodge and watched the skiffs come back from a day on the flats. Half a dozen vacationing sport fishermen and their guides would unload their gear from the boats and head up the path to the lodge for dinner, their laughter and banter floating down the beach to her ears. She looked for Ted’s distinctive wide-brimmed hat among them, but he wasn’t there. He must still be away, she concluded.

  On the day before the Delancy Symposium was due to begin, Nina woke early. She stretched as she lay in bed, gazing out at the morning sunlight filtering through the green fronds of the trees outside her window. The birds were singing with purpose. Philip and the first batch of delegates would be arriving midmorning, but she had a bit of time to enjoy the peace before heading out to the airport. She hopped out of bed with a plan for a healthy mango-banana smoothie and yoga on the veranda. Part of her new island regime, starting today.

  A few minutes later, Nina pushed open the screen door and stepped outside. She breathed in the soft sea air and let it out slowly. She looked left. All was quiet at Villa Van Halen. The only sounds were the wind chimes she’d hung from the eaves of her cottage and the slow, steady shushing of the surf. The hammock she had hung between two coconut palm trees swayed invitingly in the light breeze. She decided to take her smoothie and stretch out there with a new mystery novel for a while after she’d done her exercises. What better way to spend a quiet Sunday morning? Feeling virtuous for getting up so early to exercise, and at peace with the universe, Nina sighed with contentment and unfurled her new yoga mat. She led off with a Sun Salutation. Inhale. Exhale. Stretch. Inhale. Exhale. Stretch. She was in the middle of a Downward-Facing Dog when the peace was shattered by the enervating whine of a two-stroke engine.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Nina muttered. She heaved herself upright, slipped on her flip-flops, and stalked toward the buzz, her yoga bliss evaporating with each step. The noise was coming from the street side of the periwinkle-blue bungalow. She rounded the side of the building, and there was Les aiming a Weedwacker at the thin fringe of grass along the base of the bungalow’s foundation. He was wearing a pair of white tennis shorts, unlaced work boots on his bare feet, and no shirt. A bulbous pair of orange ear protectors and electric-blue wraparound sunglasses completed the ensemble.

  “Hey!” said Nina, as loudly as she dared at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. He didn’t react. She marched over and stood right beside him with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to notice her.

  “Hey, Les!” she said again, waving her hand in front of his face. He peered at her through the yellow lenses of his sunglasses. They made him look like a space alien. He didn’t seem too surprised to see her. He leisurely turned off the Weedwacker and pulled off the ear protectors, leaving them hanging around his neck. He looked at her expectantly.

  “It’s a bit early for motorized yard work, don’t you think, Les?” she asked, her hands still on her hips and her eyebrows raised in exaggerated disbelief.

  “Actually, this is the perfect time of day for lawn maintenance,” he said. “The dew has burned off, but it’s not too hot yet for manual labor.”

  “It’s Sunday morning. Maybe you forgot?” said Nina.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you a church lady? I guess not, though, or you would be there right now and not lounging around the house in that stretchy getup,” said Les with a fake puzzled expression on his face.

  “I know you’re not from Pineapple Cay, but here, Sunday is a day of rest and peace and quiet. It’s bad form to mow your lawn on a Sunday morning. I’m sure your mother told you that, even where you’re from. Connecticut, is it?”

  “Well, I guess we don’t move in the same circles, milady, because my old man always said that the best time to get your work done was right now.”

  Nina rolled her eyes.

  “Forgive me if I look a tad surprised,” she said. “I had no idea you had such an impressive work ethic, what with all the lounging in the hot tub and beer drinking that seem to take up most of your time.”

  “Baby, take it from me. You have no idea what I get done in a day. It would make your head spin,” said Les. He leaned the Weedwacker against the house and did a few back arches.

  Nina averted her eyes from his thin, hairy stomach, with its unappealing sheen of oily perspiration. He straightened up again and grabbed the Weedwacker in one hand.

  “Well, the moment has passed. I’m no longer in the mood.” He started to walk away, but then he stopped and turned back to face her.

  “Oh yeah. I didn’t want to make it a thing, but since we’re on the topic of neighborliness, could you please do something about your shaggy grass and the dead plants in your window boxes? It’s bad feng shui to foul your own nest like that, and I don’t want any of those negative vibes drifting over here onto my sanctuary.”

  Nina looked over at her own front yard. He had a point. Her lawn looked like it had a bad haircut, with long tufts sticking up here and there. She’d cut it with a machete and had missed a few spots. It pained her to look at the window boxes she had so lovingly scraped, painted, and planted, now sparsely filled with limp, desiccated stalks.

  “Yes, well . . . ,” she said, trying to think of a good retort.

  “Later,” Les said, and walked away before she had a chance to reply. He went into his house. Nina stood there for a moment, watching his screen door slap shut behind him. She was too agitated to go back to her yoga or to lie in the hammock. Just what exactly did he do in there all day when he wasn’t parading around on his deck? He never had any visitors that she had seen, and as far as she could tell, he never went anywhere. His late-model red sports car with the spoiler on the back (of course) was always under the carport.

  Nina went inside her cottage, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and brought it out onto the veranda. She ignored the vista of turquoise water, white sand, and palm trees and trained her eyes on Les’s bungal
ow, looking for any movement. Nothing.

  “What’re you looking at?” asked a voice very close behind her. She jumped. It was Danish, with a glass of orange juice in one hand and the last banana muffin from the jar on her kitchen counter in the other.

  “Jeez, Danish! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

  “I knocked, but there was no answer,” he said. Nina turned back to Les’s house, and they stood together watching the blue bungalow in silence for a few seconds.

  “Nina, you’re obsessed with Les. What gives? Do you have the hots for him? What about Ted? What about Roker? I guess it must be true what they say about older women.”

  “And what is that, Danish?” she said, still watching for signs of life next door. “Wait! I think I just saw something move in front of the window.”

  “Well, if you really want to see inside, we need to get closer.” He hopped off the veranda and strode toward Les’s house. Nina hesitated for a moment, then tiptoed after him. As they got close to the house, they heard the Bee Gees warbling away on Les’s stereo. They crept to a window and peeked in. It was dark inside, and it took a few seconds for Nina’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. They were looking into the kitchen through the window above the sink. It was surprisingly tidy. A few dishes were drying on a tea towel spread on the counter. The light on the coffee maker was on, and a stream of steaming brown liquid was dripping into the glass pot. Beyond the kitchen was an open living area, sparsely furnished with a rattan love seat and two rattan chairs, all upholstered with pastel-flowered cushions. Sheer navy-blue curtains were drawn over the sliding glass patio doors, adding to the gloom. Les was sitting at a desk that was pushed against the far wall and typing on a keyboard, three computer monitors arrayed in front of him. One displayed a map, one showed what looked like news headlines, and the third displayed a document that was unreadable from their vantage point.