“So do you like it?” Chevy asked.
“It's just beautiful,” Mildred croaked. She was feeling very emotional, very overwhelmed.
“Good,” Chevy breathed, and looked down at her watch. “Well, you've missed lunch, but we do an afternoon tea service with hors d'oeuvres. Wine, cheese, and crackers. That should hold you over until dinner,” Chevy said as her eyes rolled over Mildred's body. “Well, at least I hope it will,” she said under her breath.
Mildred flopped down onto the bed. She planned on just lying there for a few moments, just long enough to process everything, but in time her eyes grew heavy and she woke to the sound of Chevy calling her name from the other side of the door.
“Mildred, are you okay in there?”
“Yes, yes, I fell asleep,” Mildred said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She hadn't realized how tired she was. It was probably the stress and fatigue of the last several weeks coming down on her.
“Dinner starts in an hour. I was hoping we could dine together,” Chevy said, and then there was a long pause until she added, “So we can talk?”
Mildred didn't know if she liked the sound of that.
CHAPTER
Forty-three
Up until six months ago, Chevy had been doing hair at her mother's Pittsburgh salon. She'd been rattling on and on to one of her favorite customers about her experience in the travel industry.
She knew that her client Vanessa was married to a doctor, but Chevy had no idea the doctor owned two Caribbean boutique hotels.
Vanessa informed her that their assistant manager had just given notice and they were desperate to replace him and she wondered with all of Chevy's experience, if she might be interested.
Just like that!
No interview, just here's your ticket, here's your salary, and bon voyage!
Chevy didn't have to think twice about it. She'd always wanted to live outside of the United States, and she couldn't think of a better place to start than a vibrant Caribbean island like Barbados.
She'd spent the first three months settling in to her new position and getting to know the island and its people, especially the men.
So far she'd had only one sexual encounter on the island, with an island police officer, Justine Hope, a tall chocolate brother who, many said, had a woman in every parish. Chevy had met him at a cocktail reception hosted at Daphne's Restaurant.
Their eyes had locked across the crowded room, and even now Chevy would always remember that as a Hollywood cliché moment.
They'd spent most of the evening walking circles around each other, but just before the night was about to end, he walked over to her and introduced himself.
“I'm Justine Hope. And you are?”
He had the longest lashes she'd ever seen on a man, and a smile that was sexy and sinister. It's true what they say about women knowing in the first five minutes whether or not they're going to give a man some sex, 'cause she knew immediately that she had to have him.
“Chevy Cambridge,” she'd replied.
Chevy couldn't remember what all they talked about. Blame that on the bottle of champagne she'd consumed. But she did remember being in the back of his patrol car, her legs thrown over the front seat, Justine Hope on his knees, between her legs, eating her out like she had something up in her he needed to survive.
And when he finally slipped himself inside her, Chevy swore she heard harp music. It was probably the best sex she'd ever had . . . in the back of a car.
Now, as she sat staring at the prisms the candlelight made through her water glass, awaiting Mildred's arrival, she shook off the memory and began to muse on what Geneva had shared with her about what Mildred had been through.
Geneva had implored Chevy to help Mildred find her spine, as well as her self-esteem. And if anybody knew a thing or two about putting one's life back into perspective, it was Chevy.
“What are you thinking about?” Mildred was standing at the table.
Chevy grinned up at her. “Life, Mildred. Life.”
Mildred perused the menu. There was no red meat on it, or fried foods. Everything was either boiled, baked, or steamed. Brown rice and whole grain bread were the other offerings.
Mildred was disappointed, but she wouldn't let it spoil her first night on the island. She could have future meals someplace else, so in the meantime she ordered the seared salmon.
When her plate arrived she found that it held the thinnest slice of salmon she'd ever seen. So thin it was almost translucent, allowing a clear view to the bed of mixed greens it rested on.
Looking up at Chevy, Mildred said, “I'm going to need more than this.”
Chevy plucked a carrot stick from her salad and responded, “Hunger is a state of mind, my dear.”
Was this a joke?
From the expression on Chevy's face, it certainly was not.
Mildred looked around the restaurant; everyone's meal resembled hers—light.
“Okay, so this is your program,” Chevy said, sliding a thick dark blue folder across the table.
“Program?”
“Yes, program. You'll be up by six. You'll meet with your instructor in the lobby by six-thirty, after which you will go on an hour-long run. Seven-thirty, breakfast—”
“Wait a minute,” Mildred squeaked, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “I'm on vacation. I'm not here for a program.”
Chevy continued on as if Mildred hadn't uttered a word.
Later that night as she lay in bed, her stomach grumbling with hunger, she quietly cussed Geneva out, and then after that she began to plot her escape.
CHAPTER
Forty-four
Up and at 'em, Mildred Johnson!”
Mildred almost jumped out of her skin.
In front of her stood a blurred figure. After she reached for her glasses and slipped them on, a tall white woman—or at least Mildred thought it was a woman—came into view.
“You were supposed to meet me in the lobby to begin your training. It is now exactly ten minutes past that time!”
Her eyes moved from the bulldog-faced he-she down to the long bamboo stick it held and then up to the blond hair that had been cut close, military-style.
Mildred jumped. “Wh-who are you?”
“I'm Drill Sergeant Baxter. Miriam Baxter.”
Whack!
Miriam brought the stick down hard onto her palm.
Mildred jumped and cast a frightened look at the stick.
“You'll be next if you don't get your rump up and out of the bed!”
Mildred released a nervous laugh. She must be dreaming. That was it. The lack of food, the swinging bed, and the new environment—all of that had brought on this crazy nightmare. If she could just wait for a moment, she would wake up and this, including what had happened before this, would all just fade away with the morning light.
Mildred closed her eyes and waited.
Whack!
The stick sliced into the comforter wrapped around Mildred's body, and her eyes popped wide open again.
She guessed it wasn't a dream.
Miriam Baxter leaned in, her steely blue eyes penetrating Mildred's soupy brown ones. “I don't like to repeat myself, soldier—I mean, Mildred,” she said before turning on her Nike running sneakers and marching out of the room.
“Five minutes!” she yelled over her shoulder.
By noon, Mildred was hiding in the garden behind an old spoked wheel, desperately trying to get a signal on her cell phone.
She'd been there for close to an hour before the aroma of food caught her attention. Her stomach groaned. All she'd had for breakfast was a small bowl of raspberries and a protein shake.
She hadn't signed up for this. She wanted out, and now!
Standing up, she moved as swiftly as possible between the trunks of the palm trees, weaving in and out, making her way to the dining room area, where she then slipped quickly into the kitchen.
The staff looked up and someone said, “You know we're not
allowed to give you extra portions, don't you?”
And then someone else added, “And we're armed.”
Mildred wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I just want to make a call, that's all.”
The staff watched her with wary eyes.
CHAPTER
Forty-five
Chevy!”
Chevy's head jerked at the sound of Geneva's frantic voice.
“Why are you screaming?”
“I just got a phone call from Mildred. She said that you're trying to kill her!”
“And you believe her?” Chevy's tone was calm.
“Yes!”
“Geneva, the woman is grief-stricken, among other things. She's just trying to cope with all that has happened to her—”
“Are you saying she's lying?”
“I'm saying that she believes her imagination to be reality—”
“Stop it right now, Chevanese Cambridge.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop your lying.”
Chevy laughed. “Okay, okay. So we have her on a little weight management program. So what?”
“So what? She's down there on vacation, for goodness' sake! She thinks that I set this whole thing up.”
“Well, you did, didn't you?”
“Chevy, I thought she would be swimming and sunning, not running laps around the property!”
“She will do all that other stuff eventually.”
“And she told me that the woman in charge of this program is Miriam Baxter. I hope that is not the same woman—”
Chevy pressed the End button on her phone.
She was not in the mood for any of it. But to tell the truth, the Miriam Baxter on the property was the very same one who'd made Geneva's life a living hell a few years earlier when Geneva was in the throes of her weight-loss saga. Miriam Baxter had been one of the head honcho weight loss counselors at Calorie Counters, and she had tormented Geneva. Her idea of an effective weight loss program was threats, bullying, and terrorization. No wonder Geneva had gained twenty pounds instead of losing the ten she'd signed up for.
In the end, someone called the law on Miriam Baxter and she was sentenced to six months behind bars.
After Miriam was released from prison, her physical fitness license was revoked and she was unable to find work anywhere in the United States. She took off for Panama, where she successfully operated a weight management program at a small spa hotel on the coast.
She was hard on the residents—one could even go so far as to say fanatical—but she got results!
And that's all Chevy was thinking when she hired her.
Geneva would see Mildred's miraculous transformation for herself, and then Chevy wouldn't hesitate to bet her bottom dollar that Geneva's fat ass would be on the first plane to Barbados, with bells on!
CHAPTER
Forty-six
Hey, Errol, what's going on, man!” Tony sang joyfully into his cell phone.
“Nothing much. How's the king of Barbados doing?”
“Well, you know, what can I say? I'm doing my thang!”
“I hear that.”
“So when are you coming down?”
“I'm thinking maybe around Christmastime, but I'm not sure yet.”
“That would be the perfect time. You know the island will be popping for sure then, lots of fetes.”
“Lots of what?”
“Fetes, man . . . parties.”
“You've really gone full-blown coconut, huh?” Errol teased.
“And you know that. So how's things in the Big Apple?”
“Same old, same old, ya know. The grind and the rhythm.”
“Yeah, man, and I got tell you, I don't miss the grind or the rhythm.”
“Man, you hit the jackpot. Getting an office job like that on an island.”
“So, listen—this call is costing me a fortune, so I gotta hop,” Tony said.
“You know you can afford it, you cheap-ass Negro!”
“Yeah, whatever—I'll e-mail you.”
“Stay tight,” Errol said before he hung up.
Tony stuck his cell phone into the plastic protective case around his neck. He was headed to the Blue Monkey for an afternoon snack and a drink. Business was dead today. It was October—hurricane season—and so the rain had been coming down in short but torrential intervals all day long. At the moment, though, the sun was peeking out from between a mass of rain clouds.
Tomorrow would be a better day. The weatherman had called for clear skies, and for the icing on the cake, a cruise ship would be coming in. For Tony that meant at least a $1,500 day.
“How are you?” the pretty brown-skinned bartender welcomed him. “What can I get for you today?”
Tony grinned. Donnette had legs that went on for miles, and when they did end they rounded out into an ass that was as firm as a basketball. “You,” Tony said, leaning over the bar. “Every day I tell you that you can get me you, and all you do is bring me a bottle of Banks beer and a plate of grilled mahimahi and french fries.”
Donnette batted her long black lashes at him. “Well, I bring you that because I know that's all you really want,” she said with a sly smile as she set the Banks down before Tony.
Tony lifted the bottle and drank deeply as he watched her strut off.
He wanted her; there was no denying that.
She was fine as hell and had a shape to die for, but the downside was that she'd been with most of the men on the coast. Passed around more times than a peace pipe, and who knew what she'd contracted.
And he was trying to change his ways. Not to say that he was denying himself—he just wasn't overindulging.
He had behaved like a kid in a candy store when he'd first arrived. Errol had warned him to be careful, reminding him of the large number of HIV cases the island carried. And for once, Tony actually heeded his words and took it down two notches.
He wanted to be around for a long time. He wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labor, and how could he do that if he was dead?
CHAPTER
Forty-seven
Three weeks, two days, five hours, and twenty minutes later, Mildred was still convinced that they were trying to kill her. Or drive her insane!
Someone (she suspected Chevy) had snuck into her room and stolen her cell phone as well as her passport. When she reported the theft to the front desk, they said they would check into it and that in the meantime she could use the house phone to make a local call.
And with regards to her passport, well, she would have to go visit the American embassy for that.
And how the hell was she going to get there?
“Miss Cambridge can drive you in the hotel car.”
“Yeah, right!”
And what she'd quickly realized after her first horrific day was that all of the guests at the hotel were overweight and mostly women. But they of course were there of their own free will and couldn't understand why on her third day, during the morning run, Mildred had suddenly bolted off across the lawn toward the entrance gates.
“Didn't you know the gates had a low volt of electricity running through them? Just in case, you know, one of us wigs out in the middle of the program,” explained a short Argentinean woman with the slight mustache who was leaning over the semiconscious Mildred.
Of course she didn't know that.
None of the articles she'd read about hotels ever talked about electrified fences!
“Read your manual, dear,” the woman advised as the medics lifted Mildred onto the gurney.
Two Months and Counting . . .
CHAPTER
Forty-eight
Countless attempts at escape later, Mildred finally surrendered to Miriam, Chevy, and the program.
By the first week in December, Mildred was fifty pounds lighter and Chevy said, “You look like a different person.”
Even though Mildred's clothes hung limply from her body, whenever she looked in the mirror the same person she'd known her entire life loo
ked back at her.
There was a beautician on the property, and Chevy had suggested she go.
“Why?” Mildred had whined.
“Because that ponytail is so tired, it's dead!”
Mildred succumbed, and when she emerged she had a new bronze hair color and a mass of shiny twists. She wasn't too happy about the new style. She thought it made her face look fat.
But then one day as she was sitting out in the garden, Mike, the hotel custodian, walked past her, doubled back, and announced with a big, broad grin on his face: “You look very nice today, Ms. Mildred.”
Mildred looked over her shoulder. Surely he was referring to some other Mildred? But his eyes were locked on her, and then he winked before turning and walking away.
Mildred was stunned and she sat there on the lounge chair for a good twenty minutes before rushing off to her room and the mirror that hung on the wall. It was still Mildred looking back at her. She squinted and pushed her head closer to her image, looking deeper into the eyes that looked back at her.
She did kind of look cute, didn't she?
From then on, her confidence level began to rise. She made it a point to walk with her head up and back straight. And she'd also begun chanting to herself: “I am beautiful. I am gorgeous.”
And damned if she didn't start to believe it!
Three weeks into her stay, she'd met Dr. Heath and had spent an entire evening listening to him explain, over dinner, the reason that Chimbarosa was run the way it was.
Gestapo-like.
“Most people want the best for themselves—really, they do—but we are human and we are fundamentally weak beings, failing time in and time out to achieve the thing we want most for ourselves.”
Mildred didn't know if she believed in all of that, but she continued to listen.
“I want Chimbarosa to be a place to challenge that weak side. This particular property focuses on those with food issues.” He paused then and stared at her over his wire-frame glasses. “People like yourself, Mildred.”
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