“We saw,” Jane said.
“Oh.”
Clara moaned softly. I reached down and checked her pulse, which was remarkably strong considering the circumstances.
“And I’d like to be the first to congratulate you,” Jane went on. “She’s had it coming for years.”
A smile stole across Armando’s features.
“Thanks.”
“Now we’ve got to get her out of here fast.”
Good old practical Jane.
Clara was small but she was out cold and therefore something of a dead weight. Between the three of us we got her into her old battered Volvo, which was parked almost halfway down the hill, and loaded her into the backseat.
“Find her keys,” Jane barked.
Armando rifled through her bag wildly.
“They’re not here.”
“They’re in the ignition,” I said. It was my first useful contribution to the whole episode.
“Drive her into town, park the car, and put the keys back in her purse. Patrick will follow you down and bring you back.”
“What’s she going to think when she comes to?”
“Hmm,” Jane said, clearly enjoying the thought. “She might remember the fight, but unfortunately there weren’t any witnesses…”
She glanced at me.
“Right?”
“Absolutely not,” I concurred.
“So when she starts squawking about being assaulted, it’ll be her word against yours. And since everyone on the island heartily dislikes her, I doubt anyone will be inclined to believe her little tale. And if they do, who knows, it might just get you a few new listings.”
☼ ☼ ☼
By the time we got back to the party it was going gangbusters. Marcus was shaking up cocktails like nobody’s business and a dozen or so people were dancing in the great room. Our neighbor, Feliz, was standing on the balcony doing his rooster-crowing imitation over and over in approximate rhythm to the music.
The minute I walked in, Daniel rushed up to me with an exceedingly mournful expression plastered across his disheveled face. His glasses were askew, his hair standing on end. In fact, he looked as if he’d been through a couple of fights himself.
“I did it deliberately,” he slobbered. “I’m so sorry.” He appeared to be on the brink of a crying jag.
“Did what?”
“Painted the room this color. I knew you’d hate it.”
“But why?”
He stared at me a moment, a thin string of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth.
“Because I’m an asshole.”
It was impossible to disagree with him. It really was. But on the other hand, an apology is an apology.
“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling brilliantly. “I absolutely, positively love it.”
If I’d wanted to comfort him, this clearly wasn’t the way to go about it. In fact, my forgiveness appeared to constitute the worst blow of all. His little pug-face crumpled into a mask of despair and he began to weep.
Michael, who looked pretty unbridled himself, sailed across the room with a jaunty smile and a spring in his step.
“What does that jerk want now?” he asked, glancing towards Daniel’s retreating back.
“Just to tell me he painted our house the wrong color on purpose.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
Michael looked at Daniel, who was slumped over the kitchen counter now, sobbing like a baby.
“My God, he seems totally wasted. How’d he get drunk so fast?”
I batted my eyes innocently.
“You know, some people just can’t hold their liquor.”
Michael nodded appreciatively.
“By the way, where’ve you been?” he asked.
I gulped hard, searching for a truthful but not too revealing alibi.
“Oh, just throwing out some trash.”
Someday maybe I’d explain.
On second thought, maybe not.
Forty-Nine
The Deep End
All things considered—including the recession—rentals that next season were a lot better than we expected.
In fact, business was so good we had to turn down several potential bookings to carve out a free week for ourselves. Eventually we blocked out a delicious ten-day visit in late February.
We couldn’t wait.
January was tough to get through—unusually cold and dark, with lots of rain. In fact, we were just about ready to climb into a lukewarm tub, chug down a bottle of Stoli and slit our wrists. However, the day of our departure to Vieques finally arrived.
Precious release.
The morning after our arrival found Michael jumping on his bike for a punishing tour of the island while I positioned myself strategically on our balcony for a brisk workout doing absolutely nothing.
The occasion, already golden, was made all the more delectable by the fact that it was Monday. Yes, Monday—and guess what? I didn’t have to go to work; I didn’t have to sit through an interminable staff meeting; I didn’t have to loiter in my small, obsessively neat office at the non-profit where I worked and stare out the window and wish I were in Vieques.
Instead, I could simply lie on my sun-drenched terrace and empty my mind of all remotely negative thoughts. I accomplished this cleansing process through a variety of means, depending on the occasion.
Sometimes I pictured my mind as a kitchen sink full of murky water, then mentally pulled the plug and watched the crud swirl down the drain to oblivion. That was a good one.
Other times I focused on a particularly positive image—a bank vault crammed full of thousand dollar bills (yes, I’m aware that bills in denominations larger than one hundred no longer exist; please bear in mind that this is a fantasy), or a languorous afternoon spent with the Royal Family at Windsor Castle during which the Queen remarks, oh-so-casually, “Since you’re here anyway, I might as well knight you. Kneel down, my pet.”
Yes, yes, I also realize that it’s unlikely the Queen has ever called anyone “my pet” in her whole life unless it was to address one of her corgis or perhaps Prince Philip on their wedding night.
Do get hold of yourself and remember that this is a mental exercise, not a fact-checking jamboree. In the meantime, you may address me as Sir Patrick.
But that day, as I lay on our balcony soaking up the noonday sun, I didn’t even need to dig into my bag of happy tricks to feel good about Life in General.
A gentle breeze (compliments of the trade winds) tousled my hair. The sun warmed my bones without making me sweat. And although it was barely eleven in the morning, I was gently nursing a Bloody Mary. Okay, my second.
The house was coming along just fine. We had new windows, new doors, a new retaining wall. Everything was brand new, rock solid, and sparkling. There was certainly more to do, but for now things looked great.
Casa Dos Chivos today
And although I knew from experience that disaster was probably lurking just around the corner, I decided to allow myself to feel unabashedly happy for one brief, shining moment.
But what to do with myself during this certain-to-be-brief interval of peace and tranquility? What should I fret over?
Luckily, there are always things to worry about. Global warming, genocide, the rising price of chorizo sausage. But my heart wasn’t in it. In fact, I was literally aching with contentment.
In the meantime, noon had come and gone, as had two more Bloody Marys. The one-thirty ferry was inching its way across the crystal blue horizon.
I really should drag my lazy bones inside and eat a bite of lunch, I told myself.
I was feeling a little drowsy. Maybe I’d just close my eyes for a minute or two. And then suddenly, just when it seemed true relaxation was within my grasp: KABOOM!
There was a deafening crash from the side of the house. I jumped to my feet and ran to the edge of the balcony facing the driveway. Below me sat a massive four-by-four backhoe, idling its
motor.
Nearby was a felled palm tree, the second of our cherished trees to bite the dust in the past year. Now our stately row of palms was beginning to look like an insincere smile with a couple of teeth missing.
Pablo, the bootleg contractor who had finished up our downstairs renovation when Steve got sick, was sitting in the cab of the huge machine. When he saw me he swung open the glass door, a guilty smile plastered across his face.
“I guess I need driving lessons,” he remarked.
“What in God’s name are you doing, Pablo?”
“Getting ready to dig your pool,” he said.
“What pool?”
“The pool Michael said you guys are going to build.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“We didn’t discuss a pool.”
Pablo lifted his hands in protest.
“Hey, keep me out of it. I’m just doing what I was told.”
I all but stomped my foot.
“Where’s Michael?”
“He’s not here?”
“Nope.”
“He told me to meet him here at two o’clock.”
I looked at my watch. Two-fifteen.
“But we can’t build a pool,” I said to Pablo. “To begin with, we don’t need one.”
He stared at me blankly.
“And they’re a helluva lot of work,” I continued.
“Uh huh.”
“Plus, we can’t afford it.”
Pablo all but rolled his eyes, clearly wishing I’d vaporize into thin air. Or at least quit lecturing him about something he had no control over.
“The point is,” I summed up, “we’re not building a $70,000 pool.”
“$80,000.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what Michael said. $80,000.”
I threw up my hands in disbelief.
“He’s insane.”
Pablo turned away, fed up with my ranting.
“Oh look, here he comes now,” he said with relief, peering down the road.
I turned and looked but I couldn’t see him.
We waited.
It seemed like hours.
☼ ☼ ☼
“Hi,” Michael said, standing over me, covered in sweat.
I blinked up at him, struggling back into consciousness.
“Hey there,” I mumbled.
“I think someone fell asleep.”
He stared pointedly at the empty glasses loitering on the table beside me.
“Oh.”
I lay back, gazing at the white ceiling of the veranda, pondering my swimming pool dream.
“You were talking in your sleep,” Michael said.
This smelled like trouble—you never knew what your subconscious would give away when you were snoozing.
“Hmm.”
He sat down on the chair beside me.
“It was kind of strange. You said the word pool in a very disapproving way.”
“No kidding.”
“Do you remember what it was all about?”
I smoothed the towel under me nervously.
“Not the slightest idea.”
“Liar. You always remember your dreams.”
I picked up one of the empty glasses at my side, stalling for time.
“Well, just random images here and there.”
He gave me his most knowing look.
“You dreamed that we were getting a pool.”
Okay, folks. This is one of the things about being with someone for so many years. The longer you’re together, the harder it is to trick them. In other words, the price you pay for sticking with the same person for decades is that you can never, ever tell them a convincing lie.
This strikes me as terribly unfair.
“Well, maybe there was a pool association somewhere in the dream.”
He took a sip of his drink, peering at me over the rim of the glass.
“Do you want a pool?”
“Oh God, no!”
He recoiled slightly.
“Why not?”
“For one thing we can’t afford it.”
He sat and looked at me for at least ten or fifteen seconds, so long that I began squirming uncomfortably in my seat.
“What?” I asked irritably.
“How would you react if I told you I got us a really good deal on a pool?”
Deep breath. This was it. I looked out across the water towards the mountains of the big island. At the same time, very methodically, I began the process of deactivating my anxiety button, of neutralizing all those negative synapses that instinctively storm my brain at the slightest sign of trouble.
Or conflict.
Or massive expenditure.
After all, this little trick had seen me through a world of trouble over the past few years.
“I’d say…” I began, suddenly at a rare loss for words.
Michael waited, tinkling the ice cubes in his glass, gazing out across the treetops, as patient as time itself.
“I’d say,” I continued, finding my voice at last, “it’ll be total hell to get decent pool furniture shipped down here.”
Satisfied at last, he smiled and leaned back in his chair.
He knew he had me now.
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About the Author
Patrick Youngblood and his husband Michael Wiack first traveled to Vieques, Puerto Rico in 2003. They bought a house on the island in 2004 and spent several adventure-filled years struggling with fate and Puerto Rican bureaucracy to renovate their new home.
Patrick’s interest in home renovation springs from his lifelong fascination with architecture and design. He holds a Ph.D. in art history from the University of London and has published articles in the New York Times, Burlington Magazine and History Today. For the past 20 years he has lived and worked in Washington, D.C.
Contacts and Links
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.coconutchrons.com
Blog: www.viequesdreamhousediary.wordpress.com
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Copyright Notice
Text © PATRICK YOUNGBLOOD, 2012, 2014
Cover design © Ant Press, 2014
Publish
ed by Ant Press, 2014
Third Edition
Copyright © 2014
Also available in Paperback and Large Print editions.
The author reserves all rights. No part of this ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Author’s Note: The events described in this book are based on fact.
Most characters’ names have been changed.
The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House Page 30