Island Promises

by Connell, Joy

  Riley stood in the companionway waiting. Anthony was at the wheel, squinting out into the bright sea and sun. Joe had one foot up on the settee, hanging on to a rope that went to one of the sails. He wore a faded T-shirt and cut-offs, bleached almost white from the elements. His hair was pulled back and secured with an elastic band.

  “So here she is,” the stocky man squeaked. “Now we can eat.” He clapped his hands together like a child about to get a treasured toy.

  “We’re from Travel Delite in New York.” The woman with hair too deep a black to be natural, stuck out her hand.

  Riley shook it, groping with her other hand for a hold on the boat.

  “We’re a small agency with a personal touch. Walter and I pride ourselves on not recommending anything to our clients that we haven’t done ourselves.”

  “All the details are important, aren’t they, Frannie?” said the man. “Especially the food. Right, Frannie?”

  She patted him on the thigh, a blinding white blubber of skin exposed below a blooming pair of khaki shorts. “That’s absolutely right, Walter, absolutely.”

  A wave broke behind them, sending the boat skidding. Riley was caught off guard and plopped down with little grace, almost onto Walter’s lap. He giggled like a junior high school girl.

  “When do we eat?” Riley asked, shifting around her borrowed clothes into some semblance of shape.

  Walter and Frannie laughed; he with a high-pitched whinny, and she with a snort.

  Joe looked hard at Riley. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say: Whatever the hell your problem is, I’ll handle it better after lunch. Her cell phone and her watch were both still soaked with muddy water and she hadn’t seen a clock on this boat but judging by the height of the sun and the warmth of the day, she had slept through breakfast.

  “Excuse us.” Joe grabbed her by the collar of the big faded denim shirt she wore.

  “What?” She put out her hands to stop him, but she wasn’t accustomed to the rolling of the boat.

  He led her down the companionway and didn’t let go until they were in her cabin, the tiny floor space forcing them to stand toe-to-toe. He was taller than she first thought and his shoulder muscles, exposed by his T-shirt with the arms ripped out, were well developed, probably from all that lifting and bailing. The ‘ripped sleeve’ look must be his concession to fashion.

  “Those guests up there are expecting a gourmet lunch.” His voice was full of command. Not shouting, not out of control, but expecting to be obeyed.

  “So am I,” she answered, smelling the salt and engine oil on his skin.

  “When are you going to start cooking?”

  “Hopefully, never. I could live on take-out quite happily for the rest of my life. I don’t know about restaurants here, but Chicago has—”

  Joe slammed his hand against the decking, which made her jump. “You’re not a cook?”

  If she’d had the room, she would have backed away. The glint in his eyes was the same one ingrained in her memory from the night she’d been mugged in an alley in Chicago. A look of murder, of wanting to wring her neck, of power.

  “I never claimed to be a cook.”

  He slammed the wall again and she jumped again. “I thought, when you came . . . we were expecting . . . a woman answered the ad . . .”

  “You thought I was hiring on as a cook?” Riley burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes. Eventually her stomach hurt from laughing, and she had to bend over, so she laid her head against his chest. Even through the T-shirt his skin was warm from the sun. His heart beat strongly against her forehead. “That is so good. Wait until they hear about this in Chicago. I’ve been called a lot of things, but ‘chef’ isn’t on the list.”

  Taking hold of her shoulders, his hands rough against her exposed skin, he shook her slightly until she straightened up and stopped laughing.

  “Hey.” She tried to bat his hands away but he was incredibly strong.

  “Cap’n?” Anthony was just outside the door. Still holding her with one hand, as though she might disappear in this tiny room in the middle of the ocean, Joe cracked open the door with the other.

  “Tell them lunch will be soon.” Joe waited until they heard Anthony climb back up to the cockpit before turning back to Riley. “I don’t know who the hell you are . . .”

  “I own this boat, that’s who I am.” Riley had had about enough of his arrogance. “As owner, I expect to be treated with respect.”

  “The Reprieve is mine.” That domineering captain’s voice was coming out again. “I give the orders. You’ve got 20 minutes to get some food up there. And it damn well better be good food.” He let her go and she swirled around so quickly she almost fell over onto the bunk.

  “What if I don’t?” Riley sucked in her stomach, straightened her spine, and jutted out her chin. She was not about to let this island reincarnation of Captain Bligh intimidate her.

  He leaned toward her and she had to work hard to keep her courage up in the face of his resolve. He was so close she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and the sun-bleached white hairs where the stubble from his chin met his cheekbones.

  “The rule of the sea.” They were inches from each other. “It’s a long swim back.”

  It was early evening when they got back to the dock. The galley, as she was told to call it, was a mess. A pot was upside down on the stove, the remainder of the soup covering the burner. A streak of vegetable oil ran down the counter. Pieces of lettuce were stuck to the overhead light. Riley could barely cook on dry land, let alone on a boat that was pitching and rolling.

  “Riley, honey, we’re going,” Frannie called.

  Riley climbed the ladder to the cockpit and hugged them.

  “Most interesting,” said Walter. “Your combination of tastes, of simple styles, was intriguing.”

  “We enjoyed talking to you, honey.” Frannie tied the wide straw hat under her chin. “Sometimes the crew can be so standoffish that it makes it uncomfortable, especially on the smaller boats.”

  Riley couldn’t help but send a big smile Joe’s way. He’d done little more than grunt through lunch. Anthony had stood guard at the wheel, silent. The guy was carrying this strong, silent type to such an extreme that it was irritating.

  Once Riley had settled upon her “simple, down-home” menu of soup, salad, fruit, and bread, she’d used her reporter’s skills to get Frannie and Wally talking. One thing she’d learned was that people loved to talk about themselves. Normal people, anyway, which explained the silence of the two stone brothers. The travel agents were so busy talking about themselves that they’d barely noticed the food. All those days on planes, in hotel rooms, writing at computer screens, with only each other for company, made them pathetically grateful for a fresh listener.

  As soon as they lurched away in the rickety taxi, Riley threw down her apron, donned the flip-flops she’d found in her room, and grabbed her purse. On one of the settees she found an old Cleveland Indians ball cap and jammed it over her hair, which had taken on a life of its own and tried to jolt the cap back off, tufts springing up everywhere. Instead of the sleek, polished look of a Chicago reporter, her hair now curled and bent in any way it wanted.

  Anthony had scrounged a T-shirt for her along with a pair of men’s shorts that she had to use a rope as a belt to hold up. The fact that she didn’t have to pull the rope too tightly was something she preferred to ignore.

  “It’s been real, boys,” she said. “By the time I get back, I expect you to have your stuff cleared off my boat.”

  Neither of them answered. Anthony was coiling some rope and Joe was folding a sail. Ignoring her was not something she could tolerate. She stood there for a moment waiting, her blood pressure rising, making her cheeks even hotter than the sun had made them. Still they
didn’t even act as though she had spoken.

  “We’ll just see what the authorities have to say about you taking over my boat,” she declared. That got their attention.

  “Just where the hell do you think you’re going?” Joe peered at her over the sail.

  “On the way in, I saw a sign for the Police Station. That’s where I’m going.”

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  It was the first full sentence Anthony had spoken in her presence since he’d chided Joe for being mean. The words stopped her in midair, one leg on the boat, the other hefted over the lifeline ready to be set down on the dock.

  “You don’t know anything about these islands and how they work,” Joe said. “Involving the officials is a mistake.”

  “A mistake for you two, maybe.”

  “Look, lady, I don’t know if you’re a scam artist or just delusional, but Anthony here is right. You don’t want to drag the authorities into this,” Joe said.

  Riley considered her options. Her cell phone wasn’t working. She had no money to make a call, no one to call, and no place to go except this boat. They might keep her on here since today hadn’t been a total disaster. But what kind of wimp would that make her if she hired on to the boat she owned? She’d have a hard time feeling sorry for herself, let alone have anyone else sympathize or understand if she became that big of a doormat and let them walk all over her. Decided, she put her foot on the dock.

  “It’s a bad idea.” Anthony was looking at her with something that might have passed for concern on his football player features.

  “Let her go,” Joe said. “There isn’t much we can do. If the lady wants to get herself thrown into an island prison, let her. Maybe some of those big shots from Chicago will get her out.”

  She got to the end of the marina road, dust swirling around her, the sun baking her, when an old, dirty four-wheel drive vehicle skidded to a stop in front of her.

  “Get in,” Joe commanded, but Riley ignored him and kept walking. “This is no joyride for me, either. More than likely you’re a nut case. But if you’re not, I can’t let you wander around by yourself.”

  “Of course you can. I wander just fine by myself.”

  He sighed. “My conscience will rest easy then that I tried. Piece of advice, though. Make sure you get a sturdy stick when you cross the inlets. If the gators come after you, hit ‘em on the side of the snout. Sometimes if you hit ‘em with enough force, they’ll be so stunned for a minute that you’ll have time to get away.”

  Riley stumbled a little in a grassy area. The vehicle came slowly behind, keeping pace, the engine protesting at the slowness.

  “A woman like you, educated, world traveler, probably already knew that, though. Probably just another insult from a sexist jerk like me. Hell, you probably wrestle gators for fun on spring break in Florida.” He shifted gears and began to make a U-turn. “Wouldn’t want to insult you any further, but Anthony asked me to pass on a tip in case the snakes . . .”

  Without another word, Riley hoisted herself into the passenger seat of the old four-wheel-drive vehicle.

  Riley’s temperature was climbing but it wasn’t because of the balmy late afternoon breeze.

  The man who sat at the scarred metal desk in front of her was raising her blood pressure by the minute as well. They had been going round and round for almost a half-hour. His desk was very organized, as was the other desk in the small block building. But along the walls were boxes and boxes of documents.

  This is what they do with the paperwork, Riley thought.

  She bit her tongue to keep from saying it out loud. They must sweep it off their desks every night into one of those boxes and never deal with it again. She was determined that wouldn’t happen to her.

  “We have to wait for the senior official.” The man’s patience seemed to grow as Riley’s deteriorated. He had a slight British accent, which gave him an elegant air, but he infuriated her even more as she stood sweaty, frizzy-haired, and sunburned. He sat very still, very erect, his white, close-cropped hair a stark contrast to his dark skin. The nameplate, all polished silver, said his name was Captain Ricardo Juarez. “The magistrate will come back, maybe Monday, maybe Friday.”

  “I’ve been trying to explain to you that I can’t wait that long.” Riley picked up her heavy, tangled hair and tucked the wayward strands into the back of the ball cap she wore. A fan was on overhead, but the slowly moving blades only served to push the hot air toward the spot where she was standing. “This magistrate person,” she started, kicking the bamboo chair where Joe had pulled an old hat over his eyes and appeared to be napping, his legs splayed out in front of him. This was the fourth or fifth time she had kicked his chair for emphasis and this time he only grunted and edged the cap lower. “This man,” she started again, using her best broadcasting voice, “could sail away on my boat while you’re waiting for official action. You need to make some kind of injunction or some other legal thing to stop him.”

  Captain Juarez shuffled the papers she had given him. Admittedly they weren’t much—her passport, her plane ticket stub, a color brochure of the Reprieve from years ago when it was for sale. There was no bill of sale, no registration. Edgar, the accountant, had taken care of all that, and she’d left in such a hurry that she hadn’t even thought to look for those papers.

  “I will tell you what needs to be done.” Captain Juarez leaned forward. His short sleeve, khaki shirt and matching shorts showed no sweat stains. Probably because he didn’t do enough work to sweat. “This is not Cheecago. This is our country, the Shalee Islands. And you must live by our rules.” For the first time, the man raised his voice.

  “Let me tell you what I think about your rules,” Riley began.

  “You may return next week,” said Captain Juarez, interrupting her. He opened a desk drawer and placed Riley’s papers, including her passport, inside and locked it. “Now,” he said, rising, “we are closing.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  Joe had come to life and was tugging her toward the door. Ever since she’d met him, he seemed to be pushing or pulling her. She shook him off.

  “Do you know who I am?” She was yelling. “Do you know I could expose this on American television?”

  From behind her, Joe’s arm went around her waist. “Time to go,” he whispered in her ear.

  “No! I need that passport. He has no right.”

  “Riley, I’m warning you,” Joe said softly.

  Captain Juarez stood, an old-fashioned rotary dial phone in his hand.

  “I’m not leaving here without my papers and some satisfaction.” Riley tried to get away from Joe’s grip.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Before she knew what was happening, Joe took her arm, spun her around and threw her over his left shoulder as though she were a duffel bag. Suddenly she was seeing the world upside down. She heard Joe say something to the captain. She heard the captain laugh, which made her madder, if that were possible. Then they were on the move.

  Stunned, it took her several moments before she found her voice. Then she protested for him to let her down, to stop being such a brute. She tried to punch him, but her arms were swinging wildly and hit only air. He kept walking, past the old vehicle they came in and trudged up a hill, breathing hard. The blood was pooling in Riley’s head and she felt lightheaded.

  Joe dropped her in soft grass and fell down beside her panting, both of them on their backs, letting their cramped muscles release. After a moment, Riley sat up slowly, feeling her blood return to its rightful pattern. The scene before her was restful, postcard beautiful. They were at the top of a grassy cliff that overlooked the sea. To either side of the cliff were palm trees and sweet-smelling flowers. Before them lay the water, so clear and aqua she could make out the top of a reef offshore. The sky was so brigh
t it hurt her eyes but she couldn’t look away. The sound of waves breaking, of exotic birds, and of their own labored breathing surrounded them.

  She tried to slow her breathing, to get in the zone. She’d taken a meditation class once where they talked about zoning out. But she hadn’t lasted more than one class. Peace and calm were not her thing. Action and persistence were.

  She punched Joe on the arm.

  “What the hell? As if that arm isn’t sore enough from carrying you all the way up here.”

  “If you’re kidnapping me and stealing my boat, I want you to know I won’t go down without a fight.” Although she wondered how much fight she had in her right now.

  “You need to get out of Chicago more,” he said. “You sound like a gangster in a late-night movie.”

  “You’re not kidnapping me?”

  “Why the hell would I want to do that? You can’t cook. Your diplomatic skills need work. And you’re stealing my clothes.” He ran a finger down the button front of the denim shirt she wore. The finger lingered a moment too long on the bare skin right above her belly button where the shirt had fallen open.

  “You stole my boat.” She rose up on her elbow and studied him. His hair was darker underneath where the sun hadn’t touched it. His lips were slightly parted and his eyes were fixed on her face.

  “My boat,” he said. “Free and clear. I have all the paperwork. Bought it from a charter company.”

  Despite herself, Riley felt a strong desire to touch him. Too tired, too much sun, too little food—that was what was creating this wild fantasy of rolling in the grass with him, hearing the sea, feeling those strong arms holding her.

  “If you’re not kidnapping me, then why did you pick me up and carry me away? And why didn’t you carry me back to the boat? Why up here?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you ask too many damn questions?” He flung his arm over his eyes to block out the sun’s glare.