by Junie Coffey
“Admirable, Razor, I’m sure, but I don’t know that you’ll find anyone aboard this particular vessel who considers themselves average,” drawled Sylvia. She opened her beach tote, withdrew a bottle, and began applying a coat of suntan lotion.
“OK, man, type away, but if I catch you having any fun, I’m going to have to report you to the authorities,” said Danish. “Have a beverage. It’s good cover.” He lifted himself out of the hot tub and tossed Razor a bottle of beer from the cooler on deck. Then he stretched out on a padded bench running along the railing and put a towel over his face.
“What a lovely shade of nail polish, Sylvia. Sit right down here, Nina, and tell me all about yourself,” said Nancy with a big smile, patting the chair on her other side. “How did you end up here on Pineapple Cay?”
She interrupted herself to speak to the steward in a crisp white uniform standing at a discreet distance behind her. “Jimmy, bring us a few of your killer banana daiquiris, will you? I think the sun’s gone over the yardarm, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and disappeared.
Nina wasn’t too keen on going into the whole story about walking in on her husband shagging his paralegal and then buying a cottage on a Caribbean Island she’d never heard of in the middle of the night at the moment, so she sidestepped the question.
“This is great, Nancy. It’s so nice of you to invite us out for the day.” She paused briefly. “Are you and Bubba down here cruising through the islands for a while? That sounds idyllic.”
“Yeah, it’s great for a week or so, and then I get antsy. Bubba likes to go fishing with his buddies, and I usually have a gal pal or two along. Most nights we go ashore in some port or another for dinner. I sure can’t complain, but I’m a city girl at heart. Atlanta, born and raised. If I hadn’t crossed paths with Bubba way back when, I’d still be there, most likely running my father’s clothing store.”
“So, how did you and Bubba meet?” asked Nina. Was she being too nosy? But Nancy didn’t seem to mind.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I was working as manager of guest services at the Sweetwater Hotel, and Bubba kept calling the front desk asking for ice. So, after five or six of these calls, I went up to his room to see what the heck he was doing with all that ice. Turns out he had a dead swordfish in the tub. He’d just flown in from Bimini. We had words. Then he invited me out for dinner and dancing, and we fell in love before the sun came up. That was thirty years ago.” She sighed contentedly and took a sip of her daiquiri.
“I was born Nancy Weston, and my mama raised me to be an independent woman, but I just couldn’t resist the opportunity to become Nancy Delancy.” She threw her head back and laughed. “Of course, the hundred mil didn’t hurt. Besides which, me and Bubba, we both like to have a good time.”
Victor had strolled down the length of the boat, and Nina could see him leaning on the railing, looking out at the water. Philip glanced over at Sylvia, then wandered off to the wheelhouse to seek out Bubba. Nina watched them through the glass. Philip was talking and gesticulating with his hands while Bubba puffed on a fat cigar and nodded distractedly now and then, his eyes focused on the horizon.
Nancy turned to talk to Sylvia about places they both knew in Atlanta, and Nina took advantage of the opportunity to watch the scenery. The yacht had slipped its moorings and was cutting a wide arc through the brightly colored water, heading out to the channel. A warm breeze tugged at her sun hat, so Nina pulled it off and sat back in the thickly upholstered chaise longue. They were heading northwest, out past Star Cay, the low hump of white-sand beach and lush green coconut palms that sat about a mile offshore from the village of Coconut Cove. There were a couple of sailboats crisscrossing the harbor between Star Cay and the bustling marina on Pineapple Cay, their white sails billowing.
On the back side of Star Cay was another, larger island, about a mile farther offshore. This was their destination. As they rounded the tip of Star Cay, an enormous five-story cruise ship came into view. It was anchored near the second island in a shallow cove of pristine turquoise water. It dwarfed both the island and Bubba’s yacht, which until that moment Nina had thought of as colossal.
“That’s what we now call Delancy’s Island—it’s trademarked,” said Nancy with a laugh. “Bubba bought it a few years ago and made a deal with a couple of cruise lines to stop here and give their passengers a day at the beach without the hassle of clearing customs. The deal is they can have any cocktail they want, as long as it’s Delancy’s rum.” She laughed. “On some days, this is the most populous island for miles around.”
The Take-a-Chancy tied up to a mooring, and the crew sprang into action, lowering the tender into the water and helping the passengers aboard for the quick zip over to the beach dock.
“Have a nice day, kids!” said Nancy, waving goodbye to them and sinking back into her chaise longue, a fresh banana daiquiri in her elegantly manicured hand and Jimmy standing attentively behind her. Bubba had gone belowdecks.
From the dinghy, Nina heard music wafting out across the water. Bouncy Caribbean steel drums. On the dock, they were greeted with a cheery “Welcome to Delancy’s Island!” from a smiling young man and woman in blue-and-white-flowered batik shirts who were handing out tropical cocktails with paper umbrellas in them. Nina followed the group up the dock onto the long strand of white-sand beach.
Holy cow, she thought as she looked around. She stole a look at the group from the Take-a-Chancy. Most of them looked as dumbfounded as she was. Razor was furiously taking notes in his little Moleskine book. Danish was dancing, his hands in the air.
Delancy’s Island™ certainly delivered on the tropical beach daydream. Big-fronded coconut palms arched gracefully over the sand, just like in a postcard. The pure-white sand was so soft it felt like it had been sifted. The beach was packed with several hundred greased-up holidaymakers in their bathing suits, lounging in beach chairs under thatched sun umbrellas or cavorting in the water. Others paddled around in bright-orange and green kayaks, and there was a noisy, laughing bunch playing beach volleyball. A flotilla of buzzing Jet Skis zipped back and forth, weaving around water skiers and banana boats. Nearby, on a giant inflatable trampoline, kids and adults bounced like popcorn. Brightly colored hammocks hung between picturesquely bowed palm trees, waiting for their chance to make it to Instagram. Several were heavily freighted with dozing day-trippers.
Dozens of tourists were seated at tables in the beachfront restaurant, from which the aroma of deep-fried everything wafted through the air. And at the thatch-roofed beach bar, the cruise-ship passengers were three deep. A small army of bartenders in blue-and-white-flowered batik shirts were shaking cocktails in time to the music. Delancy’s fine rum appeared to be flowing like a river. A limbo contest was under way on the sand in front of the bar, and a circle of onlookers stood clapping their hands to the beat as a young woman bent backward and slithered under the stick. At the other end of the long white-sand beach, a straw market was doing a brisk business in Delancy’s Island™ souvenir T-shirts, key chains, and straw bags. Nina estimated there must have been a thousand people on the long swath of beach.
Behind the fringe of palms that lined the beach, the vegetation was thick. A wide sandy path led into the jungle. It was framed by a rustic wooden arch thatched with palm fronds. A wooden sign hung from the top of the arch with DELANCY’S ISLAND™ painted on it. Under the arch a man in—what else—a blue-and-white-flowered batik shirt danced and punched the air with one fist. In his other hand, he held a megaphone.
“Woo-hoo! YES!” he shouted into the megaphone. Nina jumped involuntarily. “Welcome, all you party animals to Delancy’s Island. Just pile all your psychological baggage, preconceptions, and inhibitions right there under that coconut tree. You can pick them up on your way out. You won’t be needing them here, DARR-LINGS!” He strutted back and forth in front of the small group that had disembarked from the Take-a-Chancy, eyeing them.
“My name is Brad,” he sh
outed into the megaphone. “My job title is Official Party Starter. The name of the game here today is Let the Good Times Roll. Are you ready to have a good time?” He held his hand to his ear, apparently assuming they were the type of crowd who would be good sports and play along.
Oh boy, thought Nina, glancing around at the others. This was the opposite of her own tropical daydream—which did feature a hammock, but was accompanied by a good book and the gentle shush of the surf in the background rather than a thousand other people and a deejay.
“Cool,” said Danish, who had sidled up beside Nina.
“Yes, I am! Woo-hoo!” yelled Bridget, clapping her hands.
“Right ON!” yelled Danish at the same time.
An awkward silence followed. Philip huffed and crossed his arms across his chest, sending Nina a hard look.
“Maybe the rest of you didn’t hear me. I said, Are you ready for a good time?” Brad called out again.
There was a sputter of uncoordinated, halfhearted applause.
“All right, all right,” said Brad, nodding his head and grinning encouragingly. “I can see we have some serious unwinding to do here. Let me assure you, you have come to the right place, my friends. Delancy’s specializes in good times and sweet memories that pack a little punch. No worries. No time to waste, so let’s go waste some time!”
He swung his arm up over his head and pointed forward, dancing up the path at the head of the group, which shuffled after him somewhat uncertainly, with the exception of Danish and Bridget, who did their own interpretive dances up the path into the jungle.
The path came to an end in a clearing just out of sight of the beach and the thousand lolling vacationers but still within earshot of the steel drums. In the clearing sat rows of shiny golf carts, like strings of brightly colored beads.
“Now, listen up!” shouted Brad, although no one else was saying anything. “Here is the plan. Grab yourself a partner and a map.” He started circulating through the small crowd, handing out glossy maps of the island. Nina held hers in two hands, trying to orient herself to her surroundings.
“X marks the spot, babies,” said Brad. “We are now at location X on your map, otherwise known as Party HQ.”
Nina heard Philip exhale angrily nearby.
Brad continued. “Your task is to get to Y on the map.”
Nina looked down at the map in her hands. Y was marked near a deep semicircular cove on the far side of the island. A track ran along the coast all the way around the small island. Easy enough, thought Nina.
“Now here is the important part,” said Brad, wagging his finger at them with mock seriousness. “Under no circumstances are you to go in a straight line from X to Y. Where is the fun in that? If you come to a fork in the road, take it!” He waited for a laugh or some sign of life, but none came. Danish had wandered away and was busy securing his backpack to a tomato-red golf cart.
Brad tried again. “No, seriously, we’ll follow the scenic coastal road to the Pink Lagoon. Along the way, we’ll pass several sites of interest, at which I encourage you to stop, get out, and have a look around. I’ll be around to give you a hand if you need anything. At the Pink Lagoon, we’ll enjoy a delightful tropical lunch on the beach, followed by some shenanigans! Are you ready? Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines!”
Nina felt sorry for him. She whistled and clapped her hands encouragingly. Bridget joined in. The rest just looked on suspiciously.
Sylvia and Victor were standing together, and after glancing at each other, they proceeded toward a baby-blue cart.
“Hey, Philip! Over here!” called Bridget. “I’ve got this green one.” She appeared to have forgiven him.
Old habits die hard, thought Nina.
Philip looked over at his tall, gangly assistant waving to him frantically in a nearly deserted jungle clearing and proceeded to march purposefully toward the red cart at the front of the queue, sliding his bulk behind the steering wheel and turning the ignition before he replied. “I will take this time in private contemplation. It’s so rare I get the chance to hear myself think.” He sped off solo down the track and was soon out of sight.
“What a pleasure that must be to hear the innermost thoughts of the great Philip Putzel,” muttered Razor Hudson. “I’ll drive with you, Bridget,” he said, and headed over to where she was still standing by the green cart.
Brad looked uncomfortable. He must have been told that these were Mr. Delancy’s personal guests and to show them a good time. Nina caught his eye and smiled encouragingly at him.
“Hey, Nina!” called Danish. “Just like old time times, eh? You and me on the open road in a golf cart. What do you say?”
“All right,” she replied, “but I’ll drive this time, if you don’t mind.” She and Danish climbed into the last cart in the queue. When everyone was settled, the golf-cart convoy moved out slowly, bumping gently over the grass of the clearing and onto the single lane of smooth black tarmac that, according to the map, circled the island.
Away from the crowded beach, the island was like a cartoon version of a tropical island. The paved golf-cart path curved attractively toward the water and then veered slightly away again, winding around aesthetically pleasing groupings of boulders and clumps of spiky aloe vera and buttonwood. Groves of soaring coconut palms had been planted all along the path on both sides, and their smooth gray trunks curved gracefully this way and that in a pleasing tableau. The spectacular turquoise sea was always within view.
At the spot on the map marked with a giant ice cream cone, Nina and Danish came upon a thatched ice cream stand with a cheery yellow-and-blue sign: ISLAND ICE CREAM STAND. Three employees in blue-and-white-flowered shirts scooped coconut, pineapple, or key lime ice cream cones for a swarm of excited kids and their parents, all wearing yellow wristbands that identified them as cruise-ship passengers. A fleet of golf carts was parked in the designated parking area beside the ice cream stand.
“Cool,” said Danish. “Want to stop for a cone?”
“Sure, why not,” she said, pulling into the lot. She sat on a bench while Danish ordered and ate a triple-scoop cone.
A little farther on, at the spot on the map marked with a skull and crossbones, they came to a giant replica pirate ship crawling with kids. They were climbing up thick nets hanging from the mast like spider webs, looking through telescopes in the crow’s nest, and whacking at one another with toy swords down on the beach. Delancy’s Island™ employees dressed in pirate costumes wandered around the ship and the beach saying “Arrr matey” to the kids, who shrieked and laughed and whacked at them with their toy swords. Nina put her foot on the accelerator.
“Hey!” said Danish, “You heard what Brad said. Stop and smell the roses. That looks like fun. I wanted to try it.”
With a sigh, she pulled into the parking area. Danish collected his toy sword and eye patch from the teenager at the concession stand and joined the fray, taking on a gang of ten-year-old pirates. She watched as they chased him up the ropes of the ship, then up and down the beach until he ran to where Nina was sitting on a bench in the shade. He collapsed on his back at her feet.
“That was great!” he said.
The band of miniature pirates surrounded his fallen form.
“Is that your mom?” one of them asked.
Nina and Danish got back in the golf cart and drove on, past a sign for the BOTANICAL GARDENS on their left and then a cheery yellow-and-blue sign for LOVER’S BEACH on their right, marking a wooden staircase down to a secluded cove. There were five golf carts in the designated parking area. At the top of the stairs, a woman in a blue-and-white-flowered shirt minded a thatch-roofed stand that loaned out towels and sold “lover’s picnic baskets.” According to the sign, the baskets—which could be charged to your cabin—included two bottles of Delancy’s ready-to-drink piña coladas, chocolate-dipped fruit, and various creole-style amuse-bouches to feed each another. Offshore, Nina could see a glass-bottomed boat bobbing in the waves and a dozen pas
sengers with their heads bowed.
“Yo, Mrs. Robinson, qué pasa?” called Danish to a woman pounding cassava in a large stone mortar in the front yard of a wooden chattel house painted a festive lime green. The sign in front proclaimed it A TRADITIONAL ISLAND HOMESTEAD. Another woman sat on a wooden bench in front of the house, weaving a basket from strips of palmetto palm leaves. A shelf of straw bags with Delancy’s Island™ embroidered on them with colored straw stood beside her. Nina rolled to a stop.
“Oh, it’s just you,” Mrs. Robinson said to Danish, halting her pounding and leaning against the big stick she was using as a pestle. “We were told there was a group of VIPs coming around this afternoon and to look sharp.”
Nina smiled. She knew what Mrs. Robinson meant. They were local. Mrs. Robinson brought a travel coffee mug out from the folds of her peasant skirt and took a slug.
“Danish, where is my order from Williams Sonoma? My daughter is getting married in one month, and I still don’t have the William Morris antique floral dinner serviettes I ordered for her wedding breakfast. I can see on the Internet that the package was delivered to the post office last week. It says out for delivery. That means you.”
“Sorry, Mrs. R. I only see what they put in my delivery bag. I’ll look under Doris’s desk tomorrow a.m. That’s where we found Bernadette’s three-pack of Spanx. Oops. I wasn’t supposed to talk about that. How’s tricks, Mrs. Johnson?” he called to the woman weaving in the shade of the house. She just nodded and waved.
“Well, we’d better get going. Have a great day, ladies,” said Danish. Mrs. Robinson waved goodbye wearily and strolled over to sit with her friend and drink her coffee.
“Right on,” said Danish after they’d driven across a scenic wooden bridge over a creek that meandered photogenically on its way to the sea a short distance away. “I knew that would sort itself out. I may have accidentally thrown a wet towel on top of that package after my midroute swim break and dissolved the address label. But no harm done. Now I know where it goes. Life has a way of sorting itself out, doesn’t it?”