A Trip to the Beach

by Melinda Blanchard

  “Mine?”

  “Bob and Melinda Blanchard, meet my cousin’s husband, Charles Richardson. He name really Cricket, though.”

  We shook hands, speechless. “You like this house?” Cricket asked. “There are three floors, each with its own apartment. Lowell say you might be interested in renting.”

  We were stunned. Lowell hadn’t even hinted at what he was up to. Cricket’s apartment building was perched twenty-five feet above Long Bay with an uninterrupted view of the water—so close that we could hear even the smallest waves break against the shore.

  “Well, yes,” Bob said finally. “Could we look around?”

  Lowell and Cricket gave us a tour, and our house with a view of the Shell station was history. The apartment was smaller, but our balcony overlooked one of the most beautiful bays in the Caribbean. Lowell knew we loved Anguilla but had been so disappointed with our living situation. He’d been planning this for a while, waiting until construction on the building was almost finished.

  The move changed our life. We became official members of the Long Bay community and were within walking distance of Christine’s shop and Blanchard’s. We bought lounge chairs for the balcony, and as the sun rose behind me each morning, I’d sit outside, watching the water change from green to blue and back again. An occasional cruise ship would pass on its way to or from St. Martin, and a handful of small sailboats glided by from time to time. We could see picturesque little Sandy Island and, farther out, Anguilla’s two uninhabited cays, Prickly Pear and Dog Island—which always made me smile as I pictured Jerry Gumbs turning down Castro’s offer to buy it. Other than that, there was nothing but blues and greens out to the horizon.

  At night, after work, we’d go outside and gaze at the stars over the water. I wished I knew the names, but the Big Dipper and Orion’s belt were the only constellations I could ever remember. Still, I loved seeing the very same stars in Anguilla that were twinkling back home in Vermont. How can two such different worlds be so connected? I’d wonder. How can this balmy, blue-green water be part of the same icy ocean that crashes against the Maine coast?

  We could follow a footpath down to the sea. Long Bay was heavenly. The beach was almost a mile long, and we rarely saw another soul on it. At sunset the sand turned a pale shade of coral. There was a rocky point at one end, ideal for long hours of contemplation, and the water was always warm and gentle.

  I loved coming and going along the palm-lined road, because of the view, but also because I got to pass by Lowell’s house. His sister Angela was always happy to see us. “Good night, good night,” she’d say, poking her head out a window as we’d drive home. “Okay, okay,” Lowell’s mother called out to us every morning. There were always nieces and nephews playing around their house. Just like Joshua and Evelyn’s, the family extended over three generations, and the children barely differentiated among parents, aunts, uncles, grandfathers, and grandmothers. Family was family.

  When I had time on Sunday afternoons, I’d often take Roxana out to the local ice cream parlor in The Valley. Owned and operated by an Anguillian couple that had lived in Italy for a while, it served over twenty flavors of homemade gelato. One Sunday I went to North Hill to pick up Roxana at her uncle Mac’s house, and nobody was inside. I wandered out back to see if maybe they were hanging clothes on the line and found Mac’s mother fanning herself from the heat that was pouring out of her old stone oven.

  “I makin’ potato puddin’, Mel,” she said. “Come.”

  The oven was ancient. Made mostly of rocks, it had an arch of bricks at the top that sloped upward in the front, allowing the smoke to roll out and away. The cooking level was waist high, with a thick, hot bed of ashes and coals on the bottom; extra bags of local charcoal were leaning on a table nearby, ready for refueling.

  “I sells puddin’ to the bakeries,” she explained as she slid a large flat pan of the brown mixture onto the coals. “Roxana waitin’ fo’ you over there.” She pointed past a pomegranate tree in the yard to where Roxana was playing with a new puppy.

  As I walked over she jumped up and gave me a hug. “Ready for ice cream?” I asked. “I waitin’ on you,” she said. “Garrilin comin’ with us; that okay?”

  Every time I saw Roxana her hair was styled differently. That day it was parted into a dozen or so squares, each one centered by a long braid tied off with a different color plastic bead. On our way to the ice cream shop Roxana discussed the flavors she would order. When we finally got there, Garrilin had coconut and cream, I had guava, and Roxana, being the smallest, had kiwi, chocolate, vanilla, and lime. We talked mostly about school, and Roxana pulled out from her pocket her latest report card. She showed me a list of A’s, and then grabbed it back when I started to read the teacher’s comments.

  “Mel, I ain’ think you wanna see that,” she said.

  I stuck out my bottom lip in a pout, and she slid it back across the table reluctantly. I read it out loud. “‘Roxana is an excellent student, but she chat too much in the classroom.’ Good work on the A’s,” I said.

  “Thanks, Mel.” She sighed, relieved that I hadn’t scolded her about the chatting.

  Roxana asked if we could drive around a little before going home, so we turned east past The Valley, and Garrilin and Roxana shared the role of tour guide.

  “See that place there?” Garrilin said as we passed a little shack on the outskirts of town. “Them wild in there. They got girls dancin’ with their titties out.” Roxana covered her mouth, pretending to be shocked.

  “That St. Barts over there, ya know,” Roxana said, pointing out past St. Martin.

  “An’ this furniture shop belong to Mac uncle,” Garrilin continued.

  We circled the island, the two of them taking turns filling me in on who did what, with whom, and where. The smells changed every mile along the way: intoxicating clusters of fragrant agatha, the aroma of banana bread drifting from an open window, a smoky coal keel, the scent of fresh lime from a recently pruned tree, and the pungent curry from the Roti Hut. We passed a house in East End village where a little girl about Roxana’s age was swirling a purple Hula-Hoop around her waist. Two other children sat on the front steps watching and waiting for a turn.

  The vegetation changed noticeably in the east. The white cedars, neem trees, and palms of the western end of the island disappeared. Instead, we saw hundreds of frangipani trees with their long, skinny leaves and white flowers at the end of each branch. There were cacti everywhere, and Garrilin helped me identify the different kinds.

  As we entered Garrilin’s village of North Hill again, she and Roxana pointed out two new benches that the neighborhood had chipped in to buy for the little park along the main road. They were painted yellow and white to match the telephone poles and trash barrels in the village. By the time we returned to Garrilin’s house, Mac was just pulling into the yard.

  “You all set for the big weddin’?” Mac asked me. “The guy call me yesterday and said he having the party at Blanchard’s. He ask me if I could line up all the taxis.”

  “You mean for those people from Washington, D.C.?” I asked.

  “Yeah, what the guy’s name again?”

  “H. P. Goldfield. He called me this morning, and I told him we’d work on a price. He wants to squeeze seventy-five people into our little restaurant. That’s pretty tight for us.”

  “Mel,” Mac said, “this is May. We gotta do the business while we can. Give the man a good price. We need people like he in Anguilla—especially in May.”

  “I’ll call him first thing in the morning,” I promised. Roxana gave me a squeeze goodbye, and I told her to have Uncle Mac bring her down for another drink at the restaurant. She loved Blanchard’s frozen banana cabanas, and if we weren’t too busy, she’d help Bob deliver checks to the tables. The guests adored her.

  As soon as I got home Bob and I discussed H. P. Goldfield’s wedding. Actually, it was the rehearsal dinner he wanted to have at Blanchard’s. Mac was right. We were crazy to pas
s up an opportunity to do a private party for seventy-five people, even if it would be a little crowded. I came up with several menu options and called that night to discuss it further.

  “Please call me H.P.,” he insisted. “Melinda, don’t worry about the space. We can set up tables in the bar, and it will be just fine. The most important thing is the food.” He paused. “And, of course, the wine. My old roommate from college is a wine buyer at Christie’s, and I’d like him to talk with Bob about the choices, if that’s okay.”

  “No problem,” I said. “What do you think about the menu? Shall I fax you pricing for the various options?”

  “That’s fine, but it’s not so much the price I’m concerned about as the quality of the whole party. I’ve got important people from the White House coming down, and all the partners in my law firm here in Washington. Everything has to be perfect.” He continued, “I have some friends who say you’re going to be the next Martha Stewart. You did a special dinner party for them last month. And they said Bob’s wine list is fantastic. I’m forty-five, and this is my first and only wedding; that’s why I need you to make this work.”

  “As long as you don’t mind a few tables in the bar, everything should be fine,” I said. “Here’s our home number just in case you have questions along the way and we’re not at the restaurant.”

  At eight the next morning the phone rang at home. “H.P. here. How’s everything down there in paradise? Listen, I have a little problem. My fiancée says I’m making a mistake not inviting certain people to the rehearsal dinner. After all,” he said, “they’re coming a long way for the wedding. What would it take to add another twenty people?”

  “Another twenty people! H.P., our restaurant has sixty seats. We can’t possibly fit in ninety-five. It just won’t work.”

  “I knew you’d say that, but I had an idea. Why can’t we rent extra tables and put them outside?”

  “Because this is Anguilla,” I explained. “We don’t have a place to rent tables, chairs, or anything else for that matter. I’d really like to help, but I think you’d be much happier at a bigger restaurant. Why don’t you call one of the hotels? They have much more space.”

  “You’re kidding. You really won’t do this? I can’t believe it. We were counting on you.”

  I bowed out as gracefully as possible and gave H.P. the names of several people to speak with who might be better equipped to handle a large group. I wished him luck and said we hoped to see him when he arrived on the island. We knew it was the right thing to do, but we had some feeling of regret at passing up the business.

  Three days later, eight o’clock in the morning again, the phone rang. “H.P. here. Listen, I know this is an unusual request, but I came up with another idea. First of all, we’ve decided to invite everyone who’s coming to the wedding to join us at the rehearsal dinner. It’s the right thing to do. How can we ask people to fly to Anguilla and then leave them out of such an important event? We still have a few weeks to go, so why don’t we rent a big tent, tables, chairs, and whatever else you need, and we can set everything up on the beach in front of Blanchard’s? There must be a rental company somewhere that would ship everything to Anguilla by boat.”

  Bob caught bits and pieces of the conversation and couldn’t believe I was even considering such an option. He kept shaking his head and telling me to hang up the phone.

  “How many people are you up to now?” I asked.

  “Two hundred,” H.P. whispered. I didn’t dare repeat the number, afraid that Bob would grab the phone out of my hand. “Okay,” I said. “Let me look into it.”

  I liked H.P. He was a real charmer—but sincere. He said he understood our situation but refused to take no for an answer. I told Bob to calm down and let me make some calls.

  “Do you think we can handle a wedding for two hundred people?” Bob asked. “Lawyers and politicians from Washington?”

  “Yeah. I think with some guidance and a lot of organization we could pull it off. I’d really love to do it.”

  With less effort than I’d anticipated, I located two brand-new white tents in St. Martin and a place that rented china, silver, glasses, tables, and chairs. Bob and I brought the staff together for a meeting and announced that we had committed to do a rehearsal dinner for two hundred people.

  “It ain’ no problem. Leff them come,” said Bug. “Blanchard’s can do anything.”

  Miguel was excited but a little worried. “You think we gonna need some extra help?” he asked.

  “We’ve already asked Wayne and Jackie from Cap Juluca to wait tables, and we’ve lined up two extra bartenders and a couple of people to help in the kitchen.”

  “That cool,” Miguel said. “We gonna be okay.”

  H.P. agreed to a fixed menu and chose items from our regular selections. His friend from Christie’s called Bob, and they settled on Veuve Clicquot as we passed hors d’oeuvres, and Kistler chardonnay and Heitz cabernet with dinner. He added a 1950 rum from Martinique and Monte Cristo cigars to end the evening.

  About two weeks before the wedding, our phone rang again at eight in the morning. “H.P. here. How are things progressing?”

  “Everything is going smoothly,” I said. “I think you’ll be very happy.”

  “That’s great. I just have another little favor to ask.” There was silence on both ends. He finally continued. “I’m having trouble with the wedding reception. I’ve been working with a hotel on the island and just don’t feel confident that it’s going to be what we want. I think the problem is that the manager spent fifteen years organizing banquets in Las Vegas. He told me the chairs will be avocado green vinyl with a gold frame—more like a convention center than a wedding, don’t you think? He said the lobster would have to be frozen, and it sounds like baked potato is about as interesting as the menu gets, and they insist it’s unheard of to make the rum punch with fresh juice. Melinda, please, can you help me out here?”

  Planning a wedding anywhere is a big job; planning a wedding of this magnitude in Anguilla was a huge challenge. But now H.P. had put us in charge of the entire weekend.

  We had a staff meeting to announce the new plan, and everyone took it on without missing a beat.

  Ozzie said, “Mel, me and Lowell, we get the tents and stuff from the port. No problem.”

  “Miguel,” I said, “we’ve got two hundred white plastic chairs arriving next Wednesday on Tropical Shipping. Can you get them in your pickup?”

  “Cool,” Miguel answered.

  “I talk to my friends about the music,” Ozzie said. “Don’ worry. We get Happy Hits for the first night and Dumpa’s Steel Band for the next. It gonna be cool.”

  Bug knew we’d need things from St. Martin and said, “I goin’ south on Saturday. Gimme a list a whatever ya need over there.”

  I reviewed the menu and explained that the reception would be more casual than the rehearsal dinner—barbecued free-range chicken and lobster.

  Garrilin raised her hand with a question. “Wha free-range chicken is?”

  Bob described the merits of birds that haven’t been penned up or fed chemically treated grain and hormones.

  Garrilin said, “We call them kinda birds yard fowl. They’s all over Anguilla.” She paused for a minute. “I don’ think they wha you lookin’ for, though. Our birds kinda scrawny.”

  Supplies began arriving daily, by boat and air. Since every single thing was imported, we had to anticipate each detail. If anything was forgotten, there would be no running to a local store at the last minute. H.P. told us what kind of flowers his bride preferred, and as she requested, we used as many local blossoms as possible. White frangipani and pink bougainvillea were the most readily available, and we worked with a local florist to fly in baby white roses as well. We collected sea grape leaves and more bougainvillea to decorate the hors d’oeuvre platters, and draped sea-bean vines over the top of the huppah and down the sides. H.P. was flying in his own rabbi, and we arranged for a local minister to be present a
s well, since for the ceremony to be legal in Anguilla, an off-island rabbi alone was not enough. We even bought extra gas for the generator just in case the power failed during dinner.

  Three days before the event I received a phone call from our food supplier in Miami. “I have bad news, Mel,” he said. “The plane with your food is in Puerto Rico.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” I asked.

  “Well, if you want to know the whole story—”

  I couldn’t tell if panic was in order. “Joel,” I interrupted impatiently, “what’s going on?”

  “The plane left Miami and landed on schedule a few hours ago in St. Martin. But the officials there wouldn’t let your food be off-loaded.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “It turns out there were horses on the plane. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the pilot was told he couldn’t unload anything—something about immigration and papers for the horses, I think. So he flew to Puerto Rico.”

  “Joel, I have free-range chickens, smoked salmon, oysters, baby squash, and tons of fresh herbs on that plane; and two hundred people are arriving in forty-eight hours expecting us to provide a storybook wedding on the beach. I need that food today or I won’t be able to pull it off. Plus, what about the ice? There’s no way everything will stay cold enough.”

  “I’m afraid the food can’t get there until tomorrow afternoon,” he said.

  Bug and Ozzie were standing next to me and could see I needed help. “Tell he to get a next plane,” Bug said. “There be plenty planes in Puerto Rico.”

  Ozzie motioned for me to give him the phone. “Hi. This Ozzie. We gotta have that food. You ain’ gotta next plane you could send? These weddin’ people important, ya know.” With that, he passed me back the phone.

  Garrilin piped up and said, “Mel, all our vegetables swibbly. Tell ’em we needs new ones. These all swibble up. Looka these tomatoes. They got more wrinkles than my grandmother.”

  “Hi, Joel, it’s me again. As you can see, we’re all a little upset here. What about the idea of another plane? Is that possible?”