Looking out through the open doors of the garage, she stared up at the sky. Against its damson canopy, the stars showered the night with tiny points of light. It was a beautiful night.
A crunching on the gravel redirected her attention.
“Cliff?” she called out.
No one answered. The crunching moved closer.
“Cliff, is that you?”
A burst of giggles met her inquiry.
“Who’s there?” She stood up. What was going on?
Out of the shadows came Mariette and Regina.
“It’s us. We want to come with you.”
“Come with us? But how did you know? Oh, when Cliff asked you for the keys. I get it.” She sighed. Whatever she had expected out of this evening, it had not been this. “Well, it’s a free island, I guess. But this is Cliff’s idea, so you’d better ask him.” So much for romantic, star-crazed nights, she thought, eyeing the two teenagers. More like Mom and Pop take the kids to Disneyland.
“He’s not here yet? I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t get the keys to the Rolls. The doctor took them. I think he had plans for him and Mrs. Taylor tonight.”
“Except that Mother’s in her room waiting for a call from Mildred,” interrupted Regina, “so I don’t think he’ll be needing them.”
“Well, that’s it, then. I’m not walking all the way to the other end of the island.” Joyce was ready to call it a night. Next to the two girls in their colourful Jams and T-shirts she was suddenly feeling over-dressed and over-aged.
“We don’t have to walk. I couldn’t get the keys to the Rolls, but I did manage to get the keys to the truck. The one we use for deliveries. It may not be as luxurious, but it has four wheels and an engine.” Mariette held up the keys.
“What has four wheels and an engine? And what are you two doing here?” It was Cliff. Striding out of the darkness into the circle of light cast by the single lamp over the garage door, he made them all jump.
“The truck.”
“What truck?” He ran an appraising look over Joyce. “Ve-ry nice.”
“The one the four of us are taking to town.” She ignored his compliment.
“The four of us?” He looked from Joyce to the girls and back again.
“Can’t we come, please?” they chorused. “Please?”
He looked questioningly at Joyce. “What do you think? Shall we babysit or not?”
“Babysit!” they cried in unison.
“Sure, I always wanted to be a duenna,” replied Joyce with as much sarcasm as she could muster.
Now it was Cliff’s turn to ignore the comment. “How can I turn down an evening with three beautiful women?” He smiled, looping his long arms around their shoulders.
I just knew he was going to say that, reflected Joyce, with perverse satisfaction, as she disengaged herself from his left arm.
“It’ll just be the five of us, then?” she said, out loud.
“The five of us?” Cliff looked at her questioningly.
“Yes. The girls, you, me, and your image.” She flashed him a look that would freeze meat.
“That’s what I like, a woman with a sense of humor.” He patted her on the shoulder, ignoring the frost warning. “Now where’s this truck?”
“It’s around behind the garage. I’ll show you.” Cliff followed Mariette into the darkness. “I hope you can drive a standard,” she said, as they disappeared around the side of the building.
“Isn’t your mother going to be upset when she finds out you came with us?” Joyce turned to Regina. Maybe there was still time to salvage the evening.
Regina shrugged. “She’ll probably have a hairy fit, but that’s nothing new. Besides, I don’t think she’s going to find out. She hasn’t said two words to me since lunch, and when I went to see if she was coming down to dinner she said No, she had some work to do, and that she was waiting for a call from Mildred. I wonder why she called Mildred?”
“Who’s Mildred?”
“Our secretary in New York.”
Before Joyce could pursue the matter any further, the cough of an engine erupted from behind the garage. “Sounds promising.”
The grinding and popping of gears announced the arrival of the truck, which lurched into the drive in front of the garage a few seconds later.
“Hop in, ladies.” Cliff leaned out the window and gestured to the back of the pick-up, where Mariette was already waiting.
“Sorry there’s no room up front, but this thing only has the one seat. I guess they took the other one out to make more room for the supplies. I’ll be glad to ride in the back if one of you thinks you can figure out these gears better than me.”
The women shook their heads.
“Sorry about this, Joyce.” He shrugged apologetically.
But Joyce shook her head. “That’s perfectly alright,” she replied, in carefully measured tones. “I’ll be just fine. I always wanted to ride in the back of a pick-up truck. It’s good for my image as a working journalist.”
Regina looked up at Mariette, who raised a single eyebrow in response, and then both she and Joyce climbed into the back of the pick-up.
Cliff ground the gears into reverse, turned the truck around, and then coaxed his way into second. This was going to be hard work, but at least it suited his sense of adventure.
He was just about to ease his way into first when a thudding of feet announced the approach of someone heavy running toward the truck. He flicked on the high beams, sure that he would see either the doctor or Belle Taylor illuminated in the swath of light. But to his surprise it was Cathy, hurrying along, waving her arms.
“Wait, wait for me.” She ran breathless up to the cabin of the pick-up. “I want to come, too.”
Cliff hooked a thumb toward the back: “Hop in.” Any more and they’d have enough to play the Lakers.
Cathy, her face beaded with the efforts of her hurried departure, billowed around to the back of the truck.
“Hi. Cliff says I can come too.” She hauled herself up and gave a deep sigh. “I almost didn’t think I’d make it. If it wasn’t for all that hiking this week.…”
Joyce asked the obvious question: “Just out of curiosity, how did you find out about tonight? It was supposed to be a secret.”
“I know. But I was just coming out of the change room this afternoon when I heard you two talking about going to town. I phoned Michael to ask him if he thought I should ask you if I could go with you, but you know what?”
“No, what?” asked Joyce without enthusiasm.
“He was out. And he was out last night, too. Both times the sitter answered. When I’m looking after the children and he’s away on business, I stay home. But the minute I’m gone, he calls a sitter and out he goes. Well, if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. I’m entitled to go out, too.” She folded her arms across her bountiful bosom, as intractable as a Buddha.
Cliff forced the gears into first and, with a spray of gravel and a burst of exhaust, they were off.
Joyce coughed and waved away the cloud of noxious black fumes that belched from the exhaust. The evening was certainly taking a different direction than she had envisioned. She hadn’t been on a gang date since high school.
Belle Taylor was lying fully dressed on her bed, her dinner, if that is what you could call the smidgin of chicken curry that lay like a tiny yellow oasis in the sparkling white desert of the Rosenthal dinner plate, rested untouched on the tray beside her. She was daydreaming, a practice she had not let herself engage in in almost twenty years.
Ever since Regina had been born, she had been pushing, pushing, pushing her way up the ladder of success, and it had taken most of her considerable energy and all of her time. She had never taken a moment to stop and consider where she was going or why. She knew only one direction—up, and one reason—because she had to.
In all those years, she had never considered the possibility that there might be something unhealthy, even self-destructive, in
her terrible ambition to succeed. Until this morning, that is.
The possibility that the doctor was trying to wangle his way into her wallet had disturbed her, and rightly so. But what had disturbed her even more was that her own motives were no less mercenary. She had known from the beginning that he had been up to something, but she had gone along with it, figuring all the while that she might be able to turn his need for money into an opportunity to make some herself—at his expense if necessary. But it occurred to her now that it had also been at her own expense. The whole business left a bad taste in her mouth.
She was using him using her, which made her no better than he was.
And, on top of that, there was something else. She kept going over the events of the previous evening step by step, trying to understand why the whole business had left such a impression. It was not just that it had been a long time since she had been with a man. God knows she was used to doing without for longer than that—willing and able partners being somewhat of a rarity at her economic level. It was not even that he had been that good—although he had been a definite improvement over the last few men she had shared her bed with. No, it was something else. Something that transcended her anger over the possibility that she was being set up. Something that made her keep wanting to replay the evening over and over in her head as she savored it piece by piece. There was something about him, something she liked.
And that was probably the most disturbing thing of all.
A knock on the door brought her out of her reverie. It was probably Regina, she decided. Dinner must be well over by now. So she stayed where she was, and called out. “The door’s open. Come in.”
It was not Regina who responded to her invitation, however, but the doctor.
“Oh, it’s you.” Belle sat up straighter on the bed. Horizontal was not a power position. “What do you want?”
“I have come to apologize for this morning. I mean, for last night. You were right. I did send for the financial report to find out all about you. And, when I found out, I decided that you were perfect for what I needed.” It was offered in the tone of a confession.
Belle was immediately wary. “Oh, and what was that?”
“Money.”
“That’s what I thought. And I suppose you assumed I would be some sort of lonely, middle-aged pushover who would be willing to pay for her pleasure.”
“Let’s just say that I hoped perhaps after you knew me better you might be able to see your way clear to giving me a small loan.… But I guess I was wrong.” He sounded like a defeated man. “I’m sorry.” He shrugged his slumping shoulders and turned to go.
“Just a minute.” Belle slid her feet off the bed and came to stand beside him. She looked him right in the eye. “You really are very good, you know that?”
“Bitte?”
“Don’t give me that broken-man routine. You think you know exactly which buttons to push, don’t you?”
He remained uncomprehending. “I came to apologize. Nothing more.”
“Let’s cut the crap, shall we?” She got her package of cigarettes from her purse.
“You doubt the sincerity of my apology?”
“Look, Hans. Let’s get this straight. I’ve played this game myself—many times. You want something, and you try to get it one way. If that doesn’t work, you try to get it another way. Sometimes you have to come on strong. Sometimes weak works better.” She lit a cigarette. “And sometimes it’s even necessary to try the truth. The fact remains that you still want money, and if apologizing to me looks like the best angle, then you’re willing to give it a whirl. Am I right?”
His face remained blank for a minute and then he broke into a sad grin. “I underestimated you, didn’t I?”
“Both times.”
He shook his head. “Well, now that we both understand each other a little better, how would you like to go for a little drive?”
“Is this just another angle?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know unless you take me up on my offer.”
“God, you really are good at this.” She smiled slowly. “But not as good as me. Wait while I get my jacket, and we’ll see who takes who for a ride.”
Chapter 30
Cotton was the Caribbean equivalent of a one-horse town. In this case, though, it was one streetlamp, which happened to be conveniently located in front of the local drinking establishment, a place that called itself—realistically enough—The Bar. Loud music and even louder laughter erupted periodically from inside, and could be heard all the way down the dirt track that served as the main street, not only for human beings, but also for the wild pigs and flocks of shabby chickens who liked to wallow in its dust-filled craters and potholes.
Cliff pulled the truck up next to three of its clones in front of the bar and came round to help the women down. But, just as he was about to help Joyce down, a small brown pig went flying past their heads, squealing with rage and fear, as someone from inside the bar ejected it with more force than was absolutely necessary.
“You’re taking us to a place that serves pigs?” observed Joyce caustically, as she waved his offered hand aside and jumped down into the dust.
“No. I’m taking you to a place that evidently refuses to serve pigs. And stop complaining, will you. You’ve been to worse places than this.”
Joyce wet her fingers. “How would you know?” She had noticed a spot on her skirt and was trying to rub it off, but it only got bigger. She gave up in disgust.
“You live in New York. Now come on, let’s go inside, or rather, outside. The action’s supposed to be on the patio at the back.” Cliff decided to ignore her grumbling.
The other three were waiting patiently on the veranda that ran the full length of the front of the one-storey wooden building. He led them all in through the front doors and then out onto the patio. The place was jammed, but they were able to squeeze into a table for two by putting three extra chairs around it.
Loud reggae music was being piped outside from the bar and, at one end of the patio, an area had been cleared for dancing—if you could call it that. The dancers were so tightly packed that they moved in unison around the floor, like some kind of large, multi-colored amoeba.
After a few minutes, a waitress who reminded Joyce of the maid who had brought her breakfast on the first morning at the spa, came over to take their order. Cliff suggested that they let him order if they wanted to try a local drink, and that he would pick something different for each of them that he thought they would like.
A short while later, the waitress returned, carrying the tray of drinks. Joyce tried casually to have a closer look as the woman placed a cup of steaming coffee and something golden in a tumbler the size of a juice glass on the table in front of her.
It was the maid who had brought her breakfast the first morning. What was she doing working at the local ptomaine palace?
After they all had their drinks, Joyce tried to catch the waitress’s eye but, after taking a fleeting look at Mariette, the woman quickly disappeared into the throng.
“What’s in here?” Mariette sniffed her drink and pretended that nothing was out of the ordinary.
“Coke.”
“Coke! That’s all?”
“You are underage.” Cliff wagged an admonishing finger at Mariette. “And you,” he said to Regina, “have to go home sober or your mother will kill you and then me.”
“That’s O.K. I don’t drink anyway.” Regina sipped her Coke. It was enough just to be out without Belle. She didn’t need any additional stimulation.
“Well, if we can’t drink, we might as well dance. Come on, Regina,” said Mariette, heading for the dance floor. She had observed Joyce’s interest in their waitress, and was anxious to disappear before she started asking questions.
“What did I get?” asked Cathy, who, oblivious to everything but the maraschino cherry on the end of her swizzle stick, had already sipped her drink and liked it, but couldn’t identify the taste.<
br />
“You got the Bajan version of a Manhattan. That’s two parts rum and one part Falernum, a sweet syrupy stuff that’s very popular on the island for making mixed drinks.”
“Falernum. Mmmm, it’s good.” She took another long sip and then pulled the cherry off the stick and chewed it contentedly.
Cliff thought for a moment and then added, “But take it easy, underneath all that sweetness is a rum that really packs a punch.”
Cathy giggled, already feeling the warmth of the liquor tingling in her veins. “Rum punch. That’s cute.”
“What about me? What did I get?” Joyce sipped her coffee. It was strong and aromatic and she savored it. He had certainly picked the right drink for everybody. But then, she reflected, he had had a lot of practice.
“Ah, you got something which ought to take the edge off that mood you’re in. That is the best stuff on the island. And believe me, I should know. Sugar cane brandy. Ten years old and smooth as honey. Taste it.”
She sipped. It was smooth, all right, but a little trail of flames licked at her throat as she swallowed. She quenched the fire with a chaser of coffee.
“And yours?” She eyed his pint glass with suspicion.
“Mine’s a traditional Bajan drink for a man with a big thirst,” he caught a flicker of I-told-you-so in her glance, “but a small tolerance. It’s called a Tewahdiddle. One pint of local beer, one tablespoon of the brandy for bite, and a teaspoon of sugar with ginger and lemon peel to give it that little touch of the exotic.”
“Sounds like a boilermaker to me.” Joyce sipped the brandy again. She was beginning to feel more mellow already. “This stuff is powerful.”
Cathy interrupted, pushing her glass forward. It was empty. “Can I have another one, please?”
“Already?” They responded in unison.
Cathy looked defensively from one to the other. “Yes. I like that Flamermum. Falerman. Flimerum. Oh whatever. It makes me feel all warm and glowy inside. Please, can I have another?”
Cliff looked over to Joyce who raised her eyebrows as if to say “It’s your party”. Then he turned to Cathy. “O.K. I’ll order you one if you want.” He signaled a passing waitress for another drink. “But remember, if you’re not used to drinking, this is not the stuff to cut your teeth on.”
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