Sailor's Delight

by Charles Dougherty

  "She looks like she's the pick of the litter," the older man said.

  "Mm-hmm. Not bad at all," his younger companion agreed. "She was by herself on the beach earlier this afternoon."

  "That's a good sign. Looks to me like she's on the prowl."

  "I dunno," the younger one said. "I seen her give a couple guys their walkin' papers."

  "Locals?" the older man asked.

  "Yeah. Good-lookin' guys, though."

  "Maybe she got a thing about blacks," the older one said.

  "Possible, I guess, but it didn't look that way. She talked to them a few minutes, but it looked like there just wasn't any magic there."

  "Think you might be the lucky one? You got the magic fairy dust."

  "Yeah," the younger one said, "but that ain't the kind of magic I was talkin' about."

  "Who gives a shit? She'll do. We got to keep movin', don't forget."

  "Yeah, I know. She's runnin' a tab. Why don't you go see if you can slip the barkeep a bill and get her room number?"

  "The hell I want to do that for?"

  "Well, two reasons. One, it'll get your sorry ass out of my way. She don't look like the type would be interested in two guys at once."

  "Yeah, okay. But why her room number?"

  "You could go check it out and call me on my cell."

  "Check it out for what?"

  "Make sure she's travelin' alone. See if there's any sign of somebody might miss her right away. You know the drill."

  "All right, lover boy, I'll check it out, but that means you get the check."

  "Sure. No problem. If she checks out clean call me and then wait down by the dinghy dock."

  Mary was disappointed at first when she saw the older of the two men slide his chair back and get to his feet. The men exchanged a few words. The younger one laughed, and the older man walked over to the bar. He spoke to the bartender for a minute, and Mary saw him hand the man some money. She assumed he was settling their tab, but he walked out and left the younger man nursing his drink. Maybe she was about to get lucky after all. She sipped her rum punch and sat back, inhaling the clean, fresh scent of the sea that wafted through the bar on the light, onshore breeze that came every evening after sundown. Even if the hunting had been a bit disappointing so far, at least she couldn't complain about the venue. Grenada was a beautiful spot.

  She heard the soft ringing of a telephone and looked up to see her quarry lifting a cellphone to his ear. He spoke in a quiet tone for a minute or two and disconnected, waving for the waiter. "Damn," she muttered under her breath, "he's leaving." She scanned the dimly lit room to see if there were other prospects, but she saw only couples. In a morose frame of mind, she picked up her drink and took a large swallow. "Can't get laid, might as well get drunk," she mumbled. She looked up, startled, as the waiter approached her table, a single rum punch on his tray.

  He set the drink on a coaster in front of her and said, "Compliments of the gentleman across the way, ma'am. Enjoy."

  "Thanks," she said, looking over at the man to see him giving her a big smile. She lifted the new drink without breaking eye contact, hoisting it toward him as she returned his smile. She took a small sip and returned the moisture-beaded glass to the coaster, never taking her eyes off him. He raised an eyebrow, and she nodded, watching as he rose to his feet with smooth grace and picked up his own drink. He glided across the room with a dancer's movements, keeping time to the calypso backbeat of the SOCA band that had just started playing. He stopped behind the empty chair across from her and leaned forward to speak so that he could be heard over the rising volume of the music.

  "May I join you?" he asked.

  "I was hoping that you would; thanks for the drink, by the way."

  "My pleasure," he said, gazing into her eyes as he pulled out the chair and sat down.

  She felt warmth spread through her as she held his look. "Your friend abandon you?"

  "My uncle," he said. "Past his bedtime."

  "I see. I'm Mary. Mary Nolan."

  "Troy Stevens. I'm pleased to meet you, Mary. Where are you from?"

  "Atlanta. You?"

  "North Carolina, originally, but I'm kinda between jobs, and I'm spending some time down here with my uncle. He lives on his sailboat."

  "Wow! Sounds like fun. What kind of work do you do?"

  "Oh, I'm trying to make it as an actor, but it's tough. So I pick up whatever I can to pay the bills."

  "I guess that leaves you as much time as you want to sail with your uncle. Where have you guys been lately?"

  "Just kinda kickin' around the islands. You on vacation?"

  "Yes. I'm celebrating."

  "Celebrating? What're you celebrating?"

  "Being single again," she said, batting her eyes.

  "Divorced?" he asked in a sympathetic tone.

  She nodded, grinning. "Right the first time."

  "Sorry it didn't work out for you."

  "Don't be. He was an asshole."

  "Must have been a blind one to let you get away from him."

  "Aw," she said. "Besides being the handsomest man I've ever seen, you're sweet."

  She was tickled by his bashful smile as he looked away from her.

  "Could you excuse me for a minute, Troy? I need to powder my nose."

  "Sure," he said, rising to his feet and stepping around the table to help her up.

  "Don't go 'way," she said, feeling the rum rush to her head. "I'll be right back."

  "I'll be here, don't you worry," he said.

  3

  Connie felt the boat shift slightly as Paul stepped off onto the finger pier on his way to the grocery store. She had been feigning sleep to avoid having to talk to him this morning; she knew it was cowardly of her, but she was playing for time. If she could avoid a confrontation with him until their guests arrived, she could use the time to collect her thoughts and let the wounds heal. She knew he'd be at the grocery store for a while; their stock of staples was running low, and shopping in Grenada was time-consuming. She rolled out of the berth and made it up neatly; she needed order in her world at the moment. Paying attention to the little things gave her the illusion of control, which was critical to her sense of well-being right now. The notion of Paul having some hidden relationship with that hussy rattled her more than she could have imagined.

  She washed her face and brushed her teeth, studying her reflection in the bright sunlight that filtered through the head portlight. She thought about makeup, but rejected the idea; she normally didn't wear any, never having felt the need to improve on the looks with which she'd been blessed from birth. She gave the darkly beautiful woman in the mirror a wry grin and shook her head. She might be a few years older than Karen Gilbert, but it didn't show — not even in the harsh sunlight. Paul might have a different opinion, but she wasn't going to start painting her face. That would be admitting defeat, in a way.

  She stepped out into the galley, taken aback when she saw the breakfast tray that Paul had left for her. "Guilt?" she wondered, and then gave herself a mental slap. It could be, except that the tray was typical of the thoughtfulness that had drawn her to him from the beginning. She had never known such an innately gentle, kind person as Paul. She brushed off the choking feeling as the image of the thong invaded her thoughts. She smiled at the small glass of freshly squeezed passion fruit juice nestled in a bowl of ice, reaching for it and raising it to her lips. He was a master of the little touches; the tray was artfully arranged, everything laid out just where she would expect it to be. She lifted the inverted saucer that covered the cereal bowl to find a carefully arranged array of sliced fruit resting atop the granola. She picked up the tiny pitcher of cream from another small bowl of crushed ice and poured it over the cereal.

  She wondered how such a thoughtful man could be drawn to a tart like Karen Gilbert. She immediately quashed that thought; she had resolved not to get into that until after the charter. Nothing about Paul's relationship with Karen would change during the cha
rter, except that time could work its magic. By the time their guests left, her shock would have worn off, and any feelings Paul had would likewise have moderated. At least, she hoped that would be the case.

  Meanwhile, she wanted to go to the big, open-air market downtown and pick up some fresh flowers and a basket of fragrant, locally grown spices for each of the guests' cabins. She finished her breakfast and rinsed and dried the dishes, stowing everything as she worked. She got dressed and left the boat, intending to be gone before Paul returned. She didn't think she should be alone with him just yet; she might say something she'd regret.

  Paul was amused by the chalkboard listing the day's specials outside the grocery store. He was self-aware enough to realize that he was seeking to take his mind off Connie's strange behavior, but he allowed himself a moment's indulgence anyway. "Fresh, wild, local iguana" was the special of the day, and he chuckled as he contemplated ways to cook it. If they didn't have guests coming aboard, he might be tempted to buy some, thinking that an exotic dish might distract Connie from whatever was bothering her.

  This was the first time since they'd been together that he had seen her so upset. He was sad for her, as well as troubled that she didn't want to tell him what was bothering her. After 20 years as a detective, he read people well. He had seen the signs last night in the taxi; she wanted to be left alone. As he tried to imagine what could have happened in his absence to explain her withdrawal, he realized that he didn't know Connie all that well. They had been too preoccupied with falling in love and starting the charter business to spend time exploring each other's backgrounds.

  Paul met Connie when she chartered Vengeance, the boat that belonged to Mario Espinosa's goddaughter. She had inadvertently stumbled into a money-laundering operation run by a crook named Sam Alfano, who was wanted for murder. Paul had gotten involved in the apprehension of Alfano partly through his final case for the Miami Police Department and partly through his connection to Mario and his goddaughter. He and Connie had become friends when he stayed in the islands for a few days of relaxation after wrapping up the arrest.

  Before they met, he had investigated Connie at the request of Dani Berger, Mario's goddaughter. Dani's initial suspicion that Connie was involved in money-laundering had proved unfounded, and the two young women had become close friends. Most of what Paul knew about Connie's background took the form of sterile, impersonal facts that had been provided by a fellow detective who had worked with Connie while shutting down a drug-smuggling operation that had included her former business partner. Beyond the fact that Joe Denardo, the detective, had given Connie a glowing recommendation for her help in putting away the smugglers and solving the murder of her partner, what Paul knew about Connie was that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  "That'll be $523.12 E.C. Or you want to pay in U.S. dollars?"

  "Sorry," Paul said to the cashier, surprised that he had finished the grocery shopping without being conscious of it. He looked down at the list in his hand, the items methodically checked off. "I'm a little distracted. I'll pay in E.C. dollars."

  "I know you on a boat; you an' the pretty lady usually come in together. Can't remember the boat name."

  "Diamantista," Paul said. "You need the customs papers for the V.A.T. rebate?"

  "No. Tha's okay. We got a copy on file from when the lady was in here the other day. Tell her Paula said hello. I know she glad you back. She been missin' you; I could tell."

  The maid rapped sharply on the door, tapping with her passkey. It was midmorning; most guests would be out of their rooms by now, but after a few embarrassing episodes early in her tenure at the Grand Anse Beach Resort, she had learned to be cautious about opening room doors. After a second knock without a response, she inserted her key and opened the door just a crack.

  "Good morning. Maid service," she called.

  When there was no response, she opened the door fully and stepped into the room, surprised to see that the bed had not been disturbed since the night maid had turned down the covers last night. That was a little out of the ordinary, but not unusual enough to alarm her. While she, like many of the islanders, was quite conservative, she knew that single guests often slept with people they met at the resort. She didn't approve, but she kept her judgments to herself. After all, they paid her salary, and she wanted to know as little as possible about the depravity that occupied them in the nighttime.

  She checked the bathroom; the towels had been used since she had cleaned the room yesterday, and the terry cloth bathmat on the tiled floor was slightly damp. She looked around for a moment, thinking something was wrong, and then it struck her. There were no toiletries on the counter, and she remembered that this woman had left a substantial makeup kit out yesterday. She opened the cabinets, but there was no sign of the makeup kit. Stepping back into the room, she looked around, confirming that the woman's luggage was not in evidence. She checked the dresser drawers and the closet, but none of the woman's belongings were in the room. Now she was a bit alarmed; guests normally stayed from one weekend to the next. Midweek departures were unusual. She went to her cart outside the door and checked the schedule on her clipboard, verifying that Mary Nolan was expected to stay for three more days.

  Frowning, she picked up the phone from the nightstand by the bed and dialed her supervisor. "Mary Nolan in room 132 has lef'," she said, when the supervisor answered.

  "Hmm. She's 'posed to be here until Friday. Why you say she lef'?"

  "She bed not slep' in las' night, an' —"

  "Maybe she get lucky," the supervisor interrupted. "Tha's what the 'Mericans call it — gettin' lucky — when they meet up wit' somebody an' fool aroun'. None of our affair. Jus' you clean the room, an' — "

  "No. Tha's what I t'ink at firs', but all her stuff gone."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Hol' on, then. I check wit' the office an' call you back there."

  The maid sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. In a moment, the phone rang. "Yes, hello?" she answered.

  "Room paid t'rough Friday; she don' check out. They say mebbe she go stay somewhere else fo' a day. Jus' clean it up an' leave it; mebbe she be back. If not, we make it up clean on Friday, okay?"

  "Yes."

  As Connie stepped out of the taxi in the marina parking lot, she saw Paul walking up the dock from Diamantista. She paid the driver and reached into the back of the minivan to collect her purchases, stealing a glance at her watch. Their guests should be arriving from the airport momentarily. She walked past the guard's shack and entered the marina grounds, flowers in one hand and spice baskets in the other.

  "Good afternoon, Connie," the guard said.

  "Good afternoon, Louis."

  "Your guests will be here in a minute; Felix called. He say 'bout five minutes. I called Paul on the boat; he comin' to greet them."

  "Thanks, Louis," she said, marveling at how cell phones had replaced the coconut telegraph as a means of keeping everyone informed. A stranger had no hope of slipping around unnoticed in the islands, where everybody knew everybody else's business.

  She started down the dock toward Diamantista, watching for Paul to come around the corner. When she saw him, she felt her face melt into a genuine smile. They stopped a pace apart on the dock.

  "The Regans will be here any minute," he said, returning her smile.

  "I heard. I ... "

  "Want me to take that stuff to the boat?" he offered.

  "No, that's okay, thanks. You greet them. I want to get these arranged in their cabins. I'll hurry; maybe I'll be back up here in time. Or I'll just meet you all when you bring them back."

  Paul nodded and made his way to the gate, glancing back to admire her as she walked gracefully toward Diamantista. By the time he reached the parking lot, a dark green minivan with "Felix" emblazoned across the top of the windshield came to stop near the marina gate. He reached for the handle on the side door, sliding it open.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs
. Regan. You too, Ms. Regan." Paul smiled as the pretty teenager blushed at being called Ms. Regan. She flipped her shoulder-length blond hair behind her ears and grinned.

  "Welcome to Grenada. I'm Paul Russo; I'm the first mate on Diamantista."

  "Hi, Paul. Luke Regan," the man said, crouching as he climbed out of the van and offered Paul his hand. "Call me Luke, please."

  Luke was about Paul's height and looked lean and fit. His hair was black and curly, shot through with a few strands of gray. Paul guessed that he was in his mid-to-late thirties.

  "Thanks, Luke," Paul said, shaking hands.

  "Meet my wife, Monica, and my daughter, Julia."

  "My pleasure," Paul said, beaming at the ladies. "How was the flight?"

  "Not bad. We spent the night in Miami, so we just had a few hours flying today," Luke said.

  Paul opened the back doors of the minivan as Luke was paying the driver. He loaded their three duffle bags into a dock cart, finishing as the Regans came around behind the van to join him.

  "I'll take your things down to the boat; let's get you settled. If you're hungry, there's a good restaurant right here in the marina, or I can whip up something quick if you'd prefer."

  "Thanks, Paul, but we bought sandwiches on the plane," Monica said. "I don't know about Luke and Julia, but I'd like to stretch my legs. Is there anywhere we could take a good walk?"

  "Sure. Just follow the driveway back to the road and take a left. There's a nice sidewalk that will take you all the way around the Carenage and into St. Georges. That's the town over there," he said, gesturing across the harbor. "It's a pretty good hike, but if you get tired, just flag down a bus; they're minivans, just like the taxi, except they'll stop and pick up and drop off passengers anywhere along the route, and they're cheap. The driver or the conductor can tell you how to get wherever you want to go; just ask."

  "Conductor?" Julia asked.

  Paul smiled. "They have a person who opens and closes the door and stops traffic for you to cross the street, if he needs to. He'll also collect the fare."