The entrance to Lover’s Beach was a washed-out track through the undergrowth. Els maneuvered Wilma through mud wallows, past a termite mound nearly as tall as the car, and under the canopy of poisonous manchineel trees to a spot large enough to park a few cars. Carrying Susie in her pack, which she wore like a baby sling, she walked the path through the sea grapes onto the night-chilled sand.
Lilies erupted in white starbursts from crevices in the lava ridge behind her, and the empty beach stretched east toward the airport. The rising sun touched the reef, turning its curling surf gold. She marched along the sharply sloped sand, forcing herself forward. The coral sand on the west end sucked her feet in to the calf, but as she neared the airport, the sand turned hard and black, glistening like obsidian where the wash slid over it and barely accepting her footprints.
She retraced her steps and paused to watch a great blue heron fish in the lagoon behind the dunes. Back at the entrance, she let Susie sniff among the nests of seaweed above the wrack line while she dunked in the shallows, turned milky with stirred sand. She sat on a rock watching the ghost crabs tending their holes until her clothing was dry and her skin was prickling with crusted salt. She’d turned her options over and over, and there was no way out but to take the least unappealing of them.
“Come on, Suze,” she called. “Time ti get to work.”
While Els charged around the property, spilling out plans and ideas, Lauretta followed her, taking notes on her yellow pad. By the time they finally reached the kitchen, she’d filled several pages.
“See if you can round up at least thirty wooden chairs, doesnae matter if they match,” Els said. “And get Fred up here so he can build us some tables.”
“This is going to be a mishmash,” Lauretta said.
“We’ll paint everything in a mix o’ tropical colors,” Els said. “It’ll be charming, romantic.” She handed Lauretta a beer and poured herself a rum, and they went to the gallery and flopped into chairs. The May humidity encased them like a second skin.
“Let’s review who’s got what,” Els said. She held her sweating glass to her cheek. “I’ll get Fred to build a bar in the lounge. You and Eulia will scout out the kitchen and service equipment. I bet the Resort has cast-offs we could get for a song. You’ll get the licenses and insurance rolling, but I’ll go meet all the bureaucrats. If they’re going to run my life, I want to look them in the eye.” She rattled her ice cubes. “I’ll paint the furniture, a sign for the gate, and a big portrait of Jack for above the bar.”
“What about the food?” Lauretta said.
“Eulia’s been recipe testing like mad. Come for lunch sometime and join the jury.”
“We’ll never get this joint open in three months.”
“We’ll start small in late August, maybe dinners a few nights a week, and build to a fuller schedule when the season opens.”
“It’s dead empty here then,” Lauretta said. “You got some magic plan for getting customers into those romantic, mismatched chairs during hurricane season, with the Resort still closed?”
Els swigged her rum. “Counting on your genius to create the buzz,” she said. “We’ve got to build a base of locals. Have promotions for the taxi drivers, concierges. Advertise. What else can you do to launch a business?”
“Pray,” Lauretta said. She sipped her beer. “This is going to be one long, hot summer.”
part six
CHAPTER 32
Nevis, West Indies
September 2000
In Horseshoe Jack’s first weeks, business was spotty and plagued by power outages, an island-wide shortage of bottled gas, and a tropical storm billed as minor that dumped rain for two days. Els struggled to become a gracious hostess and competent bartender, and once she’d mastered classic cocktails using Jack’s tattered Old Mr. Boston as a guide, she branched out into signature drinks for the pub, including Jack’s Rum Wallop, her riff on Sunshine’s lethal Killer Bee. Her role as bar wench took so much concentration that she swore off drinking whenever patrons were on the property.
Eulia hired her cousin Genevra and a friend named Luleesha as her kitchen and wait staff. Together they pushed the makeshift kitchen to produce inventive dishes that pleased the locals without intimidating the visitors. Lauretta’s PR campaign succeeded in getting one dessert, an improbably light cornmeal and pumpkin concoction served on a sculpted banana leaf, featured in a glossy tourist magazine. Eulia had dubbed it “honkie conkie” but instructed her girls never to call it that in front of a guest, and they all hooted with laughter. Els didn’t get the joke.
One morning Pinky appeared with a lumpy sack of charcoal he’d smoldered in a pit on the mountain and, after a negotiation with Eulia, was installed as the grill master.
“He cookin’ over charcoal and wood his whole life,” Eulia said.
“We cannae have the guests see him looking like that,” Els said.
“Buy him some shorts,” Eulia said. “I gon’ cut he hair. We give him one a’ them pub T-shirts you gettin’ made up, who gon’ know he live in a shack in de bush?”
Thereafter, Pinky also took over firing off Bessie at sunset, and Els flew Jack’s flag whenever the pub was open, floodlighting it after dark to be sure it was visible from Oualie.
Vivian’s church friends started dropping in for lunch or tea. Finney asked permission to return the domino table to its former place of honor under the mango tree. Soon, a group of older men began playing there, joking it up and nursing their beers. Expats dribbled in to try this new addition to their short list of dining options, but none had yet returned. Though Lauretta kept insisting traffic would pick up, Els became obsessed with the daily cash flow, which was alarmingly in the red.
Early in one lunch shift, when the domino players were chatting up the kitchen girls and laying out the bones, Finney finished cleaning snapper for dinner, stepped out onto the patio, surveyed the lunch crowd, and said, “Trouble, Els.”
Els delivered her tray of drinks and followed his gaze.
“Them guys at the orange table,” he said. “The big one wid the stylish shirt and mouth like a fish is Viv’s older brother Eugene. The one with all them freckles, that her younger brother Clarence.”
“Introduce me,” Els said.
Despite her effusive welcome, neither man rose or shook hands. Eugene slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked her over. Clarence nodded and grinned, rather idiotically, she thought. When she offered them drinks on the house as members of Finney’s family, Eugene smiled, an important man smile.
“Hear you two real cozy,” Eugene said. “Finney, you got a nice little house, nice boat, catch all pre-sold. Looks like you got yourself a benefacture.”
“Or maybe a little luck flowing my way for a change.”
“You want to keep it flowing,” Eugene said. “You know what I’m sayin’?” He jutted his chin toward the domino men. “Dem say you got meetings here most every day.”
“They’re just playing dominoes,” Els said. “And bragging about the fast women and cars of their youth.”
“What you think, fool?” Finney said. “Those old guys is hatching a plot to toss out you party?”
Eugene shrugged. “Anything can happen over dominoes.”
Els glanced around the unusually busy restaurant, anxious to attend to other guests.
“You here to ask after Viv, or maybe you on official gorment business?” Finney said.
“How she doin?” Clarence said.
“She sleepin’ now. Got all the comforts.” Finney tipped his head toward Toad Hall.
Eugene shrugged again. Clarence continued to smile.
“Try de soup,” Finney said, stepping away. “Eulia make it from Viv’s recipe.”
“Tell Viv to talk some sense into you,” Eugene called.
“She give up on that long ago,” Finney called back.
“S’long, Bobo,” Eugene called, and he and Clarence laughed.
Els followed Finney to the court, stopped h
im, and searched his face.
“‘Bobo Johnny’ what Nevis people call Anguillans they wish to insult,” Finney said. “It mean we backward, gullible. Eugene been tryin’ to get me vex wid dat since we first meet. One time I rough him up about it, but Viv make me promise no more fighting.”
When Eugene and Clarence had finished their meal and started down the drive without comment or farewell, Genevra called from the patio. “Els, water quit again.”
“Pretend you upset long as Eugene watching,” Finney whispered to Els. “I go switch over to the cistern. Doan let on we got a backup.”
“What are you implying?” Els said.
“Lotta reasons water might stop flowin’,” Finney said. “None a’ them the water’s idea.”
At half three, when the last table had asked for their check and the domino men had left for their siestas, Els found Finney sitting in the shade behind Toad Hall mending a cast net.
“Are the domino players putting my business in danger?” she asked.
“Mr. Big just paranoid,” Finney said.
“Enough to engineer a water stoppage?”
“Could be coincidence,” Finney said. “You want me tell them doan come no more?”
The domino men were fun to have around, and on Friday nights when the old league turned out and they set up extra tables, they drew a crowd. Els didn’t want to lose those liquor sales.
“Just tell them no politics,” she said.
“Politics in everything,” Finney said. “What bank you use, where you buy you groceries.” He tightened a knot and cut the thread. “I tell them no loose talk. None a’ we want anyting do you.”
CHAPTER 33
As Lauretta had promised, the jewelry shop in San Juan was full of glittering cruise passenger bait. A smartly dressed Mr. Hidalgo ushered Els to a conference room, and while he inspected each of her items, she caught herself tapping her nails—manicured for the first time in months—and knotted her hands in her lap.
“The diamonds are excellent quality,” he said, and arranged the pieces on his velvet board—two pairs of earrings, a three-stone pendant, and a tennis bracelet, all consolation gifts to herself. She’d kept only the stud earrings she was wearing. “The necklace and ring . . .” He gave a shrug of regret. “I could be interested in those only for the stones.”
She poked at her great-grandmother’s matinee necklace, a lattice of rubies and diamonds she’d worn exactly once: on New Year’s Eve to welcome in the new century, alone but for Jack’s appearance. She picked up the ring. “My grandmother wore this every day.” A family heirloom of generations, the ring was a cabochon star sapphire surrounded by diamonds. The portraitist of The Beatrice had perfectly rendered its glint.
“A treasure to you,” he said. “But I cannot foresee a customer for it.”
Thinking of Beatrice’s feistiness, she sat taller and slipped the ring onto her finger. “Give me your best price for the rest.”
The airport restaurant’s glacially slow service left her staring through its windows into a corridor full of tourists, departing ones bronzed and pink, arriving ones pale. A very tall, very black man walked by with two pink men dressed like American bankers on casual Friday. He wore a form-fitting blue dress shirt and pressed slacks and carried an alligator briefcase. What arrested her were his hair twists, which were caught in a thick ponytail that fell halfway down his back.
Jason. Barely recognizable without the crocheted muffin hat and sunglasses.
Unable to get the waiter’s attention, she chugged the rest of her wine, stuck some cash under the salt shaker, and hurried out. The men were clustered near an exit door, laughing and clapping each other’s shoulders as they parted. Jason’s back was to her. “Thanks for making time, guys,” he said. “Enjoy the golf and give my regards to Hank.” His Jamaican accent and patois had disappeared; he sounded like an educated northeasterner.
She followed him to the Nevis departure gate, where he leaned against a pillar and opened a prospectus.
“I thought Iguana was still plying the Mediterranean,” she said. When he looked up, there was a flicker in his black eyes. “Is Liz back too?”
“He in St. Maarten,” he said. “You enjoyin’ a little taste a’ the States after all deez months in paradise?”
“Merchandising Jack’s gift shop,” she said. “I’ve just spent a bloody fortune on logo T-shirts.” She looked him over. “Did you take lessons from the Italians on how to clean up your act? And from those Americans about how to speak like a Yank?”
He studied her, perhaps debating his reply, stuck the prospectus under his arm, and grabbed his briefcase. “Let’s sit over there,” he said, no trace of the Jamaican accent.
She chose a seat. When he sat, he left an empty seat between them and put his briefcase on it.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” she said.
He looked across the terminal. “Liz and I argued about you this summer. He’s wanted you to know about our business for some time.”
She thought of all those shadowy men, the roll of cash, the whispered conversations. Here it was, the truth she’d been denying, that would dash all her fantasies.
“Ever since you called him a rental captain, it’s been bugging him that you think we’re just employees of some fat cat.” He looked at her. “We own Iguana.”
“He could have told me that himself.”
“I didn’t trust you enough,” he said. “But he does, in spite of anything I say. And he doesn’t trust easily.” He shifted in his chair. “He doesn’t need some spoiled rich girl leading him on and running home when things get tough.”
“Nevis is home.”
“You don’t know the first thing about what you’re getting into. The undercurrents, the politics. You better watch who you associate with.”
“Including you?” she asked. “Including Liz? Who appointed you his keeper?”
“He’s easily hurt.”
“And I’m in no hurry to let myself get fucked over by some sailor who’s never around.”
He looked at her, challenge in his black eyes. “Then you and I both hope your little business adventure succeeds. Give you your own life. On land.”
“I have every intention of achieving that,” she said. She pulled on her shawl against the aggressive air-conditioning. “Why does he trust you?” she said. “A guy with a fake patois who pretends to be from Jamaica?”
“Jamaica, Queens,” he said. “But my mother grew up in the hills above Montego Bay. We spoke creole, patois, as you call it, at home.”
“A chameleon,” she said. The charge could as easily be leveled at her, sliding as she did from brogue to Brit to American inflection, depending on the circumstance.
“Change your accent,” he said, “you’re still black. But sometimes I prefer to appear more black than others.”
She glanced at the prospectus he’d tossed on top of his briefcase. “Those gringos give you a little bedtime reading?” She watched him weigh his answer.
“They’re fund managers from Boston, here on a boondoggle. I flew home early to meet with them.” He turned to look at her, held her gaze. “I manage money for private clients.”
He was wearing Italian loafers, no socks. She’d never seen him in anything but flip-flops.
“I discounted it as pure boast when Liz called you a financial whiz,” she said. “I’m not alone in assuming you deal drugs.”
“Ah, assumptions,” he said. “I deal only money. And use some of the proceeds for micro-lending.”
“A loan shark.”
There was that flicker in his eyes again. “You also assume usury,” he said. “My rates are a few basis points over prime. My clients are people like Finney. The working poor. Fifty bucks here, a couple of hundred there. The banks won’t give them the time of day.”
She rearranged her shawl. “If you’re any good at investing, why put up with the likes of Salustrio and your other charter clients?”
“Iguana and my investme
nt business are mutually beneficial,” he said. “But she’s a separate division that Liz runs. He isn’t happy long anywhere but at sea.”
At the pre-boarding announcement for their flight, he dumped the prospectus into his briefcase and she feared he’d clam up.
“So Liz taught you to sail,” she said.
“When I decided it was time to leave New York,” he said, “I wanted to explore my Caribbean roots, and sailing was a way to know the whole region. I couldn’t tie a single knot, but I signed on with any boat that would hire me, worked my way up. Who’d think a big black guy could be invisible, but for most of the charter clients, I could have been part of the mast. They discussed their business openly.”
“Eavesdropping for investment tips.”
“Not my fault if the Man assumes I’m too ignorant to understand what he’s saying. I learned how those guys thought, where the value was, the risk. I studied hard, got strategic, made smart buys.”
Els straightened and leaned away. “Mother of God.”
“What?”
“You’ve involved Liz in insider trading.”
Jason looked at her. “The only time I got even close to that—the only time—was when we had a bunch of British M&A guys aboard, totally shit-faced and arguing indiscreetly about a possible merger involving a company already in my portfolio. I did my homework and decided it warranted a bigger investment, merger or not. That deal cratered, but eventually another company bought them. Big payday. Liz and I bought Iguana with the proceeds.” He chuckled. “She was a wreck then. We practically stole her. Finney and Jack helped us restore her.”
“Does Liz have a double life too?”
“People believe what they want.”
“But you actually mislead people.”
“I never said one untruth to you.”
“You’ve barely said anything to me.”
“Smart mon know silence doan betray him,” he said, waggling his head, then dropped the accent. “Silence leaves room for the imagination. You’re like all the other visitors. You make up our stories for us based on your own fantasies. If you know the truth about us, we aren’t so picturesque.”
The Moon Always Rising Page 22