by Carrie Doyle
“I’m thrilled I finally got you,” Jonathan cooed. “You are as hard to connect with as the Queen herself. Rather harder, I say. I did tell you that the Queen recently visited our little island…”
“You did. But wasn’t that seven years ago?”
“Was it that long? You have a wonderful memory.”
“I know.”
“I’m still hoping that you will come down and visit us again. They’ve just opened a new tapas restaurant at the resort, and we now have a pickleball court! And business is booming. I am actually expanding; the demand is so high, I am hiring associate brokers right and left. I also should mention…”
“Before you continue, I should tell you that I am no longer at Travel and Respite,” announced Plum. It was the first time she had actually said it out loud, and it hurt more than she thought it would.
“Oh? Where are you now? Which competitor was able to lure you away?”
“No competitor.”
“No? You went to a fashion mag?”
Plum yanked a large eyebrow hair out and yelped in pain. She stood upright and stopped what she was doing. “I am currently retired. Sorting out my next move.”
There was deathly silence on the other side of the phone. Plum was certain Jonathan was scheming about how quickly he could get off. But his response surprised and irritated her.
“Oh well, dear, brilliant. Here’s a thought, why don’t you come down here and work for me? I’ll put you in charge of the publicity, throw you some accounts…”
Plum quickly cut him off. “That’s a nice suggestion, Jonathan, but I have lots of irons in the fire and am not quite ready to move down to oblivion.”
“I see.” Jonathan sniffed. “All right, then. Good luck in your next endeavor.”
The nerve of him, thought Plum when she placed her phone down on the counter. Did he really think she would want to hock villas on an isolated island? Surely, she wasn’t that desperate.
The miserable winter days continued on without any leads on the job front. The most harrowing aspect for Plum was that she no longer had a plan.
On the last weekend in January, Plum made a trip to her local drug store to pick up milk (no longer organic, she had to save money). As it was ten o’clock on a Saturday night and everyone she knew would be out at a fancy restaurant, she didn’t bother to put on any makeup or reattach her fake eyelashes, and she threw her untamed mane under a wool hat. Her coat was almost long enough to cover her pants, so there was no use changing out of her pajamas. She stopped to peruse the feminine hygiene shelves and had just deposited a large box of Super Plus tampons into her basket when she heard someone behind her.
“What happened to your hair? Did you stick your finger in an electric socket?”
She spun around.
“Gerald.”
Her former art director stood looking at her with sneering eyes. Gerald Hand was shorter than her, which allowed her an excellent view of his prematurely balding head, but other than that, he was well put together and attractive, albeit with somewhat of a pointy nose. He had a white cashmere scarf casually knotted around his neck and a sky-blue anorak coat with a snug fur collar. Appearance was crucial to Gerald, and Plum could see his palpable disdain as he slid his gaze up and down her body. She cursed herself for not changing into something decent.
“I’m surprised to see you, Plum. Word on the street was that you’d put your tail between your legs and hoofed it back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”
“Now, now,” reprimanded Plum.
They had always had a volatile relationship, with extreme highs and bitter lows. When the magazine was doing well, they were best friends. They would have long, liquid eight-course omakase lunches and gossip about the industry. There was even one night that Gerald became teary and confessional about his nasty breakup with his on-and-off boyfriend, Leonard—a choreographer—and Plum cheered Gerald up by promising to help him enact revenge on Leonard. But toward the end, when things were winding down, their friendship had become tense.
“Do you feel guilty for being such a bitch when you fired me?” he asked.
“It was hardly my choice.”
“But you were nasty. You always put yourself first.”
“Well, if I didn’t, no one else would.”
“Yet how quickly you got your comeuppance.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. More of a life restructuring.”
“You know your problem? You are blinded by ambition and unable to feel emotion.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “Right.”
“What are you up to now?” she asked, attempting to change the subject. She did feel a twinge of guilt at how she had fired Gerald. He was sort of a friend.
“I’m freelancing, doing some consulting.”
Huh, she thought. Gerald was also still unemployed. “How great,” she said. “Me too.”
Normally she would have asked him to be specific, but if he turned the tables on her, she would have no response.
Gerald’s eyes narrowed. “I heard that you sent out your resume to every magazine on the planet and you’ve been shut out.”
Plum’s cheeks flamed with mortification. She was about to deny but then thought better of it. “Don’t be stupid, that was just on a lark. I have other plans. I’m actually making a big, dramatic move.”
“What is it?” He leaned in eagerly.
“You’ll see.”
He nodded and gave her a patronizing look. “Just as I thought.”
“What?”
“You have nothing. No prospects.”
“Not true.”
“Oh, really? Then what?”
Plum’s mind raced. And before she even knew what she was saying, she had blurted out a response.
“I’m moving to the Caribbean to work in the luxury rental market. Jonathan Mayhew has tapped me as his heir apparent. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. So long, cold New York winters. Hello, sunshine.”
Chapter 2
Before she had even left the airport, Plum was assaulted by the humidity. She could feel her hair rising and curling as she moved along the customs line. What had she been thinking? The tropics were no place for a pasty-white redhead like herself. She was practically courting melanoma.
As she inched along pushing a giant luggage-filled cart with bent wheels and clutching her passport, she began to feel sorry for herself. Yes, it was strange. Here she was in literal paradise, and she was sad. Rather than a new beginning, it felt like an end. Plum’s self-esteem had derived from her ability to ascend the ranks of the publishing world despite unloving parents, an unhappy childhood, and no useful connections or fancy schools or anything that would have given her a leg up. And yet, the demise had been abrupt and short. Hadn’t she played by the rules? Worked her ass off? Made her career the focus of her life? True, her manner was a bit brusque and abrupt, but if she were a man, it wouldn’t be an issue. And now she was cast out to some godforsaken island with no idea of what was to come. She promised herself it was only temporary. She would use this as a hiatus and continue her job search in Manhattan. This steamy island was not her destiny.
Matters didn’t improve when she reached the front of the line and the customs agent told her she would need a tourist card before she could proceed.
“What’s that?” she snapped with impatience.
The woman pointed to an office on the other end of the building, where yet another line stood.
“But I’m moving here. Do I need a tourist card?”
“Sí.”
“This is a very inefficient system,” Plum burst out with exasperation. “There was no signage telling me that I needed to go there first.”
“Thank you. Next, please,” said the customs woman before waving to the next cust
omer to proceed.
After twenty minutes procuring a tourist card, which cost thirty-five dollars, Plum returned to the long customs line—increased by a plane’s worth of tourists from Chicago—to finally venture into Paraiso. Hot and exasperated, she scanned the throngs of people holding welcome signs to find one with her name. She finally located it in the fingers of a chubby man in his sixties, with clear glasses and a big smile.
“That’s me,” she said, motioning to the sign.
He shook her hand enthusiastically. “I am Enrique. I am pleased to welcome you to Paraiso.”
“Thank you.”
“You are very tall.”
“I am well aware.”
He laughed mirthfully and took her cart, and she followed him out of the airport and into the blinding sunshine. She blinked around at the diesel-fumed entrance and felt strange that this was her new home. Would she one day return here and experience that warm sensation of arriving someplace beloved and familiar? She briefly conjured up the image, which quickly dissipated when she was almost run down on the crosswalk by two men in a junky car, who waved cheerfully as if they didn’t even notice they had almost killed her. No. This was not her home. This was a working job search until she found better employment back in New York. A paycheck to provide for the animals at the shelter.
She attempted to make small talk with Enrique, but he spoke limited English, and she spoke no Spanish. She had not foreseen this as a problem and couldn’t help grumbling to herself how irritating it was that all of these people in the hospitality industry did not speak English. Well, she decided, she would have to learn Spanish. How hard could it be?
They coasted along past the twinkling, blue Caribbean Sea, which was a color so bright, it looked almost fake, before they veered into the center of the island to cut through to the western side. The drive to Las Frutas was eye-opening. When she had visited last time, years ago on a press junket, she had been chattering in the car with editors from other magazines and tapping away at her smart phone. She had barely taken the time to glance out the window until they rolled through the sturdy gates that enclosed the breathtakingly beautiful Las Frutas Resort. But this time she scanned her new homeland with curiosity. The roads were narrow and lined with small houses as well as storefronts selling produce and sodas. When they ventured through small commerce areas, women with baskets of chips, bananas, and bottles of water came forth to proffer their wares. The cars drove slowly, but mopeds with helmetless passengers weaved through them at dangerous speeds. Kids were playing soccer on the side of the road. Everyone was smiling and happy. It was a marked difference from the streets of New York, where people scowled and pushed and shoved their way along, in that “every man for himself” sort of way. It puzzled Plum. And made her suspicious.
“Do you think you could turn up the air-conditioning?” she asked. Her linen pants were becoming sweaty and sticking to the leather seat. Not to mention her fresh, new eyelashes were peeling off due to the humidity.
“It’s on the maximum,” he replied.
“Really? How unfortunate.”
She hoped she had brought enough lightweight clothing with her, though she couldn’t be certain, as she had packed up so quickly. It had been surreal to shove all of her winter duds into a storage unit in the Bronx that cost an arm and a leg. In the end she realized it would have been more prudent to give them all away and buy an entirely new wardrobe when she returned.
“We are now here,” said Enrique as they drove up to the white-walled fortress and presented their passports and IDs to the guards at the reception. They scanned Plum’s passport and took a picture of her. For posterity? Plum thought. After what seemed like an endless process, the guards finally said, “Welcome.”
As the gates parted, Plum experienced a religious sensation, as if she were entering heaven. The explosion of vibrant colors and fragrant flowers engulfed her. They drove along the quiet, paved road, shared with guests in golf carts, bikers in bathing suits, joggers and tennis players jauntily meandering. The paths were shaded with palm trees, and flowering, pink bougainvillea had unfurled on every whitewashed wall. No one seemed in a hurry, except the brightly colored birds flitting from bush to bush. People were moving slowly. This new pace could be very peaceful, Plum thought. Or it might really irritate her.
Jonathan Mayhew Caribbean Escapes was located in Golf Villa Twenty-Four, a low-slung building that doubled as a residence for the proprietor. Plum had refreshed her memory of the resort when she accepted the job and read all of the information available online. She knew there were twenty-five golf villas, all dappled around the links course, and the majority of them were rented out to visitors or locals who used them on weekends. The resort had one hundred guest rooms at the main hotel and then about two hundred more villas of varying shapes, sizes, and value scattered all over the rest of the former sugar plantation’s five thousand acres.
“I’m so pleased you made it,” said Jonathan, who came out to the porch to greet her. A slim man, in his sixties, with little hair, a glib face, and a mouth full of bad teeth, he carried himself with a certain elegance that felt posh to the people he interacted with. Jonathan was known for his well-tailored white suits, and today he didn’t disappoint, adding a light-blue checkered shirt underneath.
“Yes, here I am,” said Plum. For better or worse, she wanted to add.
“You’re lucky with the weather.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, glancing around at the cloudless sky. “Was it raining?”
Jonathan chuckled. “Of course not, I’m joking. The weather is always like this. You’re in paradise, love.”
Enrique was instructed to take her belongings to the town house that Jonathan had secured for her while Jonathan introduced her to her new colleagues and showed her around the agency.
Plum’s first impression was not favorable. She entered a dusty room with three desks tightly nestled together and fitted with ancient desktop computers, the likes of which she had not seen in several years. The walls were adorned with maps and posters of the resort, and filing cabinets were stacked along the wall. There were several open windows, mostly obscured by giant ferns that lurked outside in clay pots. There was no air-conditioning, and the only cooling system appeared to be the languid overhead fan that produced about as much air as a baby farting. It felt claustrophobic.
A plump, motherly woman of about sixty with silver hair cut neatly into a bob and a heavily lined face rose to greet Plum. She had large round eyes behind even larger round glasses that made her appear wise and comforting.
“Welcome to Paraiso,” she said in accented English. “We are very happy to have you here.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Lucia. The office manager. Please let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Lucia is the backbone of Jonathan Mayhew Caribbean Escapes,” Jonathan quickly added. “She makes sure everything runs smoothly. Organizes all of the paperwork, and she’s in charge of billing and reservations as well. We wouldn’t get on without her.”
“I don’t disagree,” concurred Lucia. She winked at Plum.
“Excellent,” said Plum with approval. “I love efficiency. It takes people of all levels to make the system work. Corporate synergy.”
Plum had taken an endless number of management classes in an effort to improve herself and liked to throw out the buzz words.
“Yes,” said Lucia.
Plum could see Lucia’s eyes appraising her from behind the thick lenses of her glasses.
“Damián Rodriguez is not here right now,” said Jonathan. “He’s wooing a new client. He’s a real go-getter, as you Americans like to say. You’ll meet him soon, although he is rarely in the office, mostly out and about promoting us.”
“Sounds good,” said Plum.
“He sits over there,” said Jonathan, pointing to the des
k in the corner.
Plum nodded and noticed that there was a tub of hair gel on the edge of his desk alongside a small vanity mirror. On the wall next to it hung a calendar with a scantily clad blond. It wasn’t hard for her to suss out what Damián was like.
Jonathan led her through the room and opened a door on the side, revealing a small work area. There was an oversize mahogany desk, more framed posters of the resort, and a large coat rack with various straw hats perched on its pegs.
“This is my office. Plum, I want to make sure you know I have an open-door policy, so whenever you need anything, do not hesitate to knock.”
“Sounds good,” said Plum, scanning the room. She noticed that Jonathan’s ceiling had an industrial-strength fan.
“So that’s it,” he said, plopping into his rattan swivel chair. “Lucia will fill you in on what needs to be done.”
“Great. And where is my office?” she asked.
“Your office? Why, your desk is out there.”
“Out where?”
Jonathan rose and strode out to the large room from whence they came.
“That’s yours.”
He pointed to a desk that abutted both Lucia and Damián’s desks. It stuck out at such an awkward angle that Plum would literally have to suck in her stomach and plaster herself against the wall to ease into it.
Plum felt the bile rising to her throat. “I’m sorry, there must be some mistake.”
“No mistake. We do an open plan here at Jonathan Mayhew Caribbean Resorts. Like the tech companies in Silicon Valley.”
“That will not do.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jonathan, his friendly demeanor sliding.
Plum could see Lucia pretending very hard to be engrossed in her computer screen in an effort to stay out of the fray.
“I mean that I was the editor-in-chief of a famous magazine. You lured me here with all sorts of promises. Working in a common area doesn’t befit my stature.”
Jonathan puffed out his cheeks. “Your stature? Plum, you have a wildly inflated sense of self, if I do say.”
