Caneel Bay is the epitome of old-school gracious hospitality. It’s elegant. It smells like coconut lotion, frangipani, and money.
Their rooms are side by side in a one-story row that sits on a pure white crescent of sand. Each room has two mahogany queen beds sheathed in crisp white linens, marble bathrooms with soaking tubs, ice waiting in a silver bucket, rattan ceiling fans. The rooms have deep front porches with wicker furniture for lounging around with coffee or a cocktail. Beckoning out front are four chaises wrapped in rose-and-white-striped terry cloth. A server stands in the shade of the nearest palm, ready with cocktail and lunch menus.
Next door, Ellen can hear Wendy gushing: “I love it here. I need this. So badly.”
They all need it so badly. Time away—from the swampy heat and humidity of Houston, from the Astros frenzy, from the Texans hype, from the incessant demands of small children. Ellen feels light and free, like she’s lost forty-nine pounds, which is what Walter weighs. No one is asking her for juice, a snack, the bathroom, one more time down the slide, one more time watching Wreck-It Ralph, another story before bed, “Just sit here while I fall asleep, please, Mommy.” Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.
They’re free for an entire week!
“Does it feel like we’re the only people here?” Debbie asks as she settles into a chaise.
The beach is deserted.
When Woodrow, their server, brings the menus, Ellen says, “Where is everyone else?”
“You’re the only guests on this stretch,” Woodrow says. “We’re at low occupancy because of hurricane season.”
Hurricane season, Ellen thinks. Yes, that’s why these beachfront suites were so affordable. The hotel is due to close for two months the Sunday after they leave. They made it in just under the wire. Ellen lounges in her chaise, and not to toot her own horn again, but she feels like a wizard. They’ll reap the benefits of hurricane season—low prices, the place to themselves—but there isn’t a cloud in the sky.
Because of Ellen’s impeccable planning, their first three days are packed with highlights: Trunk Bay, smoked brisket and live country music at the Barefoot Cowboy, happy hours at High Tide and Woody’s, hiking to Ram Head and taking a mud bath in Salt Pond, dancing at the Beach Bar, a Kenny Chesney sighting inside the Parrot Club (although when Wendy runs in to check, she sees it’s just a guy who looks like Kenny).
And then, finally, the day they’ve been waiting for—their charter to the BVIs aboard Treasure Island. This trip has all four ladies dialed up for a couple of reasons. One is that Baker is coming with them. (They’ve seen Baker only once in their first three days; he stopped by the afternoon they arrived to make sure they’d made it safely, but he had Floyd with him, so no actual news was exchanged. Their second evening, he sent two chilled bottles of Veuve Clicquot to their rooms, probably because he felt guilty about not spending more time with them. But they get it: They’re on vacation; he’s not.) The other is that Ayers Wilson, Baker’s girlfriend, the mother of his child, is a crew member aboard Treasure Island, and so is Baker’s brother, Cash. They’re just as excited to meet Cash as they are to meet Ayers. They’ve seen Cash’s picture, but he’s never once visited Houston.
They’re supposed to be at the dock across from Mongoose Junction at seven a.m., but Wendy is late getting back from her run, Becky is on the phone with her girls, and Debbie is taking forever to get ready even though all she needs is a bathing suit, a cover-up, and sunscreen.
“Let’s go, ladies!” Ellen yells from the path behind their suites. Woodrow is waiting in the golf cart.
One by one, her friends appear. Not to toot her own horn yet again, Ellen thinks, but if it weren’t for her keeping them to a schedule, they would miss their chance to meet Ayers, which—as far as Ellen is concerned—is one of the main reasons for coming.
Ayers Wilson is a goddess. She’s one of those annoying women who glow during pregnancy and who don’t gain weight anywhere except their baby bumps.
“Look at those legs,” Debbie says. “I hate her. We all hate her, right?”
Except they can’t hate her because she is as lovely as she is beautiful. She greets them all with warm hugs—not a trace of snark or jealousy. “Such an honor to meet you, Baker talks all the time about how much he misses his Houston school wives.” Ayers lowers her voice. “He likes you better than his St. John school wives.”
“You have St. John school wives?” Ellen says to Baker.
“I’ll explain later,” Baker says.
Not only is Ayers lovely, she’s a badass. She’s the one who explains how the trip will unfold—Virgin Gorda Baths, snorkeling, Jost Van Dyke—and provides the safety regulations and a brief history of the island. There are only ten people on the boat—their party of five and a single father and his four teenagers. The father, Gary Dane, is cute in a rugged-ranch-hand kind of way; it turns out he’s in real estate in Tulsa, which means he’s best suited for Ellen, but Ellen passes him on to Debbie because she has too much urgent business to attend to at the moment. Debbie engages Gary Dane in conversation while Becky and Wendy chat up Cash. Cash is adorable, though he looks nothing like Baker; he’s a whole different species. He’s shorter than Baker, very blond, muscular. Does he work out? He’s perfect for Wendy!
Ellen busies herself watching Baker watch Ayers. He’s enchanted, that much is apparent; his eyes follow Ayers wherever she goes. She’s wearing little white shorts and a green polo that is probably a men’s medium to accommodate her belly. When they get to the Baths, Ayers explains that they’re all going to swim from the boat to the shore.
“It’s a little rough today,” Ayers says. “The weather in early September is always unsettled.” Ayers slips off her shorts and shirt to reveal a green tank suit that hugs her curves. She’s a movie star, a superhero. Although she’s eight months pregnant, she lowers herself down the ladder (thank goodness; Ellen worried for a second that she might dive in) and executes an elegant freestyle all the way to the beach. She takes the front as they tour the Baths—a series of granite boulders that have formed tunnels and chambers holding shallow baths. Some of the passageways are tight squeezes and there are steep stairs, but Ayers just glides along as though she’s carved from butter.
Ellen brings up the rear with Baker. “She’s remarkable. When I was pregnant with Walter, I gained fifty-two pounds and sat in my house eating cherry pie filling from the can.”
“She’s been craving steamed artichokes,” Baker says. “Thank goodness her mother knows how to prepare them because I don’t have a clue.”
Steamed artichokes? Ellen decides not to comment. “How are things between the two of you? Is she still living alone in Mick’s old place?”
“She is,” Baker says. “Things are good. I see her almost every night. I’ve helped her fix the place up so that it’s ready for when the baby comes. She’s due in three weeks.”
“She’s going to stay in her own place after the baby is born? I thought she was moving in with you.”
“She wants to wait until we organically reach the moving-in stage of our relationship,” Baker says. “She’s keeping our relationship on a different timeline from the pregnancy.”
“What stage are you in?” Ellen asks. Up ahead, Wendy jumps down from a rock ledge, and Cash catches her. Becky is taking pictures with her phone, which Ellen hopes is waterproof. Debbie is asking the oldest of Gary Dane’s kids what colleges she’s looking at.
“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” Baker says. “I’m madly in love with her. I tell her this all the time, and in response, she laughs and kisses me.”
“She doesn’t say it back?”
“Not yet. But she will.”
He sounds pretty confident, Ellen thinks. “She better.”
The bar on the boat doesn’t open until after they finish snorkeling. “That’s by design,” Cash says as he pours painkillers for everyone. “To keep you alive.”
When they anchor in White Bay on Jost Van Dyke, Ellen feels let down. The sand is
like powdered sugar, the water a spectral blue, there’s reggae music, and the smell of grilled meat wafts over from the Soggy Dollar, but there are only two other boats anchored there. Ellen had been anticipating something like an MTV beach party; this is decidedly more civilized.
The silver lining is that Ellen finds herself taking a seat next to Ayers in one of the Adirondack chairs placed in the shade of a small grove of coconut trees. The others are all up at the bar—Debbie is with Gary Dane, Wendy is with Cash, and Becky is talking to the bartender, who, Ellen can see, is falling in love with Becky (all men fall in love with Becky). Gary Dane’s daughters are lying out on the chaises, and the boys are playing catch in the shallows. If Gary Dane and Debbie get married, Ellen thinks, they’ll have eight kids—four girls and four boys. The Brady Bunch plus two.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Ellen says to Ayers. “Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to sit in front of Real Housewives and eat Doritos?”
“My first trimester was like that,” Ayers says. “But every week since then, I’ve felt healthier and stronger.”
“Baker says you’re staying in your place after the baby is born.”
“I am,” Ayers says. “Baker will be nearby. My parents too. But yeah, I want to live on my own for a while longer.” She leans in. “You had a baby by yourself, didn’t you?”
“All by myself,” Ellen says. “Sperm donor.”
“It wasn’t Baker, was it?” Ayers asks.
Ellen hoots. “No! Ahhh, that would have made this a very awkward conversation.”
“He’s a good father,” Ayers says.
“He’s a good person,” Ellen says. As she squints at the surreal view of the water and the green islands beyond, her vision blurs. Sunscreen in her eyes, maybe. “That’s why we all came down here. I mean, yeah, we wanted a Caribbean vacation away from our kids”—she laughs—“but we came to see Baker. He was our best friend at home. He was always helping us out, and not in a douchey, mansplaining way; in a genuine, caring way. He would clean our gutters, change the oil in our cars, bring us homemade lasagnas when we were having a tough week. He went with us to the Houston Ballet every year to see The Nutcracker. He took our kids to the park when the four of us wanted to go to yoga together; he gave us solid investment advice; he came to pick us up when we were out on a bad blind date; he gossiped with us, sent us songs he thought we would like, asked us for advice when he was having trouble in his own marriage. He listened. He was there. All together, the four of us have dated—and married—a lot of guys, and we’ve all agreed that each of us is looking for her own Baker Steele. He’s the gold standard.” She swallows. “Diamond. Platinum. What I’m trying to get at is, you have a treasure. And what I’m also trying to say is, please don’t hurt him.” Ellen closes her mouth before she can add, Or we’ll come back down here and haunt you.
Ayers puts her hand on top of Ellen’s. “I won’t,” she says. “And thank you for telling me all that, but I assure you, I know what I have. I know how lucky I am.”
Ellen studies Ayers for a second. Do I believe her?
Yes.
“Good,” Ellen says. “Now, please dish on the St. John school wives.”
When Treasure Island pulls into Cruz Bay at the end of the day, Ellen is happy, satisfied, and drunk. She’s so drunk that when they get back to Caneel Bay, it takes her a minute to make sense of the paper that has been slipped under her door. The words are blurry. Maybe it’s not the rum; maybe she needs reading glasses.
“What does this say?” Ellen asks, handing the paper to Debbie.
“They’re evacuating the hotel tomorrow,” Debbie says. “There’s a hurricane coming.”
Tilda
La Tapa closes at the end of August, which seems like a natural time for Tilda to give her notice. Her future is on Lovango.
She thinks maybe the staff will plan a party or an outing for drinks on her last night—this is what normally happens when someone moves on—but when Tilda finishes her last shift, no celebration is mentioned, so she hands in her uniform, hugs Chef, and leaves.
It’s not that the staff members don’t like her; it’s that they don’t like Dunk. He’s developed the (admittedly, obnoxious) habit of waiting for Tilda across the street by the Tap and Still, vaping and glaring at the restaurant in a menacing way. Clover, the hostess, said she felt threatened; Skip wanted to punch his lights out. Ayers seemed indifferent, though Tilda knows that Ayers dislikes Dunk on principle because of Cash. Chef invited Dunk in for dinner but Dunk turned her down because Dunk doesn’t eat. He has espresso in the morning, fruit juice at lunch, and either vegetable juice or broth at dinner. He drinks wine and Maker’s Mark. Tilda isn’t sure how he’s still alive. There isn’t an ounce of fat on his body; he’s as lean and supple as a lizard.
If Tilda were being honest with herself, she would admit that Dunk’s fasting bothers her. First of all, it’s embarrassing that he can’t socialize over meals the way other people do. No wonder he’s essentially without friends and living like a hermit in the East End. Second, he makes Tilda feel bad when she eats. He stares at her with thinly veiled disgust when she bites into the Uncle Peep turkey sandwich from Sam and Jack’s or when she asks him to stop at Scoops so she can get a cup of their salted peanut butter ice cream. Tilda is naturally slender, so she can eat whatever she wants and not gain an ounce, but Dunk makes her feel gluttonous and weak.
Tilda thinks back on her brief time with Cash, remembering how excellent it was to have someone to eat with. She and Cash planned every meal like it was their last whether they were cooking at home or eating out. It was sensual, Tilda thinks. Sexy.
Dunk’s fasting isn’t the only thing that’s chafing at Tilda. There are also the accusations from Swan Seeley. Swan claims Dunk insulted her and touched her inappropriately during their marketing meeting, a meeting Tilda was supposed to attend until Dunk announced that he’d forgotten Olive’s lunch at home, which was all the way back in Hansen Bay. Unlike Dunk, Olive ate like royalty—prime rib, lamb chops, chicken Kiev. It was twisted. Dunk asked Tilda if she would take the skiff back to Cruz Bay and buy two pounds of ground beef at Starfish Market for Olive. Tilda agreed even though by all rights it should have been Tilda meeting with Swan while Dunk ran the stupid errand. This was Tilda’s resort—well, okay, her parents’ resort. Dunk owned the land, and he and Granger and Lauren had come to some kind of agreement about a partnership, but Tilda didn’t think that meant Dunk’s presence was more important than her own at a marketing meeting. Still, she went to the market because she had a difficult time saying no to Dunk. And that’s when the thing with Swan either happened or didn’t. According to Swan, Dunk had said he’d hired her because she was “hot,” “a dime” (Tilda abhors both of these terms), and then he’d touched Swan’s back, massaged her shoulders, and brushed up against her behind.
Tilda had shocked herself by coming to Dunk’s defense even though she knew that massaging a woman’s shoulders and brushing up against her behind were two of Dunk’s signature moves. He’d used both of these moves on Tilda! Tilda is a firm believer in the #MeToo movement; she always, always believes the woman—except, apparently, when the perpetrator is her own boyfriend. She was stunned by Swan’s accusations—and hurt, too, of course. Why would Dunk go after Swan when he had Tilda? After Swan was safely on the skiff heading back to Cruz Bay, Tilda marched into the trailer and said, “What just happened with Swan, Dunk?”
Dunk had been poring over the designs for the T-shirts. He didn’t even look up. “I was giving her a pat on the back, a good-on-ya, and she spit the dummy.”
“Spit the dummy” was something Dunk said all the time; it had something to do with a baby losing his pacifier. “So you weren’t inappropriate?” Tilda said.
Dunk inhaled on his vape pen—that thing drove Tilda crazy—and on the exhale said, “I was trying to give the woman a bloody compliment.” Then he held his arms open. “Come here, mate.” And like a fool, she went.
&nbs
p; Swan e-mailed Granger and Lauren to tell them she didn’t feel comfortable working with Duncan or Tilda. She wanted to be paid for the time she’d spent on it so far, and thanks for the opportunity, but she was leaving the project. Tilda’s parents had called from their business trip in Cape Town to ask for a full explanation, and when Tilda told them what had purportedly happened, they were livid. Especially Lauren. She said, “I’m calling Swan now to get her back. Your father will have a chat with Dunk. Is he trying to get us hit with a lawsuit?”
Lauren did persuade Swan to come back, but Swan said she would report to Lauren only. Not Dunk. And not Tilda.
Where do things stand with the Lovango resort? Well, that’s the good news: Everything is moving swiftly and smoothly along with an anticipated opening date of April 1, right before Easter. The desalinization plant is nearly finished; the pool has been dug; the foundations of the cottages are in; the beach has been cleared. All the permitting is in place, and Granger and Lauren are in the process of buying boats that will transport guests from both Red Hook in St. Thomas and Cruz Bay in St. John to the resort. The restaurant is framed out, and only the week before, the granite was delivered for the bar. Lauren and Tilda FaceTime every day to discuss the design details—light fixtures, fabrics, paint colors. They both loved Swan’s ideas for merchandise.
The Lovango Resort and Beach Club. It’s going to be real. Tilda almost can’t believe it.
After Tilda quits her job at La Tapa, she’s on Lovango all the time. There’s a tiny cottage perched just above the beach that came with the sale of the island. It’s bare bones but livable, and Tilda spends a couple nights a week there so she doesn’t waste precious time in the mornings commuting from Peter Bay. She stays alone. Dunk prefers to sleep in his own bed, and so does Olive—fine, whatever. Tilda’s feelings toward Dunk have cooled considerably; she’s beginning to suspect that, behind the sexy accent and all the money, there’s just a little man, like the Wizard of Oz. For dinner, Tilda runs the skiff over to the Pizza Pi boat or grabs sushi from the bar at Caneel, and then she sits in the cottage with the air-conditioning cranked and stuffs her face without anyone judging her.
Troubles in Paradise Page 27
