Have to Have It

by Melody Mayer

  “She's joking,” Billy assured him quickly. “And we were just leaving. Come on, Lydia.”

  Billy took Lydia's hand and led her quickly through the sand until they reached the street.

  “Never joke with anyone in a uniform in Los Angeles,” Billy instructed. “They don't have a sense of humor.”

  “Who was joking?” Lydia asked. “I know sexual frustration when I see it. Or feel it.”

  Dang. She suspected she could have pushed Billy past the point of no return if the Sex Pistol hadn't shown up. Of all the rotten luck.

  The Eurocopter AS 355 helicopter raced east, high above Jamaica's northern coastline. Esme pressed her face against the window, looking down at where the azure Caribbean Sea brushed the emerald island. The sky was cloudless, the horizon boundless. She thought she'd never seen anything as beautiful in her life.

  “What do you think?” Steven Goldhagen, dressed in jeans and a promotional T-shirt from Cedars of Hope, one of his television shows, leaned toward her.

  “It's amazing,” Esme breathed.

  “Not scared to be up here?” he asked.

  Esme shook her head. “I think it's cool.”

  “¡Mira, Esme, mira!” Weston was pointing to the northern horizon. “¡Yo puedo ver Cuba!”

  Esme laughed.

  “What did she say?” Diane asked.

  “She said she could see Cuba from up here,” Esme reported.

  Diane laughed. “Well, if we were higher, we probably could. Anyway, it's just another ten minutes or so, then we'll be back on the ground at the resort. Enjoy the view”

  The view was remarkable, but no more so than the events of the past sixteen hours that had brought Esme to this place. When she'd come home from the country club, there'd been a limo waiting to take her to a passport-expediting agency. Esme didn't have a passport, and without one, she wouldn't be able to clear Jamaican immigration in Montego Bay. Within an hour, the photographs had been taken, the application had been made at the federal building near UCLA, and a new blue American passport had been in Esme's hands. After that, the limo had brought her back to the Goldhagens' estate, where she had packed not only for herself (in a piece of lime green Kate Spade luggage that Diane gave her), but also for the twins. They were only partially tracking what was happening; they knew they were going on a trip, but whether that trip was to Santa Barbara or Timbuktu didn't seem to be registering. Diane had left strict instructions about what they would need for five days in Jamaica—to Esme, it seemed like enough clothes and gear to last a month (six bathing suits, eight pairs of shorts, Wrist Wrapper watches custom-designed with actual diamonds, Minnetonka suede moccasins, and ribbed tank tops that blared ROCK STAR in rhinestones for each girl)—but she had dutifully followed the list.

  It was two o'clock in the afternoon Jamaica time; the family had left the small Van Nuys airport on a private Gulfstream jet at eight o'clock in the morning, Los Angeles time. Steven had hastened to explain that the jet wasn't his—he considered anyone who actually owned a private jet to be wasting money that could be better donated to charity—but that he owned a share of it, which entitled him to five days of use in any given month.

  On the plane itself, though, Esme had discovered a brochure from the company that operated the plane. The cheapest share that you could buy cost nearly four hundred thousand dollars a year, and that was for only fifty hours of flying time in the company's smallest jet, called a Hawk. This was not a Hawk, but a Gulfstream V that could carry eight passengers, plus a crew of four.

  Esme had never been in a private jet before—she'd never even flown in an airplane. It made her giggle to think that the twin girls had more experience with flying than she did, having flown back to America from Colombia with Diane. The gleaming white plane was marvelously well appointed, with plush white Italian calfskin seats, a Denon sound system and Sony DVD player with a four-hundred-disc changer, a forty-five-inch flat-screen TV monitor, wireless Internet access, and a galley that had been stocked with bagels, lox, and Katie the pastry chef's special rugelach from Nate 'n' Al's delicatessen in Beverly Hills.

  The pilot had told them that they could cruise at more than six hundred miles at fifty thousand feet, though he probably wouldn't be flying that high. Since the Gulfstream could fly from Saudi Arabia to New York without stopping to refuel, the relatively short hop from Los Angeles to Montego Bay, Jamaica, would be a breeze.

  Commercial air travel time would have been five hours and forty minutes. The pilot assured them they could do it in four and a half. Not only could they, they would. He was absolutely true to his word. They touched down in Montego Bay four hours and twenty-nine minutes after they'd gotten airborne.

  The helicopter buzzed eastward, with Easton and Weston oohing and aahing at the sights, pointing down at the boats on the sea and over at the two-lane highway that hugged the coast. Esme could pick out the many resorts on the north coast—they were obvious from the hotel structures, swimming pools, golf courses, and immaculately manicured grounds. At times, they seemed to run right into one another.

  The highway, though, also seemed like a line of demarcation. To the north of it were the resorts. To the south of it, the terrain and the architecture were starkly different. There were shanties and half-built structures; she even saw a dusty town with a public market swarming with shoppers. She couldn't tell exactly, but it seemed as though all the marketgoers were black.

  Esme sighed. It never ended. No doubt everyone at the resort they were going to—she couldn't remember the name, but Diane had told her that it was the most exclusive one that permitted children—was going to be the same: richer-than-rich white people vacationing, poorer-than-poor dark people serving them, hoping for tips, eating their leftovers, et cetera et cetera.

  God. She wasn't white, but she sure wasn't black. What would the help at the resort think of her?

  That thought made her muse on what Jonathan would think. Would he even notice the disparity, or had he been so rich for so long that he'd just take it in stride that this was the way the world worked, that there would always be haves and have-nots? Jonathan was born a have, and Esme was born a have-not. That was just the way it was.

  A short time later, the helicopter touched down on the helipad of the Northern Look resort, ten miles east of the Jamaican town of Ocho Rios. The helipad was painted blue, with a Jamaican flag in the center. As they had come down, Esme had seen a small army of white-jacketed Northern Look employees waiting for their arrival.

  Now, as the chopper's blades stopped whirring, that army of employees was at their service.

  “Welcome to Jamaica! May I take your bags, Mr. Goldhagen?”

  “Welcome to Jamaica! May I bring you some champagne, Mrs. Goldhagen?”

  “Welcome to Jamaica! May I show your family to its dwelling, Mrs. Goldhagen?”

  “Welcome to Jamaica! May I reserve a tee time on the golf course for you, Mr. Goldhagen?”

  It seemed to take only a few seconds for Steven and Diane to be loaded onto one green and white golf cart, with Esme and the twins on another one. A third golf cart, modified specially for the job, carried their luggage. Each cart was being driven by a handsome Jamaican guy—Esme found herself on the front seat of her cart, with the twins in the back. Her driver—a smiling fellow whose name tag announced that he was Desmond—kept up a running commentary as the golf cart wended its way toward the oceanfront. Esme found herself charmed by his singsong accent.

  “On your left, you will find the golf course. It is twenty-seven holes, designed by Pete Dye, and we send out a foursome only every fifteen minutes so there is no waiting. On your right you'll find the children's circus section, with instructors from Moscow and Paris, an actual big top, and a flying trapeze. Straight ahead is our tennis center: four outdoor clay courts, two indoor hard courts. Our pros are members of the Jamaica Davis Cup team. I trust they will give you a game, yah mon,” Desmond joshed.

  The golf cart continued on the path, and Desmond continued
his narration. The resort was enormous. There was a yoga building, a health center, five restaurants—French, Japanese, Spanish tapas, Italian, and vegetarian—plus an outdoor buffet, a running track, a go-cart track, three swimming pools (one of them clothes optional), an enormous beach with every possible water sport from sailing to snorkeling to parasailing, and a main activities center in which Desmond promised they would find a small casino, game room, piano bar, and screening room. “Yah mon,” Desmond reported. “You will not be bored here in Jamaica.”

  The one strange thing, though, was how few guests Esme noticed. There were several foursomes on the golf course, a group playing tennis doubles, and several others lounging around the main pool, which was teardrop-shaped and crystalline. But the whole Northern Look resort was amazingly uncrowded. She asked Desmond about that.

  “Ah.” He smiled as the golf cart neared a gleaming white modern structure by the beach. “We are very exclusive. Our clientele comes from all over the world—America, Canada, Argentina, France, Italy, even Taiwan. Yah mon. They are of… how do you say in America … a certain station. They do not want to be trampling each other.”

  “Oh,” Esme said, wondering how much it cost a day to stay here.

  Desmond smiled as if he was reading Esme's mind. “How exclusive are we? You do not stay in a room. You stay in a home. Each of these homes—where you will be staying—comes with its own chef, butler, and nanny for the children.”

  “Nannies for the children!” Esme exclaimed. “That's fantastic!”

  Again, Desmond smiled. “I take it that you are the regular nanny to these children.”

  “I am their nanny, that's right.”

  The smile turned into a laugh, and Desmond stopped on the oceanfront side of the white building. It featured a beachfront patio with wicker furniture and a split-level layout with picture windows facing the ocean on both stories. There was an assortment of water sports equipment in a box on the patio—surfboards, masks and flippers, and a beach ball the colors of the Jamaican flag. Almost immediately, Easton and Weston hopped off the golf cart and charged over to the beach ball, which Weston kicked down the beach. The two girls ran after it, giggling with delight.

  Esme felt like giggling, too. Five days down here without nanny duty? Where she'd just get to relax and enjoy herself, as if she was an actual part of the family? That was fantastic. In a way, it was better that Jonathan wasn't here. So much had happened these last few weeks, she could use some time to sort out her feelings about it all….

  The resort came with its own nannies. Right now, there was no place in the world that Esme would rather be than Northern Look.

  As Desmond would say, “Yah mon.”

  “Esme, I'd like to introduce you to Peter and Erin Silverstein. Peter and Erin, this is our nanny, Esme Castaneda.”

  Esme marveled: Peter and Erin Silverstein were carbon copies of Steven and Diane Goldhagen, only five years younger. Just like Steven, Peter was a balding, fifty-something television producer with the deep tan of a several-times-a-week tennis player and the athletic build to match. Also like Steven, he had a scruffy, graying beard and was dressed in faded jeans and an orange tennis shirt. His wife, Erin, was a Diane Goldhagen clone, with a toned, tan body; surgeon-perfect nose and cheekbones; thick blond hair fortified with natural extensions; and a Pucci-print minidress.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Esme,” Peter said, extending his hand. Esme shook it.

  “My pleasure,” she told him, then shook Erin's hand too.

  “So, you're the supernanny,” Erin exclaimed. “Diane thinks you're God's gift to her children.”

  “Erin, don't say that,” Diane mock-chided. “I'm going to have to give her a raise.”

  “How much are you paying her?” Erin shot back. “Because I'll double it. She can start tomorrow.”

  Steven laughed. “No chance. She's ours, now and forever.”

  Well, well, Esme thought. Isn't this interesting. Forty-eight hours ago, I was afraid that Steven and Diane were going to fire me. Now I'm theirs, now and forever? All it takes is a little competition and a little interest from someone else, and they get all proprietary about me.

  “What are your girls doing?” Peter asked Steven.

  “Sleeping,” Esme interjected. “I think there's been too much excitement. Weston told me she wanted to go in the ocean, but she fell asleep putting on her bathing suit. Easton didn't even get that far.”

  “How about your kids, Erin?” Diane queried.

  “We already dropped them at the kids' club up at the main building. Ham is playing with the Xbox 360, and Miles found someone to play Duelmasters with. He's kind of obsessed,” Erin related. “I have to tell you, I'm looking forward to them joining up with your kids and—”

  “Excuse me, guests.”

  They all turned—a tall, tuxedoed black gentleman with a mustache, carrying a tray, had just stepped into the expansive, white-on-white living room replete with wicker tables and squashy cream chaises. On that tray were four tall mimosas, two frozen brown and white cocktails, a sliced pineapple, a plate of sliced Gruyëre cheese, and a sliced loaf of crusty French bread. This was the Goldhagens' butler, Samuel.

  “Would Mr. Goldhagen and his guests like a snack before their afternoon activities?” Samuel queried.

  “Just put it on the sideboard, Samuel,” Steven suggested. “Or better yet, in the fridge. We're going to play some tennis, we'll attack it when we get back.”

  “Very good, sir,” Samuel told them, in a more refined accent than Desmond's. “Have a good game. If you need new balls or anything else, we have a well-equipped pro shop.”

  “So, shall we?” Steven asked his friends. He held the door open. “We can get changed up at the clubhouse.”

  “Perfect,” Erin said with a grin. “Esme, it was great meeting you. We'll see you for dinner.”

  “My pleasure.” Esme flushed. She wasn't used to being treated with such respect.

  After the couples departed, Esme found herself alone in the living room. It was blessedly quiet, save for the rolling in-and-out of the breakers. The windows had been partially opened— there was fine-mesh screening to keep out any insect life—and a breeze out of the north brought in not just the sound of the Caribbean Sea, but the smell of the salt air as well. It was absolutely intoxicating—more mind-altering than the drinks Samuel the butler had proffered.

  Her home for the next several days wasn't bad, either. There were two different sleeping wings—one for the grown-ups, one for the kids. There were three spacious rooms in the kids' wing, all of them with oceanfront views, king-sized beds, TVs hooked up with PlayStations, and private bathrooms with shower, jetted tub, and bidet. As for the adult wing, Esme hadn't been invited down to take a look, but she could just imagine. The common areas included an eat-in kitchen (though Esme couldn't imagine why—who cooked when they went to a resort with five restaurants?), a playroom for the kids, and a fantastic living room, with its twin white love seats and big-screen Hitachi television. The living room also featured a full bar stocked with Bombay Blue Sapphire gin, Grey Goose vodka, and plenty of Jamaican Red Stripe beer, and a cabinet that held every game and puzzle known to mankind, an extensive DVD/CD collection, and a multilingual library.

  The rug was handwoven Berber, and the art on the walls all Jamaican folk art. Esme had never been in as comfortable and welcoming a room in her life.

  If only Mama and Papa could see this. They would love it. They work so hard, they deserve it as much as the Goldhagens do, and definitely more than I do. If only the three of us could be here together, for just one day—

  Esme's reverie was interrupted by pounding on the front door of the house. “Hey!” a young voice was shouting. “Let us in!”

  “Yeah, dude, let us in!”

  Esme reached the front door a few moments after Samuel the butler, who'd already swung it open. Two scruffy-looking boys—approximately ages eight and six—came barreling through. One of them held a bask
etball in one hand and a football in the other, both of which he unceremoniously dumped on the floor at Esme's feet. The other boy turned to accost Samuel.

  “Something to eat!” he bellowed. “We got something to eat?”

  “Yeah,” the younger boy chimed in, pushing past Esme into the living room. “We're hungry! Something to eat!”

  As Samuel gave them a cockeyed look and then scurried away toward the kitchen, Esme frowned.

  “Who are you boys?” she demanded.

  “We're Ham and Miles!” the older one reported, at ear-splitting volume. “You're Esme, right? Our parents told us all about you! You're going to take care of us! Where's something to eat? I want something to eat!”

  “No, I'm not.” Esme was indignant. “There are nannies from the resort for that.”

  “No resort nanny!” the older boy shouted. His brother was already pawing through the DVDs. “We were at a resort with its own nannies before. Resort nannies are evil!”

  “Yeah, listen to what Ham says,” the smaller boy told Esme. At least he wasn't shouting. “Resort nannies suck!”

  Maybe I thought too soon about the quiet. Anyway, just because—

  “¡Hola, Esme! Hay demasiado ruido. Too much sound!” Weston stood in the entrance to the living room, rubbing her eyes. “Am tired. Want sleep.”

  “Me sleep too,” added Easton, coming up behind her.

  “Who are the girls?” Ham demanded. “I hate girls!”

  “I hate girls too!” Miles said. “We're the He-Man Girl Haters Club! The only thing worse than resort nannies is girls!”

  “¿El no se gustan las chicas?” Easton asked. “¡El es un jopo!”

  “Easton!” Esme chided the girl automatically, trying to stifle a laugh. At the moment, she was in agreement. The boy was a jopo—an ass in Colombian Spanish slang.

  “Something to eat!” Ham was shouting again. “Where's the food?”

  Esme shook her head. Thank God there were nannies here, nannies that came along with the vacation whether Ham and Miles wanted them or not.