Caribbean Crossroads

by Connie E Sokol

  Bryant turned to Megan. “He looked at me kind of bored and said, ‘How much?’ I said, ‘Excuse me?’ and he repeated, ‘How much does it pay, and how many hours do I work?’ Then he rattled off a list of questions—how much vacation time, insurance, severance pay if he quit, stock options. I mean, seriously, he was looking for a better deal than my mom’s friend. He said no. Didn’t even thank me for the offer, not that I was looking for thanks. It was just very instructive. I thought I had to help this man to a better situation, but what I realized was”—he looked at her with his clear eyes—“this man was highly capable of doing it on his own.”

  Megan held his gaze, and understood. He wasn’t downing her wanting to help. He was letting her know she wasn’t the only solution. That was so him. His personality constantly seemed to strip away the strategic image she tried to pursue—yes, she wanted to help, and she could, but he was right. She didn’t need to swoop in and save the day. So often being with him felt like that, always revealing herself to herself, even when she didn’t want to know. But it was a good kind of knowledge, an awakening and a growing.

  A rush of feeling, of several feelings, washed over her. Safe. Wise. Calm. Real. He was all of those. Why did being with him make her soft, that all her carefully laid protective bricks suddenly crumbled with no foundation to sustain them?

  Inexplicably, she took his hand. It felt right. There was no other way to be, to express the rush of emotions seemingly unconnected with conversation about working immigrants. He caressed it for a moment, watching her, then sensing this was enough of a step, didn’t push it and simply stared ahead, asking the driver how much farther.

  A few minutes later they pulled up to a large pink plantation-looking building with beautifully manicured lawns. The driver put his arm over the seat rest and turned to them.

  “You go dere, right troo dat entry, and tell them Jahaman sent you. Follow da path down to da beach. Dey have the best bahbaque in town, I’m tellin’ you, man.”

  Bryant pressed some bills into his hand, patted his arm, then got out and turned back to help Megan out of the taxi. He took her hand and led them through the entry, past the uniformed man, and down the winding pathway that sloped to the shore, visible in patches through the lush green foliage.

  Megan breathed in the salty air and the sound of surf that beckoned below. Near the bottom they reached a short boardwalk area that led to a private looking beach. Turquoise green water, so clear you could see to the sand, washed up with foamy white waves on the shore. Except for a handful of tanning patrons—some young, mostly older—the beach was fairly empty. Gleaming white lounge chairs dotted the sand in groups, and white-uniformed men and women expertly carried silver trays with a variety of drinks.

  Bryant paused and surveyed the scene, then looked down at her like a little boy who has discovered a pirate’s treasure. “Well?”

  Megan smiled up at him, a swirling in her stomach. She let go just a little at the top of the rollercoaster.

  ***

  After setting up a spot, they both grabbed some complimentary snorkel gear and swam in the clear aquamarine water. He showed her how to skin dive too, demonstrating how to take three or four deep breaths and blow it out slowly on ascending. After only two tries, she was able to hold her breath a good thirty seconds, and they explored the immediate reef. Myriad neon colored tropical fish darted from their presence. She recognized the Angel, Clown, and Dragon fish. At one point she and Bryant simply floated on the surface and watched the fish play undisturbed.

  Dragging themselves from the surf a few hours later, they flopped onto the two large lounge chairs placed side by side, prepared with oversized towels, and watched the sky fade into early evening. They were close enough for arms to touch. He took her hand in his, kissed it and placed it on his chest. Megan let him, allowing herself to simply be in the moment.

  They watched the beginning sunset that way, silently taking in the salmon pink and lemonade yellow sky, all gently sound-tracked by rolling surf on sand. Megan didn’t know when, but they both fell asleep. She curled up next to his shoulder, their hands and arms still entwined.

  When she awoke, he was looking down at her, that half-smile again. She sat up with a slight start, and felt a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth.

  “You were KO’d, girl,” he said.

  “It’s the sun, it does that to me.”

  “I thought it was my mesmerizing conversation.”

  She tried to straighten her hair but he shook his head. “It’s a losing battle. Besides, it looks good that way.”

  She grimaced.

  “I’m serious.”

  Megan looked out to the ocean, fingering her hair, feeling him watching her. Though the day had been wonderful—easy, friendly, warm—and she had felt relaxed against her will, now it was evening and in a short while they would need to return to the ship.

  A few hours of evening togetherness—Megan’s ribs tightened. For some indefinable but very tangible reason, she felt afraid. Not of Bryant, with him she felt absolutely safe. Too safe, she thought wryly. She had let herself go and enjoyed the day, and it had been lovely. Almost painfully lovely. She hadn’t had these feelings in a long time, being with someone she trusted.

  But now, what would he think about it? What would he want in return? She didn’t know how to act, how to do this: to understand the signals and what her response should be.

  Taking time fixing her hair, Megan tried to appear busy. She hated this, the never knowing, never being sure of herself. Were they friends, were they an item? He had kissed her hand. Friends didn’t do that. But why couldn’t they just be friends? Friendship was easier: it was clear, it was natural. Romance was confusing and complicated, and always with a hidden cost. It was sweet and wonderful, but then … then came the surprises. Hurtful surprises. And she felt her heart go tight again.

  Grabbing her towel, she stood abruptly. “What’s that yummy smell?”

  “It’s ‘da best bahbaque in town, man,’” mimicked Bryant. “The waiter told me it’s expensive—an arm and a leg, and maybe an eye—but I think we should check it out.” He looked between her and the dinner line already assembling. “I’m starving, how about you?”

  She looked over at him, his legs straddling the lounger, leaning forward and relaxed like the happiest man on earth. Why couldn’t she feel that way? And now that the afternoon focus on fun was over, she could feel the night.

  After folding the towel, Megan put on a light swimsuit cover-up dress, grabbed her bag, and walked with him toward a red and white shack emitting sizzling bursts of spicy sweet barbecue. Strings of bulb lights hung between poles on a nearby wooden dance platform and makeshift bar. Ebony-skinned men with canary yellow and red outfits set up silver steel drums. More of a crowd had gathered on the beach, and a line had already formed in front of the shack with people of all shapes and sizes chatting, gazing at the surf, and toting overflowing plates of Jamaican Jerk chicken, cornbread, and exotic fruit to waiting white tables arranged on the beach.

  “I’m starving. I hope this line moves quicker.” In a natural motion, he put his arm around her shoulder and tugged her a little closer, gently massaging her left shoulder as they stood. “Man, you’re tense. What’s up with that, on a Jamaican beach?”

  “Your other female fans are more relaxed in line?”

  The rhythmic massage paused, then continued. “Okay, so you wake up slow. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Someone behind them spoke to Bryant, which started a social conversation so typical of him. He was good with people, even her. But something nagged at her—was he for real? Was this just his usual routine with women? Choose your target, connect emotionally, then what, no commitment? Is that what he did with Brittany? The thought of Miss America and their conversation flashed in her mind. Too serious too fast. Couldn’t commit. Didn’t mean anything. Megan stiffened.

  “Hey, you all right?” He bent down to her ear.

  That tickle of his br
eath went right through her cover up and down her spine. She mumbled something and looked for lip balm in her bag to release his touch from her shoulder.

  Finally, they received their overloaded plates and Bryant led her to a smaller table near the outer edge. She didn’t know how he knew that this would be preferable to the packed center and small talk with strangers—that wasn’t her style. And yet, she didn’t want to be alone with him. What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she just be? A mental picture of Brittany came to mind again. Surely it was not knowing where those two stood. And, not knowing where she and Bryant stood either. So they had spent the day swimming, and she had told herself to let go. But what did that mean? What did that mean to him?

  “Man oh man, this looks incredible.” He had pulled out her chair then sat down to eat. “Dig in, woman, this is a fine feast. And none of this, ‘I’m on a diet’ nonsense, or whatever you women are always on about.” He picked up his chicken thigh, savoring the first bite.

  Megan took a bite of cornbread, though she wasn’t hungry. The soft crumbly bread melted in her mouth as she wondered how to ask, when to ask, what to say. The more relaxed he seemed the more nervous she became.

  “I think we only have a few hours before we need to be back,” she said out of nowhere.

  Bryant glanced quickly at her, elbows bent and ready for another chicken bite. “Kill joy. Can’t you just enjoy the moment? I mean, look at this plate.”

  “I’m just worried that we might miss the shuttle, that’s all. We could get in a lot of trouble.” She had no idea where this was coming from or where it was going. But inside she was shouting—I need you tell me what we are and where it’s going before I let go any further.

  He chewed, unconcerned. “We won’t miss it, don’t worry. Just enjoy the night.”

  Megan put down her fork, staring at him. Something clicked, something very deep down. That phrase, that attitude. She’d heard and felt that before, from Jackson. Sudden layers of feelings followed that thought.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I need to know when we’re leaving to make it back in time.”

  Bryant paused, the chicken poised in front of him. “Okay.” He wore that puzzled expression, but this time wary. He put down the chicken, roughly wiping his hands on the napkin. “Do you not want to be here?”

  “No,” she said, then quickly added. “I mean, no, that’s not it.” Her signals were confusing her, and surely him. “What I mean is, yes, I want to be here, I just don’t want to be late.” Desperately, she hoped he understood, her needing reassurance that what she said mattered. To know he could be trusted to keep his word.

  He gazed at her in that way, like he knew something but what, she had no idea. She looked at her cornbread.

  “Okay, good to know,” he said, smiling, but with bowstring tension. “How about we do this. You choose a time that feels comfortable, and I will move heaven and earth, and Jamaican roads, to make sure we make that time. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Megan checked her watch. “What about eight thirty? The last shuttle is at nine.”

  “Done. Now, can we get back to eating before I gnaw on my arm?” He joked but his eyes didn’t. The air had changed and it was more impersonal, two people eating a meal. In reality, that was exactly what she desired, to feel safe. But now, in a very small and private place, Megan felt hollow again. She was at the bottom of the rollercoaster, notching her way slowly, irrevocably to the next high point one more time.

  The ping of the steel drums began, adding an energetic background to the chatter and surf and bulbed lights. They ate in semi-comfortable silence, Megan more relieved than happy, though still unable to understand her own behavior. A few older couples, obviously from a tour group, braved the wooden platform and began waltzing to the music, oddly American steps to the Jamaican beat. Within minutes, some younger couples joined them on the floor—laughing, hugging, talking—all the while moving to the music. The exuberant mood lifted her spirits as she ate and listened to several songs all with that light, carefree sound.

  Bryant sat back and patted his taught stomach. “That was phenomenal,” he said, smiling at her. “Time to work it off, lazy bones.”

  “What?”

  He stood and took her hand. That same simple gesture, but it always took her by surprise, the feeling it caused. The naturalness, the easiness. That familiar feeling of home and love.

  No, she wouldn’t think that, not that word.

  “Honestly, what is it with you and this incessant dancing?” she said. He only smiled and led her to the dance platform. They climbed it easily and he led her to the fringe.

  “I don’t know how to dance Jamaican,” she said over the din.

  “Neither do they,” he said, glancing at the tour group. Taking her hands lightly, he started an easy shuffle step, once again surprising her with his ruggedness and build, how easily he moved to the music in an athletic, mannish way. How did he pull that off? She followed his lead, keeping an obvious social distance between them.

  An older couple from the “cruise group” danced in waltz position nearby, so close that she bumped into Bryant.

  “Oh goodness, I beg your pardon,” she said, “I’m just not a dancer.”

  “Looks like you’re doing fine,” said Bryant. “Maybe it’s your husband.”

  She blushed. “No, that’s not my husband, it’s my friend’s husband.” Seeing Bryant’s confusion, she smiled shyly, obviously affected by his good looks. “I’m single. He’s just doing me a favor.”

  “And what keeps you single on a night like this?” They all stayed slightly in motion.

  “My Victor, God bless him.”

  “He passed on?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, with sweet frankness. “But he never liked to dance anyway. Pity.”

  “Well, if your dance card isn’t full, maybe you can save one for me,” said Bryant.

  She giggled, though she had to be well over sixty. “Maybe just one, then.”

  He chuckled and turned back to Megan who watched him intently. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. Was he really, truly like that? All-American boy charm and genuine kindness. Did the two go together?

  At the end of their dance, he nodded for Megan to sit on a nearby stool at the bar while he asked the older woman to dance. They did a fast and a slow, and from the woman’s beaming countenance, Megan guessed it would be the highpoint of her vacation. After exchanging a few comments and returning her to the older gentleman, Bryant came back for Megan with an outstretched hand.

  “Oh no, I’m good,” she said, shaking her head. He tugged her off the stool anyway. The lively music made her laugh despite her inner battle. They shuffled and occasionally commented, but underlying it all escalated her need to clarify the situation.

  A slow song came on. Megan felt the change of tempo and immediately her heart jackhammered. She didn’t know where to put her hands.

  Bryant stepped into her, pulling her waist gently to him, his other hand taking hers and raising it in a close waltz. Instinctively, Megan followed him, just like when they danced on the deck. But she kept a stiff distance, even though her face was inches from his shoulder, breathing his smell of ocean and sand. Her hand rested on his round, solid shoulder. Beneath her fingers she could feel his muscles move as he adjusted his hold. She tried to look anywhere but his face, so she stared straight ahead at his chest, barely visible through the opening of his white collared shirt. Grimacing, she looked up, to his Adam’s apple, then to his jawline. Megan swallowed and stared across his shoulder.

  “You must be a dancer or something,” she said, trying to make light conversation.

  “I hire out on the weekends.”

  Again, something about the phrasing hit her wrong, raising her guard again. Inexplicably, she pulled back slightly. “Is that how you met Brittany?”

  Bryant stopped dancing momentarily, then resumed. “Brittany? What’s she got to do with anything?”

  “You looke
d pretty cozy on stage the other night.”

  “Was someone watching?”

  “We were all watching,” said Megan, purposely staring straight ahead. The music pulsed slow and rhythmic—Bryant’s hand rested on her waist and she tried to ignore how nice it felt.

  “What is this, Big Brother?”

  “George Orwell, 1984.”

  He ignored her reference. “It’s called performing.”

  “You guys are pretty seasoned performers, I guess.”

  Bryant pulled back gently to look at her. “What’s on your mind, Berlin? Just say it straight out, because I’m not that good with guessing.”

  They continued to turn in a circle. Megan wanted to scream it—were you being with me just like you were with Brittany, with everyone?

  “Doesn’t it bother you, having felt so, so strongly for someone, and then, not? But still having to be … together?”

  “That’s over with.” His voice held a slight edge. “It’s a closed door, and I just don’t open it. Does that answer your question?”

  No, it didn’t. Megan wasn’t sure if that meant he still had feelings and just didn’t open them, or if it was a closed chapter.

  “No temptation to open it, at all? I mean, she isn’t exactly Phyllis Diller.”

  Bryant laughed out loud. “I seriously don’t know how you remember these old timers. No, she’s not a Phyllis Diller. And sure it was tough at first, but now, it’s not a big deal. It’s just performing.”

  Just performing. Like with Megan? “So, how long did it take, I mean for you to … to get past it?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t like we were getting married, okay?” That quick-flare temper skirted his tone. “At least on my end, it wasn’t. I liked her, she’s a good girl, and we dated a while and it was all good. But she got more serious than I did, lightning fast, so it was easier for me to leave. It was ‘fly down to Daddy’s cabin,’ and ‘you must go on our uncle’s yacht,’ and after a while I felt shown off like a prize turkey. We had only dated a month before she was already looking at wedding cakes.”