Ode to a Fish Sandwich

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Ode to a Fish Sandwich

  by Rebecca M. Hale

  In memory of all

  the delicious fish sandwiches

  I have eaten

  during my trips to the Caribbean.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: White Wally

  Chapter 2: The Fickle Fiancé

  Chapter 3: The Wayward Guest

  Chapter 4: A Delicious Sandwich

  Chapter 5: The Volcano

  Chapter 6: Delilah

  Chapter 7: Water Wally

  Chapter 8: Besotted

  Chapter 9: Winnie

  Chapter 10: Luck

  Chapter 11: The Fisherman

  Chapter 12: The Summoning

  Chapter 13: The Lure of the Cane

  Chapter 14: Tempting Fate

  Chapter 15: The Shrine

  Chapter 16: A Covetous Compulsion

  Chapter 17: A Present from Delilah

  Chapter 18: The Ode

  Chapter 19: The Offering

  Chapter 20: Damned Fish

  Chapter 21: The Sacrifice

  Chapter 22: The Last Fish Sandwich

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Additional Titles by Rebecca M. Hale

  Publisher’s Notice

  Introduction

  FIFTEEN HUNDRED MILES southeast of Miami, on a tiny Caribbean island that time and progress forgot, a man walked into Delilah’s Beachside Diner and placed his order.

  “Hey, Winnie. I’ll take the special.”

  A stout West Indian woman looked over the plank counter, easily recognizing the relaxed vacationer. He had eaten lunch at her establishment every day for the past week.

  “Take a seat, doctor,” she replied, nodding at the picnic tables that had been pulled out onto the sand. “Burt hasn’t brought in the morning catch yet, so it’ll be a wait if you want fresh.”

  The man stretched his arms wide, grinning his capitulation. “This is my last meal on the island, Winnie, so you’d better make it good. The ferry leaves at two. I’m all yours until then.”

  “Get on with it,” she said, giving him a shrugging half-smile. “I’ll bring you a going away drink.”

  Winnie peered out her rear kitchen window, watching as Dr. Walcott Emerson Jones settled into his regular place at the table farthest from the kitchen, closest to the beach.

  The dermatologist from Utah always arrived and ate alone. Over the course of the past week, he had spent countless hours sitting in that same spot. Long after he finished each meal, he would remain at the table, silently staring out at the water.

  Those first few days, he’d looked mostly lost and forlorn, a fitting demeanor for a groom who’d just been jilted at the altar. But as the week progressed, his mood gradually improved. The island worked its healing magic, and the bright sun lightened his cloudy disposition, its curing rays reaching his soul—if not the surface of his skin.

  No matter how intense the tropical heat and humidity, the dermatologist dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, lightweight sports pants, and a floppy hat. On the few exposed areas of skin not covered by clothing, he smeared a thick layer of sunscreen. By the end of the week, his face had absorbed so much UV protectant that his cheeks were permanently chalked with a pasty white residue.

  “Skin cancer,” he’d replied when Winnie asked about his aversion to the sun. “You can never be too careful.” He’d emphasized his point with a twirl of the black umbrella he carried everywhere he went, his own mobile shade generator.

  She shook her head as the doctor selected several large stones from the beach and used them to anchor the umbrella’s handle on the top of the table. Adjusting the pile, he tilted the handle’s wooden rod so that the upper nylon webbing spread over his head.

  With a chuckle, Winnie poured rum punch into a plastic cup and set off for the propped-up umbrella at the far end of the eating area.

  “Only person I’ve ever seen come down here on vacation and leave whiter than he arrived.”

  Her second laugh shortened to a snort.

  “The man probably glows in the dark.”

  ~

  AFTER DELIVERING THE drink, Winnie shuffled back to the kitchen and started preparations for the day’s lunch service.

  Sidling up to her station, she opened a wooden drawer and reached inside for a butcher knife. She had a full set of cutlery at her disposal, but she used this hefty knife for almost every task. It was her favorite cutting tool, her go-to implement.

  To Winnie’s ears, there was no better sound than the satisfying thunk of the knife’s blade against her cutting board. She loved the way its handle pressed against the palm of her hand and how the mere flick of her wrist could generate a clean, cleaving blow. Its versatility knew no bounds. No other knife in her collection could so easily switch between dicing tomatoes and deboning a fish—or any other use that might arise.

  Gripping the trusty handle, she began running the blade over a well-worn sharpening stone. With smooth slicing motions, the steel scraped across the stone’s flat surface, each pass sliding faster and encountering less resistance.

  “The doctor’s last meal,” Winnie murmured as she studied the knife’s gleaming edge.

  “…his last fish sandwich.”

  ~

  DELILAH’S BEACHSIDE DINER was one of the few notable attractions in this isolated corner of the Caribbean.

  The sparsely populated island received only a trickle of tourist traffic. The little infrastructure that existed was maintained by a five-star resort on the south shore, and the guests to that all-inclusive establishment rarely ventured outside its gated boundaries.

  Beyond the rocky shoreline, a rugged interior commanded the bulk of the island’s topography. A dormant volcano rose from the inaccessible center, a hulking shadow that somehow made its presence felt even when the scalloped peak disappeared in a bank of clouds.

  Abandoned sugarcane fields spread across the short skirt of the island’s lower elevations, a head-high tangle of reeds, ferns, scrubby bushes, and the occasional mangrove. Once planted on every arable acre, the colonial-era crop was being slowly choked out by the natural vegetation.

  The diner was located in the island’s only officially designated “town,” a community represented by a far bigger dot on the map than warranted by its actual population density. A one-pump gas station, tiny grocery, and a handful of cinderblock houses filled in the rest.

  Limited commercial activity centered on the ferry dock, which hosted two boats a day to and from a much larger, built-up island to the north. The passengers were generally either guests to the resort or children commuting to school.

  Delilah’s provided the town’s sole dining option, and its menu was selective, at best, with the majority of listed items frequently being unavailable. Most orders were for the daily special, which hadn’t changed in years. No one ever asked for clarification when they requested the special; the locals knew to expect the fish sandwich.

  If the diner’s menu lacked variety, at least its top seller was a culinary success.

  The daily special was a straightforward preparation of a fish filet, grilled on both sides, and served with a toasted bun, a few pickled condiments, and a mound of potato chips. But everyone agreed that the fish sandwiches at Delilah’s tasted better than anywhere else within a hundred mile nautical radius. Passing mariners, the employees at the resort, and the ferryboat operators all regularly ate the diner’s fish sandwich.

  Of course, it had been many years since anyone named Delilah had worked at the shack by the beach. Winnie had been manning the kitchen counter for the better part of the last decade. She was the chef responsible for the diner’s fish sandwich reputa
tion.

  It had taken a great deal of work to perfect the deceptively simple dish. After much trial and error, she had settled on a few key elements.

  First, the fish should be extremely fresh, preferably caught and gutted the same day. The filets should be cut thick and basted with a light coating of spices (her own special blend) and then cooked at precisely the right temperature on a heated metal grill. The stove itself was an important component to the preparation as the iron surface conveyed its own unique seasoning from the countless seared fish that had been cooked on it before.

  The diner wasn’t much to look at. The shack’s exterior walls were made of sun-bleached plywood that once had been painted a colorful array of pastels. On one of the boards, faint yellow text spelled the now barely discernable label, “Delilah’s.”

  Wedged between the beach on one side and a dirt road on the other, there was little space for permanent outdoor seating. The diner’s metal roof extended a couple of feet out from the kitchen, providing a narrow band of shade.

  Beyond the rustic building, a scattering of stubby palm trees bent over the picnic tables that were dragged onto the sand each morning from a nearby storage shed.

  The meager accommodations were more than sufficient. Even with the popularity of the fish sandwich, the diner rarely saw a huge crowd.

  A pile of boulders, assembled during the tenure of the original Delilah, protected the diner and the surrounding area from erosion, but each major storm threatened to wipe out the building. One day, the sea would rise up and sweep the tiny shack into the Caribbean.

  When that time came, the diner would be missed, but not by many. Other than the occasional yacht and a few adventurous sailboats, the out-of-the-way island was off the world’s collective radar.

  It was the type of place where a person might disappear, unnoticed, into the abandoned sugarcane fields, a place where dark deeds might go unpunished—if not altogether unspoken.

  ~

  WINNIE SPREAD A plastic sheeting over her counter as Burt thumped the day’s catch on top. The seventy-five-pound Yellowfin tuna still twitched with life, but its fight had been spent in the water. The ragged tear at the fish’s lip evidenced the mighty struggle it had waged against the fisherman’s line.

  A bulging eye blinked as Burt braced the tuna’s nearly three-foot length with his gloved hands. Squinting to judge the distance, Winnie raised her knife. The blade hovered over the counter, shining in the sunlight, before the chef’s sturdy arm flexed, bringing the knife down with a whistling slice.

  The blade cut through the fish at the targeted location, severing the head from the scaly body, but the anticipated thunk against the cutting board was replaced by a jarring clink.

  “What in the…” Winnie muttered, leaning over the counter.

  Burt released his hold as she reached into the fish and pulled out a small metal object.

  She puzzled for a moment, staring at the sparkling item that had impeded the knife. Then she looked through her window to the man sitting at the picnic table near the beach, casually sipping his rum punch.

  With a grunt of realization, her eyes focused on the narrow strip of white skin at his neck.

  Her expression darkened as she shifted her grip to thumb the knick in the knife blade.

  “Well, doctor. This might be the last fish sandwich—for both of us.”

  Chapter 1

  White Wally

  WINNIE FIRST LAID eyes on the diligent dermatologist a week earlier, while picking up her children from the afternoon ferry.

  She spied him on the dock with the other resort-bound arrivals, waiting for his luggage to be unloaded from the boat. Even at a distance, he stood out from the crowd—a frail umbrella-waving figure grouped with several tanned physically fit couples.

  As her children clambered down the gangplank, Winnie turned to watch the curiously clad man exit the docking area. Retracting his umbrella, he climbed into the resort’s canvas-topped bus. Unattached to any female companion, he took a seat at the rear of the vehicle, adjusted his floppy canvas hat, and applied another layer of sunscreen to his face and neck.

  “One of these things is not like the other,” Winnie mused as the bus rumbled off down the dirt road, carrying the lonesome dermatologist to his lodgings.

  The resort typically catered to couples seeking a romantic escape. The facility had a strict ‘no children’ policy, and its vacation packages featured spa services, massages, and private dinners for two. It was rare to see guests outside the targeted demographic: late twenties to mid forties, affluent, and paired with a mate.

  Shaking her head, Winnie grabbed the hand of her youngest child and resumed her slow plod back to the diner, never once imagining the events that would be triggered by the doctor’s stay on the island—and his insatiable appetite for fish sandwiches.

  * * * * *

  THE DOCTOR LOOKED out an open window as the bus wound around the island’s southern perimeter, hugging the rocky shoreline. It was his first trip to the Caribbean, and the lush tropical landscape struck him as utterly foreign. It was completely different from that of his high desert home.

  During the plane ride south, he’d read an excerpt about the island in a guidebook he’d picked up at the airport. Other than that short paragraph, he knew very little about his destination.

  His fiancé had handled all the details for their ill-fated honeymoon. He had been left holding the airline tickets and the room reservations when she abruptly called off the wedding forty-eight hours earlier.

  Shifting in his seat, the doctor peered anxiously over the heads of his fellow passengers and through the front windshield at the road ahead.

  He wasn’t sure what he would find at the end of the day’s journey.

  ~

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the vehicle cut inland through an overgrown sugarcane field, the last curving stretch of road leading to the resort’s front gates.

  After the security guards waved them through, the bus drove to the end of a Tiki-torch-lined drive, stopped in front of a pitched-roof lodge, and disgorged its passengers.

  Fumbling with his umbrella, the dermatologist was the last guest to disembark. By the time he made it inside the lodge, the reception area was packed to full capacity. He wiped his flushed face with a handkerchief and stared up at the fans mounted onto the elevated ceiling. The slow-turning blades barely made a dent in the stuffy heat.

  Waving his hat back and forth, the doctor waited patiently at the end of the check-in line, watching as, two by two, the couples were each greeted and given their room keys.

  “I’m booked under Jones,” he said with relief when he at last reached the desk. By now familiar with the check-in process, he pulled out his wallet and removed his ID. “Dr. Walcott Jones.”

  The clerk typed the information into her computer. Then she looked up from the screen.

  “It says the reservation is for two people,” she said, a question in her voice. “Will your wife be joining you later?”

  “No,” he replied, his face blushing with embarrassment. “My fiancé…she, uh, decided not to come.” He gulped and added a painful clarification. “My former fiancé, that is. She also decided not to marry me.”

  “Oh,” the clerk said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  She gazed sympathetically at the demure man standing on the opposite side of the counter.

  He was of medium build and average stature, pleasant-looking but not overly polished in the showy manner of most of the resort’s guests. His curly brown hair had been clipped short to the scalp in a low maintenance, no-nonsense fashion. His wire-rim glasses had slid comically down his nose, the frames slipping from the sweat coating his face.

  He was a nice enough fellow, she concluded, but she could see how the fiancé might have had second thoughts about making a lifetime commitment.

  “So you’re here by yourself?” she asked politely.

  The doctor gripped the brim of his floppy hat and nodded meekly.


  “It’s a couples resort,” she said delicately. “Are you sure you want to stay for the whole week?”

  His mouth flattened into a determined grimace. He had come this far without his runaway bride; he wasn’t about to turn back now.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” she sighed, relenting. “Welcome to our island, Dr. Jones.”

  ~

  THE DOCTOR MADE a brief stop by his room to freshen up and drop off his bags. Then he set out to explore the resort, desperately hoping to find a place to cool off.

  He headed first for the swimming pools.

  Elaborate concrete structures of varying size and depth were spread across the resort grounds, many featuring waterfalls and fountains. But after a few minutes at each one, he quickly left.

  For a man who had devoted his life to the study of melanoma, it was difficult to ignore the resort’s ubiquitous sun worshippers, baring their unprotected skin with reckless abandon. Everywhere he turned, it seemed, he saw instances of potentially precancerous moles and other disconcerting brown splotches, all of them pulsing under the sun.

  He approached one woman to point out a dangerous-looking freckle on her left shoulder, but her body-builder-sized boyfriend stepped between them and, with a menacing stare, rebuked his advance.

  After several near-altercations and a few threats of bodily harm, Dr. Jones eventually found his way to the resort’s man-made beach.

  The shoreline and the surrounding bay had been cleared of the boulders that dotted the island, remnants from the volcano’s last temper tantrum that took place about a century earlier. Additional excavation had deepened a channel next to a short dock to provide access for a small fleet of sailing vessels that the resort used to take guests out on day trips.

  Like the swimming pools, the beach too was crowded with scantily clad sunbathers. Stepping gingerly through the rows of carcinoma-facilitating lounge chairs, the doctor forged a path to the beach and waded into the bay. He edged past a number of anchored rafts and swam toward an open area farther from the shore, blissfully devoid of the resort’s other guests.