Doug caught my expression and grinned. “Rasta village. They’re squatters. The owner of the property doesn’t seem to mind. They’re the closest neighbors to Estate Annalise.”
“Interesting,” I said. And then I laughed aloud.
Doug shot me a look.
“They add to the charm,” I told him.
He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He pulled into the driveway leading to the house and parked the Rover, and I shot out of the car, a runner from her starting blocks. There was a charge in the air, as if Annalise was thrumming with excitement, too. I checked for a connection, and my iPhone again found a signal. Annalise perched atop a high hill, and when I did a 360-degree inspection, I spotted a cell tower. Yet another comforting sign of civilization in this remote location.
I texted Collin and Emily. “Abt to spend my inheritance on a house here & never come back.”
Collin replied, “Be sure it has a guest room for me & my lady friends.”
Emily responded, “Liar. You’d miss me too much.”
I laughed. If they knew I was really with a realtor looking at a house, they’d flip. More so if they could actually see this house. I snapped a quick picture from an angle that included the dilapidated Island Realty sign and included it with my next text.
“I can get this one for a steal.”
“Just don’t be calling me for cheap labor,” wrote Collin.
“Very funny. Call me later. I want to hear abt the spa, beach, & men,” Emily said.
One quick text to Nick? To break the ice between us, perhaps? No, no, no. I would not falter. Maybe before I would have included him, but not anymore.
Doug gave me my second grand tour, but Rashidi’s had been much better. I picked Doug’s brain as we walked the grounds.
“What would it cost to finish a place like this out?” I asked.
“Depends on whether you go Fifth Avenue or Harlem. Whatever you do, take your estimate and double it. It’s hard to get anything done here, even worse if you’re not local.”
This jived with Ava’s Island Success101 speech.
We continued our tour. I think Doug expected me to pack it in when the walk-through was over. No such luck for him. I clambered through the house and grounds with Doug in my wake three times over the next hour and a half. Doug glanced at his watch and checked his phone.
“Do you mind if I step to the driveway to make a call?” he asked.
“No problem,” I said. In fact, I preferred it.
I wandered around to the backyard, where the butt of the concrete pool jutted out of the earth and ten feet into space. I decided to rough out what it would take to finish Annalise’s build-out. Searching my purse for scratch paper, I pulled out the envelope from my last expense reimbursement check. That would do. I straddled the slanted concrete pool coping with the envelope in front of me on its grainy surface. I scribbled cramped notes in pencil on the work needed to make Annalise livable. The pencil traced the bumps of all the pebbles under the paper, making my writing wavery and old lady-ish.
The notes turned into a work list. My thoughts ran toward flooring and wall colors, although I did my best to step back further to the necessities of plumbing, electricity, and Sheetrock. My parents had built a house fifteen years ago, and they had talked enough about it around me that some of it stuck. Then, beside each item on the work list, I summed up rough cost estimates. I multiplied by two, then crossed it out and replaced it with a multiple of three.
It was a lot of work, but doable. For someone. Maybe even for me. One advantage of my workaholic life in Dallas—partner in a successful law practice, no kids—was my big, fat stash of cash. Add to that the life insurance I received when my parents died, and, well, I was in good shape. One and a half million dollars’ worth of good shape. If money were the only issue, I could do this. But did I want to? Could I leave Dallas and everyone there behind and start over here, at Annalise?
Thump.
A perfect mango rolled to a stop at my toes, which were bare in the Reef sandals I’d stolen back from Ava. I leaned over and snatched it up. The backyard was treeless. I looked around. No humans. No animals. No other mangoes on the ground.
What the hell? “If that was you, Annalise, do it again.”
Thump. Mango number two.
The second mango came from the direction of the house, but up high. I whipped around and saw her standing on the partial balcony outside the master suite. Her. The woman I had seen yesterday and in my dream of the house last night. She was crouching, one knee down and an elbow on the other knee, her skirt loose and puddling the ground around her. She held a mango in her right hand.
I whispered, “Holy Mother of God. You’re real. Or I’m delusional. Or both.”
I heard Doug on the phone, his voice growing louder. I glanced in his direction. When I returned my eyes to the balcony, the woman was gone.
“I am delusional,” I said.
Thump. Mango number three.
This one seemed to drop straight down from thin air at waist height. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. The air quickened in a light way, a joyous way. Was I making the jumbie happy? It seemed so. But I wasn’t going to buy this house to please a spirit.
“I can’t do this, Annalise. This isn’t my real life. It’s not logical. I like you and all, but you’re kind of pricey for a delusion.”
Except that my real life wasn’t all that great. I worked in a profession that didn’t thrill me. I desperately needed to sever my emotional tether to Nick, and I craved an escape from the lingering humiliation I’d carried with me since Shreveport. My parents weren’t in Dallas anymore. In fact, I felt closer to them here than I had in the last year. And I hadn’t had so much as a sip of alcohol since I stepped foot on this piece of property. What was keeping me in my old life, then? I couldn’t come up with one damn thing other than the comfort and familiarity of habit. My life as an old fuzzy house slipper. How appealing.
Maybe I couldn’t buy this property to please a spirit, but I could buy it to please Katie Connell. Katie Connell couldn’t have Nick, her parents, or Bloody Marys. So maybe she could have this house. This beautiful house in this beautiful place that Katie really, really wanted.
Because I did. I really, really wanted it.
Chapter Fourteen
“I saw you talking to yourself. They say that’s the way to be sure someone smart will always answer,” Doug said, right behind me.
“Oh, you caught me,” I said. I dropped the two mangoes I was holding and picked up my pencil and envelope. “I’ve made a list, and I have some ideas to talk to you about.”
I peppered Doug with more questions about finish-out, the island housing market, and the accessibility of groceries and drugstores from Annalise’s remote location. After he answered my volley of questions, he remarked, “Without construction experience, or, let’s face it, a man around the place, this could be too much. Plus, you’re isolated up here. I don’t mean to scare you, but this part of the island sees some rough types, players in the island drug trade. I could show you other places, beautiful finished houses in safer neighborhoods. If you haven’t been out to the condos on the East End yet, I think you’ll be surprised at how much you’d like them.”
This man was not listening to me. I hate it when that happens.
“Thank you, Doug, I sure do appreciate that,” I said, my Texas accent and phrasing growing more pronounced as my irritation grew. “But I’ve made up my mind. How do I go about making an offer on Annalise?”
He looked stunned. I locked my eyes on his and pulled the brim of my hat further over my face. He raised his eyebrows—skepticism or submission?—and motioned me back to the Rover.
“Let’s go back to my office and put an offer together.”
Ah, he was getting smarter.
On the way back to town, Doug turned into a historian.
“You know why town is called Taino?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “It’s named after the original inhabitan
ts of St. Marcos. Most people just call it Town and spell it with a capital T, though. They put a lot of stock in local, in bahn yah.”
The information was interesting, but I wondered what his point was. If he had a point. I threw in some “uh huhs” again.
“You’ll see a lot of locals with Taino traits: dark skin, wiry hair, short, and thick through the middle, but stocky, not fat. Most of the locals are of African descent, though. There’s a large community of Dominicans, too, and a fair number of Middle Easterners. Caucasian is a minority.”
I thought about it. Taino was its own version of the island soup, kallaloo, that I’d had instead of salad at lunch. Everything thrown in the pot and cooked up together. I liked the soup. I liked the island.
“I’d noticed,” I said.
In the rainforest, “t’ings” were different from Taino, though. Not only was it ten degrees cooler than down in Town, but it was also no kallaloo. The rainforest of St. Marcos was a black West Indian world. A fact about which Doug was becoming more and more direct.
“The only community on St. Marcos where outsiders are truly accepted, especially white outsiders, is the East End. It’s the way things are here. I need you to understand this before I write an offer for you. My conscience and all,” he said, putting his hand on the center of his chest.
I damned him with the ultimate in Texas condescension. “Bless your heart, Doug. I appreciate your concern. And I’ll be fine.”
“All right, then. I’m done trying to talk you out of it.” He pursed his lips. “One last thing. Do you want to see the nearest grocery store?”
Now that sounded like a smart thing to do. “Absolutely.”
Doug took me to a medium-sized grocery called Courtyard. Sure enough, we were the only two people in the place with light pigment. It was astounding to me—humbling, really—that this was the first time in my life I had knowingly experienced minority status. I was a gecko who couldn’t camouflage to match the background.
My minority status wasn’t the only thing to get used to in the Courtyard grocery store. While the store was large, it wasn’t up to stateside standards of cleanliness, nor was it well stocked. The produce section displayed mostly exotic fruits and vegetables that I didn’t know how to cook, and the items that were familiar to me were scarce, limp, and close to rotting. I picked up an item marked “cassava” and another with a label that said “breadfruit.” Completely foreign.
The cassava fell from my hand. I set the breadfruit down. As I knelt to try to pick the cassava up, I bumped into a small woman I hadn’t seen. Actually, I bumped into her walker. She squawked.
“Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry,” I cried. I stood up quickly and put my hand on her back. “I am such a klutz. I dropped a . . . vegetable . . . and I didn’t see you, and, well, I’m sorry.”
“She’s fine,” a voice behind me said, in a “no thanks to you” sort of way.
A big hand extended the errant cassava in front of me, and when I turned to face him, it was Jacoby.
I took it from him. “Thank you, Officer Jacoby. I am so sorry.”
“Mind yourself around the elders. My grandmother is fragile.”
So warm, so friendly. Not. “Yes, of course.” I remembered my manners. “A pleasant good afternoon to you, ma’am, and to you, Jacoby.”
The ancient wisp of a woman said, “Good afternoon, dear.”
Jacoby said nothing.
I walked away, smarting. It didn’t appear I was growing on Jacoby.
“Did you run into friends?” Doug asked, rejoining me with two bottles of ginger beer.
“Not hardly.” I motioned toward the exit. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
I tried to resist looking back at Jacoby as we walked out, but I couldn’t stop myself from stealing a quick glance. I shouldn’t have. Out of uniform and in baggy black jeans, he was even more imposing. He glared at me, the very picture of malevolence. Note to self: Ask Ava what Jacoby has against me.
When we got back into the Rover, Doug handed me a bottle of the ginger beer. “A local soft drink,” he said. “One of the local favorites. It’s like root beer with a ginger bite.”
I took it from him and sipped it. The spice was almost peppery. “Thank you,” I said.
Doug asked, “So, if you were to buy this place, would you get a mortgage or what?”
I cleared my throat. “No. Just cash.”
“Oh, wow, well, that changes things. The owner—a bank that foreclosed on the property—highly prefers cash. This will really help you.”
I didn’t say anything. The bad juju from my Jacoby encounter had messed with my head. You should go back to the resort and sleep on this overnight, I told myself.
Doug said, “Last time I’m going to ask. Wouldn’t you prefer to sleep on this, think it over, and get back to me tomorrow? Annalise will still be there. I’d hate to see you get in over your head.”
What was he thinking? Sleeping on it was a terrible idea.
“I’m a decisive person, Doug. I’m making an offer.”
So I did, and I couldn’t even blame it on rum punch. I didn’t take time for reasoned deliberation. I acted exactly opposite from the way I would counsel my clients. I didn’t seek advice from my new island friends or my loved ones back home. I didn’t do any research or consult any experts. I ignored the implications on my life in Texas. Something about my voodoo-like connection to Annalise offered salvation. Maybe it was crazy, but I believed.
It was an impulsive decision, but hell, there was no way they would accept my lowball offer anyway.
Chapter Fifteen
I decided the offer on Annalise should be my little secret. It helped me keep it out of my mind, since at least I wasn’t talking about it to anyone. What I didn’t hide was that I was going to try to remain alcohol-free for the rest of the trip. It seemed right, as if the time had come. Just like the time had been right to make the offer on Annalise.
“It won’t hurt me to dry out for a few days with you,” Ava said. “But the universe hate a vacuum.” She switched to Continental and spoke like she had a clothespin on her nose. “We must replace deprivation with indulgence.”
“Chocolate?” I suggested.
Back to Local. “If I going to suffer, I going to lose weight. I got something better in mind.”
And so we sampled the resort’s spa treatments and “body and mind experiences.” I embraced Ava’s indulgence philosophy and tried every decadent pampering the spa had to offer.
I loved the spa from the moment we stepped through the door. Soft steelpan music seeped out of hidden speakers and a delicious coconut scent tickled my nose. We changed in a locker room reminiscent of my suite’s bathroom, then entered a waiting area where we sipped cucumber water in front of a burbling stone fountain.
I totally got into the treatments, the indulgences on the “body” side of their brochure. If I were naturally the self-indulgent type, I would have someone wash my hair in a garden courtyard while I got a foot massage every day, but my parents had raised me to be too frugal for that. I was worried that my credit card bill would send me into a grand mal seizure, as it was. But as for the “mind,” let’s just say I wouldn’t be joining a Bikram yoga studio anytime soon. All the clearing of the mind stuff just gave me more time to stress out. I said as much to Ava after we walked out of my one and only meditation session.
“It help if you don’t bring your phone in with you,” she said. “He not going to call.”
“What? Who?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes.
Ava was right. About not bringing the phone, and that Nick wasn’t going to call. But Doug might. I snuck another peek at my phone. He had promised to contact me as soon as he heard something. I had promised myself I would patiently wait for him to contact me. I was the epitome of lime. Yeah, right. But I was trying.
After a very full day, we had run out of spa services to sample, so we hit one of the resort’s beaches. And it was there that I finally discove
red my personal key to turning off the bedeviling voice in my head: beach walking. My brain rested when my feet were moving, and when I went beyond cell range. The sound of the waves soothed me. The water on my toes was a mother’s kiss, the warm sun on my skin her hug. When we had hiked the length of the two beaches adjacent to the spa, we ventured outward. I swear, we tramped every beach on the island over the next two days. White sand. Brown sand. Lava rock. Water-smoothed pebbles. Miniature mountains of gray boulders. My sedentary and sunless lifestyle was turned on its head. I’d never had a problem with my weight, but lately I’d noticed that all of me was sagging more than it used to. Now my butt was perking up as my head cleared. Bonus.
I spent most of my time with Ava, but not all of it. On one of the days, I sweated through a nerve-wracking lunch alone on the boardwalk downtown, surrounded by enthusiastic drinkers of fruity rum concoctions. I couldn’t even enjoy myself. I was practically chanting “Thou shall not drink” to keep a mango banana daiquiri at bay. The leathery couple at the next table pretended not to be scared of me. It definitely was easier when Ava was there to abstain alongside me. And to remind me to put my phone down. Why hadn’t I heard from Doug?
By my last day on St. Marcos, the aching desire for just one rum punch—and the shakes that I tried to pretend weren’t happening—was tapering off. Thank God. A shakeless me could talk to my creepy investigator, Walker. I decided to barge in unannounced after breakfast, even though that was practically the middle of the night on St. Marcos. He’d told me that I couldn’t expect results yet, but I needed to look him in the eye one more time before I left so he’d know I was serious about the work I’d hired him to do.
When I got to his office door, I stopped for a moment, gripped by a momentary uncertainty. I surveyed his street front. No shingle hung announcing his place of business. Just the number, 32. Through the window, I saw the back of his head. I heard his voice through the glass pane in the door. He was talking to someone, but I couldn’t tell if he was on the phone or if there was someone in there with him in the back of his office, not visible to me on the street. I leaned close to the glass so I could hear better.
Saving Grace (Katie & Annalise Book 1) Page 8
