by Tom Savage
“The house was built thirty years ago,” Kay said, “by a retired couple named Harbinger. Harbinger—isn’t that perfect? Samuel and Clara. They’re buried on the cliff just inside the woods at the far end of the patio. He died about fifteen years ago, and she remained here alone until her death, shortly before Fred and I came to St. Thomas. Their daughter lives in the States, and she had no interest in the place, so she sold it to us. We thought it was so romantic: the life-long lovers resting together on the cliff, overlooking the Caribbean.” She paused a moment before adding, “Fred’s buried there, near them, a little farther along the cliff. For all I know, Adam and I may end up there as well. He doesn’t have any living relatives, and I have no intention of spending eternity in that awful family mausoleum in Greenwich! Oh, well, there’ll be time to think about all that. Let me show you the rest of the house.”
To their right, a swinging gray door opened into the ultramodern kitchen where Nola bustled about, preparing their meal. It was a gorgeous arrangement of wood hues: chestnut parquet floor, blond butcher-block counters, natural wicker breakfast table and chairs. The walls were of red brick, and everywhere on them hung glinting brass pots and pans. Beyond the kitchen, she was told, were the pantry, the utility room, and the garage at the corner of the house nearest to the patio.
Kay led her back into the main room and over to the large door between the kitchen and the sundeck. This opened into a lovely paneled room with a large mahogany desk, brown leather furniture, and a beautiful Oriental carpet in a pattern of deep reds and blues. Hundreds of books lined the walls, and in one corner stood a baby grand piano.
“Office,” Kay said. “Den. Library. Music room, though none of us plays the piano. It only seems to get used at parties. Do you play?”
“No, not really,” the young woman replied.
The master suite on the other side of the living room was as pink as the kitchen and the den were brown. A chintz flower-print spread and canopy dominated the king-size bed. The walls, carpet, and dressing-table skirt were the palest carnation. Doors led to two huge walk-in closets and two marble bathrooms, his and hers.
Lisa ran ahead as Kay led her up the stairs to the second floor. Through an archway was a short hall, glass on one side looking out over the driveway, with four doors on the other side. The first was Lisa’s room, a riot of dolls, unsheathed compact disks, discarded clothes, and posters of rock stars, George Michael the heartthrob of the moment. The cluttered, delightful mess elicited a stifled moan from her mother, who quickly closed the door on it and continued down the hall. Next were two large, beautiful guest bedrooms, both in different patterns of white and green, each dominated by a huge mahogany four-poster bed. The final door was hers.
From the moment she stepped into the small, simply but tastefully appointed blue bedroom, with its comfortable double bed, its private bathroom, and its sliding glass door leading out to a tiny balcony with a glorious ocean view, she knew that everything was going to be all right. She could stay here, in this room and in this house, with these people, for as long as it would take. She looked around a moment, nodding to herself, aware that the woman and her daughter were watching her from the doorway.
“Lovely,” she said.
Kay Prescott smiled and led them back down the stairs.
“I like the white leather,” she told her hostess, running her fingers along the top of a couch.
“Thank you,” Kay said. “Of course, it’s very practical. For a very good reason. There’s still one member of the household you haven’t met.’’
She nodded to her daughter, who grinned, filled her lungs, and shouted, “Jumbi!”
Almost immediately, the kitchen door swung toward them and an enormous black and tan German shepherd bounded into the living room and over to Lisa. It leapt up at her, all dripping tongue and wagging tail, emitting little whimpers of joy as the child reached out for a hug.
“This,” Kay said, “is Jumbi. She’s been with us since— well, let’s see, she’s six now. She was originally Fred’s pet. Fred named her that, after the creatures of West Indian folklore. You know, mischievous little sprites that terrorize the local populace. This Jumbi is hardly sinister: she’s a teddy bear with most people. She lives in the garage, or at least she’s supposed to. But I suspect that Certain People smuggle her up to their bedrooms more often than not. I name no names.”
She didn’t have to. Dog and child were clearly inseparable. Lisa turned to their guest. “Go ahead. Pet her, Diana.”
The young woman smiled and stepped forward, her left hand extended.
And froze.
The animal whipped her head around toward the newcomer. Baring evil-looking fangs, she fixed the woman with a gaze of pure hatred and uttered a long, low growl.
Slowly, carefully, the young woman withdrew her hand and stepped backward.
“I don’t think Jumbi likes me,” she said with a soft, nervous giggle.
“No,” Kay agreed. “How strange. You’re only the second person I’ve ever known who causes that reaction in her.”
At that moment, Trish and Adam came through the doors from the deck to join them.
“I think dinner should be just about—” Adam began.
He stopped short in the doorway, staring. When he spoke again, it was in a firm, angry voice.
“Get that animal out of here. Now!”
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Lisa frowned in disgust and led the unrepentant Jumbi out to the garage beyond the kitchen.
The woman named Trish was watching her with obvious interest, and she saw Kay give her husband an annoyed glance. She stood very still, willing her heart to stop pounding. Jumbi. Great.
Then Adam grinned, breaking the spell and restoring order, and Nola appeared at the kitchen door to announce that dinner was served.
She barely made it through the meal.
It was sumptuous, or so she supposed. There certainly was enough of it. The courses arrived endlessly: cantaloupe soup; watercress and tomato salad; some type of small local shellfish, the name of which she missed. Roast lamb was the star of the evening, with oven-browned potatoes, homemade mint sauce, and something that Kay introduced as Nola’s specialty. It was a native dish called kalaloo, which seemed to consist mainly of spinach, okra, and bits of pork, and it was probably delicious. She somehow remembered—in her breathless, tingling, nauseated attempt at eating—to compliment Nola. But it didn’t really matter what was put in front of her: most of it was cleared away untouched.
If Kay or anyone else noticed her lack of appetite, nothing was mentioned. Everyone smiled and chatted pleasantly in low, civilized voices. At least two wines were offered, white for the shellfish and red for the meat, which helped to keep the party going. Trish fired off several one-liners that were presumably amusing, judging from the laughter of the others. Even Lisa seemed to be having a good time, something rare for a child among grown-ups. The young woman observed them all as a stranger would—as if through binoculars, or from another table. Their words did not always reach her ears: she had yet to orient herself to the whistling wind and the ceaseless, rhythmic crashing of the waves against the rocks a hundred feet directly below her chair.
At last her uneaten compote of island fruits was whisked away from in front of her, and her hostess rose, announcing coffee and cordials in the living room. She followed the others in through the glass doors and settled herself on a couch across from Kay and Adam, with Lisa once again at her elbow. Kay poured demitasse, and she was handed a tiny goblet of something-or-other that was excruciatingly sweet and tasted like chocolate. The witty banter continued for another hour.
She felt, all the while, as if she would scream. She was aware of it welling up inside her and pushing at the back of her throat, and it was only by clenching her teeth tightly together that she kept the cry from escaping. Predinner cocktails, two wines, cordial: nothing could make her relax, or cause this first-night assault of terror to abate. Surely they must all be awa
re that she had barely eaten, barely spoken, barely breathed. But on they went, clearly oblivious.
Slowly, during the course of the final part of the evening, the panic began to subside. She knew, in the rational part of her mind, that this would only happen once. After tonight it would be easier. For how long had she been planning it? Now was no time to fall apart and ruin everything, before she’d even officially begun. No: she would get through this. She must.
With a charming smile, she looked her quarry directly in the eyes and asked for another drink.
“So, Diana,” Adam inquired, “how do you like St. Thomas?”
“Oh, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Of course, I’ve only been here for ten days. Perhaps the spell will wear off soon, and I’ll take it all for granted.”
Adam raised his Courvoisier in the girl’s direction.
“Beauty,” he said, “is something we should never take for granted.”
For a brief moment their eyes met. Then she looked away.
Everyone smiled and murmured the usual noises of agreement. Everyone but Trish, he noticed as he surveyed them all. She was staring down into her glass, saying nothing. Yes, his instincts about her had been right. She never failed to make him feel ill at ease, self-conscious, simply by refusing to succumb to his charm. He would have to watch Patricia Manning very closely. . . .
Patricia Manning, very closely watched, stood up at that moment and announced her departure.
“Sorry, darlings. Under normal circumstances, I’d gladly dance till dawn. But my circumstances are anything but normal. I have to be up very early tomorrow. I’m playing—are you sitting down?—golf. At nine o’clock. With Stu and Brenda Harriman. Exhale, everybody. Kay, dear, you’ve done it again. Hang on to Nola: she’s fabulous.”
Adam watched as she went over to the young woman.
“It’s been lovely meeting you, Diana. We’ll see each other again soon, I think.”
“I hope so, Trish.”
A hug from Lisa, a smile and a wave for him, and at last the woman was gone. Kay walked her out to her car as Adam poured another drink for the girl. She was conversing quietly with Lisa, something about astrology. She seemed to be making a point of ignoring him. He smiled to himself as he reached for the Courvoisier. Those legs, he thought. That black dress is most becoming. . . .
Kay came back into the room.
“Time for bed, Lisa,” she said.
“Oh, Mommy,” the child whined.
“Now, dear. Say good night to Diana.”
Lisa rose and stood before the young woman. “Will you be . . . coming back?”
“Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes! Please say you will!”
Adam and his wife watched as the young woman glanced over at them. Then she smiled. “Of course I will.”
The child grinned and ran over to her mother. “G’night!”
“Sleep tight,” Kay said, kissing her forehead.
Then Adam got a surprise. Lisa turned and came slowly, almost shyly, across to where he sat. Leaning over, she pecked him on the cheek. “G’night.”
He reached out and ruffled her hair. Looking over the child’s shoulder, he noticed that Diana was watching their exchange with great interest. “Good night, baby.”
Then the child ran off up the stairs. A moment later, they heard her bedroom door close.
“Well,” Kay said, “I think we have some arrangements to discuss. Let’s go out on the porch. We don’t want to be in Lisa’s way.”
She led them outside into the cool night air. To their right, the lights of Charlotte Amalie twinkled in the distance. The hotel on the next point glowed brilliantly, and the muffled sound of steel-drum music wafted across the bay.
The girl could move in as soon as she liked, Kay said. The room was ready; it had been vacant for only a week. Adam stood at the railing and looked out at the lights of town, feigning indifference, hanging on their words. When the girl said that she would arrive two days hence, he nodded to himself.
Her sudden laughter caused him to turn around. She was listening as Kay droned on, but she was watching the pantomime beyond Kay’s shoulder, on the other side of the glass doors. Lisa had materialized and tiptoed down the stairs. She crossed the room into the kitchen. A moment later she reappeared and ran back the other way and up the stairs, the shepherd at her heels.
“Well,’ Kay said when she heard the bedroom door slam, “the coast is clear. Would anyone like something else to drink?”
The girl looked as if she were about to decline, so Adam spoke quickly. “Why don’t we all have a glass of Nola’s iced tea?”
“Excellent suggestion,” Kay said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She went inside the house and disappeared into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind her, and they were alone on the deck.
The steel band continued to play in the background, its muted strains just audible over the pounding of the surf below. They turned at the same instant to face each other. Her lips parted, and for a moment he thought she would speak. But she remained silent, motionless, staring over at him, into his eyes. Her hair moved slightly in the evening breeze. He watched her for a moment. Then he stepped forward, closing the gap between them.
And he was in her arms.
He kissed her once, hard, on the lips. Briefly, he allowed himself the luxury of burying his face in her hair. Then, with a quick glance at the kitchen door, he pulled away from her and dropped his arms. They spoke quickly, in urgent whispers.
“I wanted so much to call you—”
“No!” she hissed. “Don’t. And for God’s sake, stay away from Bolongo.”
He reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
“A painter,” he breathed. “Nice touch.”
She grinned at him then, through the darkness. I can do that, her smile seemed to say. I can do anything. For you.
“A couple of days,” she whispered. ‘Then . . .”
He nodded.
When Kay returned a moment later with the tray, Adam was saying. “She fills the pitcher three-quarters of the way with tea. Then she peels three oranges and throws them in the blender . . .”
FOUR
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9
“NOT SO FAST, darling! I’m still recuperating!”
Trish struggled to make her way through the teeming mass of flesh on Main Street. They had only just finished lunch, and the strain of walking all over the golf course yesterday still haunted her calves. Kay had already disappeared ahead of her.
It was madness to have come here today, especially at this hour. There were four cruise ships in port, and the duty-free shopping the tourists craved was mostly to be done on this relatively tiny four-block strip. The narrow, car-glutted lane was lined on both sides by shops offering everything from native crafts to imported Paris fashions at a fraction of Stateside prices, along with the jewelry and perfume, liquor and cigarettes that everyone insisted on dragging back to Chicago and Des Moines and Oklahoma City by the carload. They pushed and shoved and bullied their overfed, Bermuda-shorted, Foster Granted, Copper-toned hides around as if the island were one enormous white sale. Even so, Trish was enough of an ambassador to smile and beg everyone’s pardon as she forged ahead. As far as the Virgin Islands economy was concerned, the daily visitors were bread and butter. Bread and butter, bread and butter: she repeated it under her breath like a mantra, reminding herself all the way. What she wanted to do sometimes was clear a path through this rude, sweaty human jungle with a machete.
God, it was hot! Her dress clung to her. The sun bore down on the street, and the famous trade winds had trouble finding their way through these densely packed rows of enormous converted Danish warehouses that were still the town’s predominant structures. Here the air was still and thick with humidity. Hard to believe that the waterfront was mere yards away. She’d give anything to be home with her feet up, the air conditioner blasting. But no: Kay wanted a new dress—now,
todayl—and when she was in one of these moods there was just no stopping her.
Kay could be such a bore. Why on earth did she need a dress? Just because Adam was taking her out to dinner tomorrow night? As if her wardrobe weren’t already—well, hey. Why does any woman buy new clothes? Diana Meissen was moving into Cliffhanger today, and Diana Meissen was inordinately pretty, even by Trish’s exacting standards. . . .
At last she arrived at the entrance of the shop into which Kay had disappeared, and she lurched forward into blessedly cool darkness. She looked for Kay, smiling inwardly as her eyes roamed around the cavernous room. Once the proud haven for soon-to-be-shipped crops of cotton and sugar cane, and likely as not the ignominious drop for Blackbeard’s fabulous plunder, the massive seaside structure was now a ladies’ clothing store.
She spotted her friend through the milling mob, inspecting the dresses on display near the back. Push, shove, elbow, oh!-I-beg-your-pardon, and she was there. The pleasantly chilly, perfume-scented air inside the boutique did its job quickly: her heartbeat slowed and her breathing returned to normal.
Kay was holding a boldly printed red and orange Oscar de la Renta cotton gown up in front of her and gazing at her reflection in a full-length, rattan-framed glass on the solid exposed-stone wall.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Trish stood beside her and took a good, long look. The dark red and burnt orange patches were interspersed with white. Great with the red hair. Sleeveless; cinched waist; long, full skirt. Classic, festive, islandy: yes. Perfect for Kay’s figure. And the plunging neckline was just what the doctor ordered.
“Can you try it on?” she asked. “I want to see it.”
Kay consulted her watch. “Why not? I don’t have to pick up Diana at Bolongo for nearly two hours.”
She trotted dutifully off to the nearest cubicle.
Trish smiled to herself. She did not have to see the dress, but she felt, instinctively, that Kay needed to do this. And the crazy thing about it was that Kay wasn’t consciously aware of that fact. Trish knew. She’d seen Adam’s immediate interest in the girl the other night. But Kay, she also knew, did not suspect a thing. The two women had known each other for seven years, ever since Kay and Fred arrived on the island. It wasn’t that her friend was stupid; quite the opposite. But Kay was one of those people, the ones who are honest and decent and trusting. They give the people they love a square deal, and they automatically assume that they are, in turn, being given the same thing. It was not in Kay’s nature to be suspicious of anyone. She had imbued Adam with Fred’s sterling qualities, and for all Trish knew, he possessed them. But she somehow doubted that.
