I paged through the Chronicle, perusing the headlines and the shorter stories. As I paged through the middle, I saw Drew’s picture in black and white. I did a double take. The headline did not mention his name. I imagined that the story concerned his appointment to the Ministry of Education. I read it anyway, though I really wasn’t interested in all that political stuff. My eyes popped open the more I read of the story, which read like an opinion piece, but journalism in Dominica tended to favor the dramatic over the factual. One paragraph, in particular, grabbed my attention:
Anderson, 31, was also romantically linked to Shauna Woodson, a British citizen who has roots in Dominica. She is now married to Michael Woodson, a businessman who is also British. It seems that our soon-to-be Minister of Education may be holding a grudge against Dominican women. His current fiancée is an American import, a teacher from Boston who is hidden in his Castle Comfort home. The few times she makes appearances in public she’s surrounded by Mr. Anderson’s sisters or his mother. Neighbors in Castle Comfort say she never leaves the home without Mr. Anderson’s dog, Sonny. What does she think? She needs protection from us savages? Our prime minister might want to rethink Mr. Anderson’s appointment to such an important ministry. If our own women are not good enough for him, then how well can he serve us as Minister of Education?
Allrighty, then! Ugh! I closed the paper and looked around. At least they hadn’t put my picture in their rag. Ugh. Drew! Why didn’t he tell me that he and Shauna had been involved? More than anything in that ridiculous story it was driving me insane. Yes, she was happily married, but somehow that made it worse. That could mean that she’d ended it and that he might still have a thing for her. Grrrrrr…Shauna.
I heard the noisy engine of a Cessna and turned toward the gate. Whitney’s plane had landed. I’d made sure she came into the Canefield airstrip instead of the Melville Hall airport, which was three hours away. That way I wouldn’t have to drive her across the entire island.
Whitney waved to me as she checked in with immigration and I had to laugh. She had on her movie star sunglasses, these huge, black, Jackie O things, a tiny pink halter top and some white short-shorts, with pink high-heeled wedge espadrilles. She looked amazing.
“Look at you!” she said as we embraced. “You’re so skinny now! Don’t lose any more weight!”
“Why do people keep telling me that?” I hugged Whitney tightly. “You look so amazing, girlie.”
“Well, dahling, I wanted to fit in…. That’s how they do it in the islands, right?”
Whitney spoke loudly, and she was attracting a lot of attention. It was fine with me, but the Dominicans were watching her suspiciously, disapprovingly. They didn’t like it when women dressed that way in public, nor did they like it when women called too much attention to themselves.
A man approached us. “Do you need a taxi?”
“No, thank you,” I told him.
“Oh, you’re the American girl Drew’s marrying?”
He held out his hand and I shook it as he told me his name. He smiled at me and quickly turned his attention to Whitney. He beamed at her kindly, and at first I thought he was going to hit on her; instead, he shook her hand and said, “I deal with a lot of tourists here, young lady. So let me give you some advice. Don’t go out in public looking like that else you’re going to have a hard time down here. Okay?”
He turned and walked away quickly enough before Whitney’s mouth could close.
“Did he just say what I think he did?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Whitney,” I said, guiding her to the exit.
“What is this place, freaking Saudi Arabia?”
“It’s not a big deal. They’re just conservative. It’s kind of weird, actually. They don’t mind when white women do it. It’s just black women they don’t want walking around too exposed.”
She sighed. “Why did I let you…”
“Whitney, we’re gonna have fun. Relax. We’re going diving.”
“Now?”
“Yup.”
Since when had I become the director of fun? I didn’t know but it sure was fun playing one. I drove Whitney around for a bit, and she, as I did on my first days in Dominica, snapped pictures, exclaiming about the stark contrast of beauty and poverty before her eyes.
“Someone should buy this place and fix it up,” she said. “They could turn it into this eco-resort….”
“Nah, I think the people like it just the way it is.”
“But if it were more like St. Thomas, they’d get more tourists.”
“It wouldn’t be the same. These people like their lives the way it is. I don’t think they wanna see a bunch of glossy American stores in their downtown.”
“I thought that’s what you missed the most.”
“It is. But I don’t want to see a Gap or Starbucks down here. It just wouldn’t fit.”
“Oooooh, Amelia. You’re starting to sound like you love it down here.”
I shrugged. “I like it. It’s not perfect, but I like it. There, I said it.”
She smiled and spread her dreadlocks on her shoulders. “It’s a funky little place.” She snapped more pictures as we drove through Roseau. “It’s a nice change after being in Rome for the last month.”
“So did you finally kick Rodolfo to the curb?”
“Girl, you know I did. But guess who keeps e-mailing me?”
“Who?”
“Duncan, that fine lawyer…”
“I remember. Big D.”
“Exactamente! I think ol’ dude is catching feelings for your girl.”
“Ooooh. What you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. He’s kinda sweet. He’s like one of those reformed players who’s finally ready to settle down.”
“Hmmm…You guys would be perfect for each other then. Though I wouldn’t call you reformed.”
“Chile, I’m not ready for all that. I’ll see how things go when I get back home. He is cute, though. With the e-mails and all.”
Oh, boy. Did she even listen to herself? With Whitney it was always one down, on to the next guy. She always managed to convince herself that each new fling or relationship would be so new, different, and exciting. That’s my girl, though. Ms. Optimistic.
Once we arrived at the house she ooohed and ahhed over the magnificent view from the front porch and the lush trees and bushes in the back. “This place is amazing! Amelia, I wanna stay forever!” she said over and over again.
“Shhhh!” I told her.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the waterfall.”
“I hear it! I hear it! That is so cool!”
“We’ll go see it later.”
We had a quick snack then jumped back into the Jeep, heading for the dive lodge.
“So did you get your certification?” Whitney asked.
“No, not yet.”
“How come? What you been doing all this time? I thought you’d be a dive instructor by now.”
“I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
She looked at me as if I were crazy. “It’s not like you’ve been busy with work…. You can spend all your time playing.”
“I know. I know. I just didn’t want to go by myself.”
“You’re so weird, Amelia. You really are.”
“Not weirder than you.”
“Yeah? At least I know how to have a good time.”
“Whatever, Whitney.”
We arrived at the dive lodge just as a group of tourists were getting their dive equipment together. It was another sunny, colorfully gorgeous day, and I wanted to smack myself hard for not doing this earlier. I could have been out here every day diving if I hadn’t been such a wuss! Now Whitney was going to have all the fun while I stayed back and snorkeled with the 9-year-olds and old ladies.
She joined up with the group of about twenty people who’d lined up to rent equipment. The dive master waved to me cheerfully.
“You’re not joining us today?” he ask
ed, coming up to greet me with a big hug. I had only met him once, with Drew.
“Nah, I’m gonna do some snorkeling instead.”
“The whale-watch guy is leaving in a few minutes. You should go with them.”
“Really?” Now that I could get into because it didn’t require any talent or skill.
“What’s your friend’s name?” he asked, following Whitney’s butt with his eyes.
Oh, here we go. “You should ask her.”
“I think I will,” he said, eyeing Whitney inquisitively. She was quickly making friends with the group of divers boarding the boat. Darn! I envied them. I made a vow right then and there: I would take the stupid scuba class. I WILL take the scuba class. By next year this time I will be an expert diver. EXPERT!
I ran off to the other boat that was almost finished loading.
“Whale watch! Whale watch!” a burly man called out from the deck.
“Oh, you’re Drew’s girl,” he said when I got near the gangplank.
I nodded and introduced myself. “Tony,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’ll take good care of you.”
As the boat pulled off, I pulled out my camera. The Caribbean Sea had a clean, salty smell and was so blue it hurt my eyes to look. There was a light breeze off the ocean that balanced out the steady rays of the sun. I could see birds clipping across the sky in brilliant formations, and the little dock getting farther and farther away. Amelia, I thought, you’re doing something fun. On your own! Whitney was probably raising hell with her group of divers. But I was having a good time, too. I was still snapping pictures of distant mountains, when a woman cried out behind me. “Oh my God!”
I turned and there was a huge black shape in the water. It flashed its flukes in the air and a plume of water shot up. The woman, an older American, shrunk back. Her husband laughed at her. “That’s a sperm whale,” he said.
I tried to get a picture, but it had already dived back under the surface. From that point on, my eyes never left the water. And a few minutes later I got lucky as the same whale, I think, resurfaced. This time, a few of us were ready, and our cameras all responded in unison. I wished my digital camera was as fancy as the one belonging to the Japanese couple next to me, but I just had to make do.
The time went by quickly, and it seemed that the farther out we went the more common whale sightings became. I saw two dolphins leap into the air, and I caught that on my camera. I snapped a Pilot, a False Orca, and two Spinners. I knew what they were because Tony, our guide, could tell them apart. To me, they just looked frighteningly huge and awesome. By the time we turned around to head back my heart was pounding. We had gotten so close to the dolphins, they’d seemed within arm’s reach. I was so pumped up. I couldn’t wait to tell Whitney all about it.
When we returned to shore, the divers had not returned so I decided to go snorkeling with the elderly American couple, the Smiths from Kansas City.
“Is this your first time on Dominica?” the woman asked me.
“Not really. I’m here for the summer.”
“Oh, how fun. Do you have family here?”
“Uh…sort of. My fiancé lives here.”
That sparked the requisite showing off of my engagement ring, questions about the wedding date, etc.
“So, you’ll be moving here permanently?” Mr. Smith asked.
“I intend to.”
“We thought of retiring here. But my wife felt it was too isolated.”
“I like to shop. The shopping here’s not that great,” Mrs. Smith said. Finally! Someone who got where I was coming from.
“There’s great shopping on Guadeloupe; it’s only a ninety-minute ride on the ferry.”
There was? And why hadn’t I heard of this before?
“Yeah, but you have to pay in euro. It’s too expensive,” Mrs. Smith said.
They went on and on like this until I managed to escape them and headed underwater. They’d been married fifty-four years and they still looked pretty happy. Hell, they were still hanging out together. That wasn’t a bad thing, I thought as I sank lower into the warm water. I’d brought my camera with me this time, and I was hoping to find a hawksbill turtle. If I found one, I’d frame that picture and put it above my bed. Thirty minutes later, I had seen plenty more exotic fish and other marine life but no hawksbill turtle. Guess I’d have to come back.
When Whitney and I finally headed back to the house we were salty-haired, giggling, and exhausted. It had been a long day, but Whitney wanted more.
“So, what are we doing tonight?”
“Tonight? Aren’t you tired from traveling all day?”
“Not really. My happy pills give me boundless energy.”
“I don’t know how you can joke about that stuff.” I’d made us tuna melt sandwiches, her favorite. I hadn’t had one in what seemed like years and, boy, they tasted good. Aaaah, American food.
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Not saying you should be.”
“Then why wouldn’t you joke about it?”
“Because…it’s serious.”
“What’s serious?”
“Your…your…”
“Mental illness? Psychosis? Craziness?”
“I thought we were just gonna have fun this weekend.”
“We are, Amelia. But let’s get this straight, I’m not going to act like I’m some fragile little creature who takes herself so seriously that I can’t laugh at being on these meds. That’s not who I am. And you should know that by now.”
“I do, Whitney.” God, she was in a mood today. “Sorry if I made it seem otherwise.”
She looked at me and then shrugged. “Are there any bars nearby?”
“Well, the Fort Young Hotel has a happy hour that’s supposed to be really hot.”
“Good, I’ll go get changed.”
She ran off to the bathroom, leaving me at the kitchen table. I wondered if I should call Drew and let him know that I was going to be out with Whitney for the night. I didn’t want to bother him on his golf weekend. He’d been dying to go all summer long, and I was the reason he hadn’t been able to go. Besides, he’d probably expect that I’d be showing Whitney around anyway. As I cleared up the table I wondered if I should tell Whitney about the Steve Harrison discovery. Knowing her, she’d make a huge deal about it. Probably make up some crazy story in her head full of intrigue and CIA agents. No. I’d try to keep my mouth shut for once.
When we walked into the darkened bar I could feel about fifty pairs of eyes on us. Whitney, of course, looked smashing in slim white capris and a fuschia halter. I was wearing a spaghetti strap aquamarine dress that dipped way down into my cleavage. I was a little worried when I put it on. Drew would probably think it was too revealing, especially since he wasn’t there. But Whitney had said, “Since when did you join the Taliban?” And that had been enough to make me wear the dress. And I looked good in it, too.
I noticed the bartender from a few weeks ago and I waved to him. “Let the fun begin now that the diva’s in the house!” Whitney said and hightailed it for a bar stool. There was jazzy calypso playing and a few people were dancing on the terrace that overlooked the ocean. It was a gorgeous evening. I felt like I was in South Beach. There were quite a few tourists mixed in with the crowd of locals, which looked to consist mainly of the young professionals and probably students. I thought I saw Jason, Drew’s lawyer, in the crowd, but that couldn’t be. He was in Barbados playing golf with Drew.
“You’re Drew’s girl?” A girl came up to me as I sipped my virgin piña colada. Whitney was busy chatting with some French guy who had sidled up to her.
“Yes, I’m Amelia.” I held out my hand.
She ignored my outstretched hand and didn’t return my smile. “Couldn’t you find a man in your own country?” she snapped, and walked away, shaking her head in disgust.
What? What the heck was that? I put my drink down. I felt really shaken up. First the story in the paper and now this? What was happening here? I
had all of a sudden become a celebrity in this place and people hated me. Why didn’t Drew warn me about this?
I turned to signal Whitney that we should leave, but she was giggling along with her Frenchman. I elbowed her in the ribs anyway. She whirled around.
“What’s up?”
“We need to go.”
“What? Why?”
The guy looked at me. “Is something wrong?” He had a French accent that was only slightly European. He was probably from one of the neighboring French-speaking islands. He smiled. “I’m Pierre.” He said his last name but it was something that I couldn’t pronounce. I smiled and shook his hand.
“I know you. You’re the American girl Drew Anderson’s marrying.”
So, maybe it had been a good thing that I hadn’t gone out in public much. Everyone knew me. It then occurred to me that there had to have been a picture of me somewhere since all these people recognized me. I mean, they may have seen me driving around with Drew. But was I that memorable?
“He’s a lucky guy,” Pierre said. “A rich, lucky man.”
Rich? Lucky? Drew wasn’t that rich.
“Everyone knows you around here,” Whitney said, a big smile on her face.
“Yeah, that’s why we need to go now.”
“No way! We’re just starting to have fun.”
I grabbed her arm. “Excuse us, Pierre.”
She hopped off the bar stool reluctantly and I pushed her toward the ladies’ room.
“Some girl just came up to me and gave me some attitude!”
“Oh, I heard her.”
“You heard her?!”
“So what? You know girls gonna be hating on you. You stole their most eligible bachelor.”
“She looked really mad, Whitney.”
“Oh, please. We’re from Dorchester, remember? We’ll take her ass outside and…”
Just then a stall opened and the same girl walked out, her eyes were blazing with anger.
I stopped breathing and Whitney must have gotten the drift from the look on my face.
“So you got a problem, sweetie?” Whitney asked the girl, who was at least my height, so a good three inches taller than Whitney.
She walked up to Whitney, leaving about a hair’s distance between them. “You want to do something about it, midget?”
Letting Loose Page 21
