Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean)

by Rebecca M. Hale

  For practical purposes, only about five acres of semi-flat land at the top of the property was accessible and suitable for building.

  The rest of the lot was too steep to navigate, even on foot. A tropical overgrowth of trees, shrubs, ferns, agave plants and ropelike vines covered the near-vertical grade, forming a green barricade that couldn’t be breached without the aide of a machete.

  The strip of sand on the shoreline below was effectively unreachable. Several boulders combined with the coral reef to block boat access from the water.

  We were building atop a natural fortress.

  As it was, a special crew had to be brought in to shore up the foundations for the new structures. The men were hired from a neighboring island and ferried over.

  At the time, I thought this was due to the technical nature of the work.

  I later learned that no local laborers would venture anywhere near the tangled jungle at the lower edge of the clearing.

  They knew the history of the place, what had happened to the previous innkeepers, and the legend of the tormented beast who lived below.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE MONTHS PASSED slowly by, as they tend to do in the sleepy Caribbean, and the main building began to take shape.

  A series of sturdy concrete pillars rose up from the reinforced foundation. The pillars framed thick stone walls and supported a sturdy metal roof that was nailed down and cinched in place with special brackets.

  It was a structure designed to withstand hurricane force winds and rain, the worst, or so we thought, that Mother Nature could throw at us.

  Looking back, it was a time of blissful ignorance.

  At the end of each day, I climbed onto the scaffolding that had been vacated by the construction crew. Sitting there amid the scattered rebar and stacks of lumber, I watched the sun dip toward the horizon. The shifting angles of light caused the sea to shimmer with a metallic sheen.

  Lost there in my serenity, I often wondered about what came before. Who had lived here and how could they have ever given up this perfect spot, this magical view?

  A few clues surfaced during the foundation’s excavation. The workers tossed the relics aside, but I gathered the items into a pile and placed them beneath a tree at the top of the drive.

  The collection included several cracked dinner plates, a rusted iron cooking pan, and a ceramic bird that had lost one of its wings. The bird’s feet were stenciled with a name, but all I could make out was the first letter, an O.

  The artifacts only spurred my interest.

  After asking around, I finally found someone willing to tell me about the previous residents of Parrot Ridge.

  The story permanently chilled my curiosity.

  ~ ~ ~

  IT WAS ELSIE who relayed the tale to me, not long after I hired her to clean the inn’s guest rooms.

  She was a quiet girl, slight for her twenty-two years. I was surprised when she pulled me aside, even more so when she reluctantly whispered in my ear.

  I guess she felt it was her duty. My constant questioning could do nothing but hurt the new venture’s chances.

  The tragedy happened over fifteen years ago, she told me, but the memory was still fresh among the island’s West Indian population. A superstitious crowd, the elders could recount the locations and specifics of killings that took place during the slave era three centuries earlier, so they were unlikely to forget the details of such recent violence.

  According to the local lore, a husband and wife once operated a small inn at Parrot Ridge. Presumably, this was the source of the ruins that we had cleared for our buildings.

  The location was just as jaw-dropping then as it was now, and the business thrived, particularly when the pair opened a restaurant with seating on the deck by the pool.

  It was an idyllic layout, but trouble brewed beneath the surface.

  Everyone on the island knew the husband had picked up a girlfriend on the side. The wife tried to look the other way, hoping that his philandering was a phase that would soon pass. The husband interpreted her silence as acquiescence and expanded his flirtatious third party antics.

  One night, an argument broke out in the restaurant kitchen.

  In a fit of jealous rage, the wife stabbed her cheating spouse with a butcher knife. He bled out by the pool in front of the dinner guests. Distraught, the woman threw herself off the deck, falling to the ground at the lower edge of the clearing.

  The police never found the wife’s body. She either crawled into the dense jungle to die – or she was dragged into it by some animal that lived within.

  To this day, most locals believe the latter.

  By consuming the woman’s flesh, they say, the forest creature took on her fraught human emotions, spawning a demonic spirit that would forever haunt Parrot Ridge.

  After my experiences, I tend to agree with them.

  Chapter 4

  Charlie the Chicken

  TWO MONTHS AFTER their first visit to Parrot Ridge, Glenn and Oliver signed the paperwork that closed their island real estate deal.

  The proud new owners celebrated their purchase with a semi-romantic dinner by the beach. The resort where they were staying provided catering to their bungalow, and they ordered in a feast of steak and lobster. Oliver searched through the kitchen’s varied assortment of dishes and selected the nicest looking plates and silverware. He laid everything out on a beach blanket, along with an ice bucket and a chilled bottle of bubbly.

  They sat down to eat just as the sunset reached a perfect flaming orange.

  Oliver raised his champagne glass.

  “To Our Island Inn,” he said, holding it aloft.

  Glenn looked nervously over his shoulder before doing the same.

  “To Our Island Inn,” he replied, quickly clinking Oliver’s glass.

  A swarm of mosquitoes soon drove them inside. The steak was overdone, and the lobster was chewy, but nothing could dampen the mood.

  Their adventure had begun.

  ~ ~ ~

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, Oliver flew back to the States. As quickly as possible, he would wrap up their California business interests, sell their house, package their nonessential belongings for storage, and arrange for the rest to be shipped south.

  Glenn would remain on the island to supervise the inn’s construction, obtain the necessary licenses for the B&B, and interview candidates for the cooking and cleaning staff.

  The pair spoke to each other regularly over the phone, but the lengthy separation was tough, particularly on Oliver.

  Each long-distance conversation revolved around Glenn’s exciting island discoveries and escapades. All Oliver had to contribute was the myriad but mundane details of their former life and its interminable close out.

  In the head-to-head of tedium versus adventure, there was no competition in whose life was more interesting.

  Glenn always tried to listen politely to Oliver’s dreary recountings, but his focus was clearly on the island.

  “I finally found a couple to run the restaurant,” he said excitedly during one of their late-night phone calls. “Maya and Jesús are great. We hit it off immediately.”

  The husband and wife team had been the only applicants for the position, but Glenn assured his partner that they were the perfect fit. They were already onsite and had moved into one of the smaller suites, the room and board being a portion of the agreed upon compensation.

  “Wait until you taste their food,” Glenn gushed to an envious Oliver. “You’re going to love it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  IT WAS WITH great relief that Oliver made his own permanent move to the Caribbean six months later. After flying into the regional airport, he caught the next available ferry to the island’s main town.

  When the boat docked, Oliver was the first passenger to disembark, bounding joyfully down the gangplank. It took every ounce of self-control for him to keep from wrapping his arms around his partner in an exuberant hug – not that Glenn would have allowed such an
overt display of affection.

  Oliver thought he detected an aloof tone in his partner’s voice, more than just the typical Caribbean reserve, but he shrugged it off. After all the time they’d spent apart, there was bound to be some awkwardness.

  Any lingering concerns fell away as soon as they reached Parrot Ridge.

  Glenn turned the jeep onto the recently paved drive and looked over at the passenger seat.

  “Prepare to be amazed,” he said with a grin.

  ~ ~ ~

  AS THE JEEP reached the summit and pulled into the inn’s new parking area, Oliver drew in his breath. Glenn had sent hundreds of digital photos of the construction as it progressed, but none of those two-dimensional images could compare to the real thing.

  Oliver could hardly believe the transformation.

  The main building spanned the flattest portion of the hilltop, a three-story rectangular-shaped structure with balconies and exterior stairs attached to the west-facing side. Each guest room had been configured to provide the best possible view from its location within the building.

  A massive retaining wall near the rear of the structure anchored the last few feet of dirt from the upper hillside. A narrow staircase built into the wall led around back to the top-floor entrance for the owner’s quarters. The two-bedroom apartment had an open floor plan, a full-size kitchen, and its own wide balcony with western views.

  Glenn pointed out the location of their living space.

  “I’ve been keeping Noodles and Yum-Yum inside while the construction is going on,” he said, referring to the men’s two Standard Poodles, who had traveled to the island via a pet transport company a few months earlier. “They’re eager to see you, but let me give you a quick tour of the rest of the property first.”

  Proudly, Glenn directed his partner down a short flight of concrete steps to the entertainment pavilion and pool area.

  Maya and Jesús were supervising the installation of the cooking appliances, evidenced by the heavy hammering going on behind the kitchen’s swinging doors, and painters were putting the final touches on various pieces of decorative wood trim, but the main features of the space were finalized and in place.

  Within seconds of his initial oohs and aahs, Oliver began planning the seating arrangements for the restaurant tables that would be set up on the deck surrounding the pool.

  Glenn laughed as Oliver scurried to and fro, envisioning the various positioning options and the elaborate place settings he would create.

  After several minutes of enthusiastic brainstorming, he joined Glenn at the deck’s northwest railing. He leaned over the top bar, sighing at the stunning sea view that had first sold them on the property.

  Then his gaze caught a movement on the steep ground below.

  “Look, Glenn! Chickens!”

  “Yeah, yeah. They’re feral. Jesús feeds them leftover scraps from the kitchen, but they pretty much take care of themselves.” Glenn stretched his mouth into a scowling yawn. “They’re quaint and all – until the roosters wake you up at the crack of dawn with their ridiculous crowing.”

  Oliver beamed down at the nearest bird pecking in the grass beside the base of the foundation. He flicked his hand as if he were holding a wand.

  “I dub thee Charlie the Chicken.”

  Glenn laughed. “Oli, I’m pretty sure that’s a hen.”

  “Too late. The name has been bestowed.”

  Rolling his eyes, Glenn teased, “We’ll be the only place on the island with a transgender chicken.”

  Chapter 5

  The Watcher in the Woods

  AT LONG LAST, we reached opening day. Our first guests were scheduled to arrive at noon. We had three couples booked for opening weekend.

  It was an anxious morning. Oliver buzzed around the reception desk, which was located in a small building just off the parking lot. He was like a kid looking for Santa. He couldn’t wait to greet the new customers.

  He’d mixed up a special rum punch to offer the couples as he checked them in. He planned to serve the juice in some fancy plastic stemware that he’d brought down from the States. Each glass had a little palm tree affixed to the side, and the straws were molded in the shape of pink flamingos.

  They were kitschy and cute, but perhaps not to everyone’s taste – certainly not to mine.

  I was more concerned that he took down the appropriate credit card information for each guest and ensured we had a suitable deposit to cover any damage. I wasn’t convinced he was tough enough to tackle the front counter operations.

  After an obligatory perusal of the rum punch display, I left Oliver at the reception desk and retreated to the entertainment pavilion. I didn’t want to see his disappointment if someone failed to appreciate his efforts.

  Besides, I had my hands full in the kitchen.

  ~ ~ ~

  AS IF THERE wasn’t enough pressure associated with receiving our first guests, the restaurant was scheduled to open to the public later that night.

  It was my own fault, really. I’d wanted to wait a week before starting the dining operation, so that we’d have time to smooth out the inevitable hiccups with the lodging part of the business. Somehow, I’d let Jesús talk me into kicking off the restaurant on the same day.

  The man was fearless.

  “Leave it to me,” he’d said confidently, his words laden with a thick Spanish accent. “Everything will be fine.”

  I found him and Maya in the kitchen, preparing a huge spread. I’d never seen so many pots and pans in use at one time.

  The ambitious dinner menu included fresh Mahi, caught earlier that morning, and sirloin steaks, flown up the day before from Argentina. Maya’s tasty conch fritters would be the stars of the appetizer course.

  I was almost hungry, smelling the aroma by the stove, but then I looked out at all the empty tables on the deck by the pool, and I completely lost my appetite.

  Feeling sick, I dashed down the stairs attached to the pavilion’s outermost wall and ducked into the public restrooms located beneath the kitchen that we’d installed for the restaurant patrons.

  After splashing several handfuls of cold water on my face, I found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hands gripped the basin rim.

  I hope we’re ready.

  I hope the guests like their rooms.

  I hope no one wipes out on the driveway.

  I hope someone comes to eat all this food.

  I hope I was right to put my faith in Jesús.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE SQUEAMISH FEELING in the pit of my stomach was more than just opening day jitters. I’d been uneasy for weeks.

  I couldn’t shake the sensation that someone was watching me, spying on my every move.

  When did it start?

  If I had to pin it down, I’d say about a month and a half earlier. That’s when I started writing in my journal, although the first several entries were mostly meaningless observations about the weather. It takes time to build up the nerve to confess, even to a piece of paper.

  I’d taken the jeep into town for supplies, one of my regular errands. Oliver didn’t like to drive on the island; he couldn’t get used to steering the vehicle in the left hand lane. The switch had never bothered me.

  Everything was fine on the outbound trip. My mind was focused on the day’s shopping list, the many tasks to be completed before opening day, and all of the other ‘to do’ agendas I constantly juggled in my head.

  That distraction probably explains why I got lost on my way back. Even after living on the island for almost a year, I could still get turned around on the inland roads.

  As soon as the two-lane highway left the businesses built up along the south shore, the jungle closed in on both sides of the pavement, obliterating all but a narrow strip of sky immediately above the asphalt.

  If you drifted off course, there was no line of sight to help you regain your bearings. Every stretch of curving road looked exactly the same.

  I knew almost
immediately that I’d made a wrong turn, but it took several minutes before I realized I was driving in circles. I passed the same weird tree – whose trunk looked like an old man peering out at the road – three or four times.

  Frustrated, I pulled into the next available driveway to regroup.

  As with many properties in the island’s interior, the gravel entrance was guarded by a ferocious mutt in an iron collar tethered to a post with a long chain – the exact length of which was indeterminable until the dog began charging toward an uninvited stranger who had ventured too far down the drive.

  Sitting there in the jeep, the dog growling at me in an increasingly unfriendly tone, I felt as if I was under surveillance – by someone other than the canine. The sensation intensified with every second I spent staring, lost and confused, into the woods.

  Nonsense, I told myself.

  I backed out onto the main road and turned in what I hoped was the opposite direction to when I entered.

  To my great relief, I soon reached the outskirts of town. With my internal compass reset, I restarted my path to the inn and arrived at its summit parking lot less than fifteen minutes later.

  But that unsettled cloud followed me home, and nothing would quell the knot that continued to grow in my stomach.

  I tried to reason it away, but the fear was real, palpable and, at times, near crippling.

  Mine was more than routine paranoia. I had reason to be wary of unseen eyes.

  Island life had loosened me, drawn out a recklessness in my nature that I had never before experienced.

  I was ashamed of the things I’d done, terrified that an unsympathetic observer might discover my indiscretions – and that the home I’d worked so hard to build would be destroyed by hate and anger.

  But I should have known from the start.

  You can’t keep secrets on an island.

  Chapter 6

  Life on Parrot Ridge