by Junie Coffey
“There.” She adjusted the spaghetti straps of her dress in the miniature bathroom mirror and gave her face and hair a once-over. Acceptable. She had acquired a light tan from her time in the islands that set off the turquoise and silver nicely. She also looked better rested than she had in months. She smiled at herself in the mirror, then turned away. She was digging her one pair of dressy sandals out from under her bed when she heard a knock at the back door.
When she opened the door, Ted was leaning against the veranda post looking out at the water. The sun was just sinking into the sea, casting a pink-and-orange glow across the water and the sky. He turned around as she pushed open the screen door.
“Hi, Nina,” he said with a smile. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, and pressed khaki pants. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he was barefoot.
“I thought we’d take the boat down to the inn. Is that all right with you?” His skiff was pulled up onto the sand in front of the cottage.
“That sounds lovely,” she said. She grabbed her purse and sandals and followed him barefoot down the short sandy path to the beach and the boat. He helped her in and then pushed the boat out, hopping in as he did so. He pointed the bow in the direction of the inn, and they motored slowly southward along the shore. The lights of Coconut Cove were just coming on, golden rectangles in the windows of houses along the beach. Brighter lights emanated from The Redoubt, where reggae music drifted out across the water to them; there was a band playing tonight, and Nina could see them silhouetted in the open doorway of the bar. They passed the police station and the imposing government office building on the waterfront, the marina filled with the bristling masts of sailboats, and a string of beach houses and vacation rentals before reaching the cove where the Plantation Inn was situated.
The elegant, white colonial-style inn with its wraparound veranda was set back from the beach in the middle of a darkened lawn. Ancient mahogany and palm trees stood on either side. The windows glowed with golden light. The wooden dock was lit with pairs of tiki torches. The lights continued along a crushed-shell path across the lawn and up to the wide veranda steps.
Ted brought the boat alongside the dock and jumped out to tie it to a cleat. He held his hand out to Nina; it was warm, and his grip was firm. They slipped on their shoes and started up toward the inn. The murmur of conversation and laughter wafted down from the veranda, where elegantly dressed diners sat in clutches of twos and threes and fours around flickering candles. A pianist at the baby grand in the corner of the bar was playing mellow Cuban melodies. The inn drew a crowd of resident expats and visiting yachties most nights of the week, and tonight was no exception.
They were led to a table at the far end of the veranda, at the quieter edge of the swell of conversation and laughter.
Ted pulled out Nina’s chair for her and then seated himself.
“This is very nice,” said Nina.
“Yes, it is,” he replied, smiling at her again across the table.
The night air was warm and fragrant. Nina breathed in deeply. “Mmm. Jasmine and frangipani. Michel has thought of everything,” she said. They were quiet for a moment. Nina gazed down into the candle flame, listening to the roll and shush of the surf, the piano, and the happy murmur of their fellow diners. She looked back up at Ted.
“Well, here we are at last,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to this, all those nights on the road.”
Butterflies took flight in her stomach and then settled again.
“I ran into Blue in town this afternoon,” he said. “He was saying things have been pretty quiet around here the last few weeks. So, I guess you haven’t had any more criminals to run down since I’ve been gone.”
“Did Blue say it’s been pretty quiet around here lately? That’s interesting. I went to see him the other day specifically to tell him that, in my opinion, it’s been the opposite of quiet around here lately.”
Ted looked at her quizzically, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Evening, Nina.” It was Victor. He was strolling up the path from the beach, his hands in his pockets. He came up the steps up and stopped at their table.
“Hi, Victor,” said Nina. “Ted Matthews, Victor Ross. Victor is here for the conference. Ted owns the fishing lodge just up the shore from me.”
The men shook hands.
“Fishing’s good around here, is it?” Victor asked Ted.
“Some of the very best anywhere,” replied Ted. “Mainly bonefish, although we fish for barracuda and tarpon on occasion.”
“Out for a walk in the moonlight, Victor?” asked Nina.
“Yes,” said Victor. “Strolling along, thinking big thoughts. Now I think I’ll toddle off to the bar for a nightcap, then an early bed. I’m meeting Bob Mumford for breakfast to hear about his research on the economic potential of plastic-surgery package tours as a niche market. That will furnish me with a few rounds of cocktail-party anecdotes. Wouldn’t miss it. Pleasure to meet you, Ted. A lovely evening to you both. Cheerio.”
Victor started to move off.
“Victor. Nina. Good evening. What a charming inn. Brava, Nina. May I join you all? Thank you.”
It was Sylvia, looking glamorous in a black silk sheath and bloodred lipstick. Ted stood as she approached the table, and she smiled at him as she slipped into the empty chair beside him, rising slightly in her seat to allow him to push it in for her. Ted helped Sylvia with her chair, looking at Nina with half a smile before sitting back down.
“Victor, won’t you sit down? It’s straining my neck to look up at you, and I want to ask you something,” said Sylvia.
Victor hesitated, glancing from Nina to Ted.
“Please,” said Ted, gesturing to the other vacant chair at their table.
“Well, just for a moment, then I’ll be off. Thank you,” said Victor as he sat down.
“Now, who might you be?” asked Sylvia, holding one hand out to Ted and raising the other to signal a waiter.
“Sylvia, this is Ted Matthews. He runs a fishing lodge here on the island. We’re neighbors,” said Nina.
“Pleasure,” said Sylvia with a sly smile, shaking Ted’s hand and holding it for a couple of seconds longer than strictly necessary.
“Neighbors, eh?” she said, and cast a mischievous look at Nina. “I knew a Ted from Atlanta who was a big fly fisherman. Invited me to his fishing lodge in Montana one weekend. I had a hot-stone massage and a dinner of stuffed pheasant followed by a peg of forty-two-year-old single-malt scotch by a roaring fire. Then I won a hundred dollars off Clint Eastwood at poker. If that’s fishing, sign me up.”
“Not exactly,” said Ted.
“Yes, dear. There you are,” said Sylvia, turning her attention to the young waitress dressed in crisp black and white who was now hovering at the edge of the table. Sylvia put her hand lightly on the young woman’s forearm and left it there while she spoke. “I must try your house specialty. What do you recommend?”
“The special tonight is snapper in a nut-and-seed crust,” said the waitress.
“Excellent. Now bring me a dry martini to tide me over until the fish arrives, will you? Thank you so much.” She swiveled back to Victor, who was preoccupied with catching the girl’s eye before she disappeared, holding up two wiggling fingers, signaling her to bring two martinis.
“Victor, I want to ask your advice,” Sylvia continued. “I’ve been invited to London to speak to the Royal Geographical Society about my book on nineteenth-century women explorers. Now, would you recommend I stay at Hotel 41 or my usual, The Dorchester? I’ve heard such wonderful things about Hotel 41 and am keen to give it a try, but if I stay at The Dorchester, I can just walk across the park to my speaking engagement. It’s such a lovely walk, and there’s an exhibit at the Serpentine Gallery I would like to take in while I’m there. What do you think?”
“Sylvia, my dear, I think we move in different circles. I live in a garden flat in Kentish Town. I teach at a former polytech
nic, not at a well-endowed private university where money grows on trees in the leafy quad, like you and Philip. The last time I had occasion to darken the door of The Dorchester was my college roommate’s wedding to a minor titled heiress twenty years ago,” said Victor.
“Ah, yes. Well, I think I’m going to try something new. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” said Sylvia.
“I’m not sure I agree, Sylvia,” said Victor. “I find I take great pleasure in the familiar. I almost couldn’t be bothered to get off the sofa and drag myself across the Atlantic Ocean to this beautiful island. Every year about this time I reread Cooking with Fernet Branca by James Hamilton-Paterson. It’s become a tradition. I’m transported to Italy, while I sit with a cozy cuppa in my own armchair by the electric fire in my own lounge. And who’s to say that kind of trip is any less memorable than schlepping to the airport and boarding a crowded airplane full of yobs on stag-party weekends to Rome? I find I can’t remember half the things I’ve done as it is, so why bother doing them? I imagine that by the time I’m truly decrepit, I’ll have read Cooking with Fernet Branca so many times that I’ll think I lived on a cliff top in Italy next door to a crazy Eastern European musician. It will have been a life well lived. Of course, now that I’m here on Pineapple Cay, I don’t want to leave. It’s a paradise of sunshine and starry skies, and packing is always so tedious and a bit sad.”
“Are you doing all right, Victor?” asked Nina gently.
“Oh, I’m tip-top, Nina, darling. Never fear. Just getting set in my ways.”
“Well, you can get old if you want to, Victor,” said Sylvia, “but I’ve got a few more wild oats to sow, myself. Thank God you’re back. Just in the nick of time,” she said to the waitress, who had returned with their drinks. Ted refilled Nina’s wineglass and then his own. Nina caught his eye and tried to communicate her apology. This wasn’t the dinner he’d planned. He shrugged almost imperceptibly and gave her a resigned smile.
“Thank you ever so much, dear,” said Sylvia to the waitress. She glanced at Ted’s and Nina’s wine. “That looks divine. Could you be a love and bring another wineglass and another bottle? Put it on my tab, will you? You, Victor?” Victor shook his head shortly, and the waitress hurried away.
“May I propose a toast?” said Sylvia, holding up her martini. The others held up their glasses as well. “It’s a trite one but no less true for that—to the first day of the rest of our lives. Tomorrow we start afresh, and the world is our oyster. You too, Victor.”
“You had dinner last night with Oprah, didn’t you?” he said. “That’s right, you mentioned it earlier. Did you two trade inspirational slogans all night?”
“Just drink up, Victor,” said Sylvia.
“That I can do,” he said, and downed half of his martini in one gulp.
Their food arrived.
“Victor. You’re not eating. Come, you must eat. Why don’t you have the mahi-mahi?” said Sylvia, picking up her knife and fork.
“I’m fine, thank you, Sylvia. I’m a bit jet-lagged, and it’s the middle of the night for me. Vodka-soaked olives are more in my line for the moment. Very nourishing.”
“Well, suit yourself. This snapper is divine,” she said, closing her lips around a forkful and shutting her eyes in faux ecstasy. “And what are you having?” she asked Ted when she opened her eyes again, surveying his plate.
“Grilled shrimp and mango something,” he said.
“Oh yes. That looks tasty. Mind if I . . . ,” said Sylvia as she reached across the table and stabbed a forkful of shrimp and seared mango from his plate. He leaned back as she extended her fork toward him.
“Delicious,” she said, and glanced at Nina’s plate. “What a pretty salad—and french fries!” she said before focusing her attention once again on her snapper.
Fresh-cut sweet-potato fries tossed in olive oil and savory herbs, Nina thought to herself. Lots of vitamins.
“Now, tell me,” said Sylvia after a bite and a sip of the wine Ted had poured for her. “If I were to book a fishing expedition with you, what would that entail?”
“Well, we cater to sport fishermen. Fly-fishing. Catch and release. I have several guides working with me. The best around, I’d say. If the fish are biting, they’ll find them. They’ve taught some novice fishermen to cast like old-timers,” he said politely.
“Fishermen. Fishermen,” said Sylvia. “Do you ever get any women anglers?”
“Yes,” said Ted. “More all the time. Some of the best fisher—anglers—I’ve seen are women.”
When the plates had been cleared, Sylvia looked down at her watch and asked for her check.
“I hate to eat and run, folks, but I have to put a few finishing touches on my presentation slides before I put my head on the pillow. Will you please excuse me?” She pushed back her chair. Ted and Victor stood.
“I’ll be off, too,” said Victor. “I do apologize for crashing your dinner. I hope you will forgive us. It was very nice to meet you, Ted. Have a nice evening, both of you.” He kissed Nina on the cheek, and he and Sylvia left.
Ted had just sat back down and reached for Nina’s hand when they heard a voice approaching.
“Yes, Nina. There you are!” It was Philip. “I need you to go over the plan for tomorrow with me. I want to make sure everything goes smoothly.” He sat down at the table and looked at Ted expectantly.
“Hello, Philip. This is Ted Matthews. We were just having a quiet dinner together before the conference starts tomorrow,” she said pointedly. “Ted, this is Philip Putzel. Philip is hosting the conference.”
“Yes, hello,” said Philip distractedly, pulling a sheaf of papers out of the briefcase he’d placed on his lap. Ted nodded, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“Nina. We need to go over the seating arrangement for the head table at the banquet tomorrow night. I see you’ve got me next to Charlotte Critchlow, and that is just not acceptable.”
Philip plunked his papers on the table and spread them out.
“Nina, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go say hello to Michel,” said Ted, rising.
Nina looked up at Ted helplessly. “Oh, OK. I’ll see you in—”
“Also, Nina”—Philip spoke right over Nina’s attempted goodbye—“I don’t think you really thought through how to promote my presentation on the market potential of pet tourism. We’ll need a display table of my books up front, and I’ll do a signing afterward. It’s a hot topic these days, and I expect it to be a popular session.”
As Philip rambled on, Nina watched Ted stroll to the bar and pay their bill, then stand talking to Michel long enough for them to drink a beer together. A pair of attractive women in strappy high heels and short dresses approached the bar and stood there, repeatedly glancing over at Ted as they sipped their cocktails. He nodded at them, but he focused his attention on Michel.
Eventually, he drained his glass and looked in Nina’s direction. He caught her eye. She made an apologetic face and waved goodbye, knowing it would be a while before Philip ran out of steam. Ted raised his hand in parting and then left by the side door. Over Philip’s shoulder, Nina watched him walk slowly toward the dock, his hands in his pockets. Philip was still going strong.
5
After almost a month of wearing flip-flops, cutoffs, and T-shirts every day, for the second evening in a row Nina put on lipstick. She even painted her fingers and toes a sparkly shade of deep pink called Hibiscus. She donned her black silk dress, grabbed her handbag, and set off to the inn for the banquet on foot, carrying her strappy high-heeled sandals and wearing her flip-flops.
Earlier in the day she’d called Ted to apologize for the abrupt end to their date, and they’d arranged to meet in the bar at the inn after the banquet for another attempt at a quiet drink together. When she was almost at the inn, she realized she’d forgotten to bring his hat, but it was too late to turn back. The sun was low on the horizon when she entered the lobby. She made a quick detour to the banquet room and then
headed to the front desk to make sure everything was going smoothly. Satisfied that all was proceeding as planned, Nina stepped out onto the veranda. She looked around to see if she could pick out any of the delegates in the predinner cocktail crowd lounging around the candlelit tables or sitting in the soft-cushioned wicker chairs facing the water, but she didn’t recognize anyone. Dinner for the regular crowd of yachties and snowbirds was being served on the veranda this evening as the dining room had been turned over to the conference-goers.
On the dock, a hotel employee was lighting the tiki torches. A couple of tenders were tied up. Farther out in the cove, a large yacht lay at anchor, light from its windows glittering on the water.
“Hello, Nina. You look lovely this evening.” It was Victor, making his way toward her along the veranda. “Come. Won’t you join me for a cocktail before the main event?”
“Sure, that’s just what I was hoping for,” said Nina. She gestured toward the large, gleaming-white yacht. “I wonder who owns that boat,” she said.
“That’s the Take-a-Chancy, owned by Bubba Delancy, the patron of our conference and proprietor of Delancy’s Distillery. I think I paid for at least a couple of those portholes myself in purchases of his quite-palatable dark Caribbean rum. I gather he and his wife will be joining us for dinner tonight,” said Victor.
“Right,” said Nina. “They certainly travel in style. That yacht’s bigger than the inn.”
On the way to Victor’s table, they passed the woman they’d seen on the beach wearing the raspberry swimsuit and reading the lurid paperback. A few tables down was the man Nina and Victor had watched spread his towel on the sand, and he was carrying the same paperback. They were each seated at a cozy candlelit table for one with a glass of red wine in front of them.
