Roper’s office and studio were in a separate building behind the house and up a path of flat stones. The smell of oil paint and turpentine greeted them when Sonja opened the door to the high-ceilinged room. Canvases of all sizes, most between three and six feet tall, were stacked against the walls in various stages of completion. One painting had the artist’s bold one-name signature scrawled on the bottom (the R in Roper dominating the other letters). On two easels were half-finished paintings, one of a nude woman with a basket of flowers on her hip, the other of a group of market women, the artist’s style a blend of realism and impressionism. The women’s features were symmetrical and their expressions peaceful, their skin painted with hues of browns and blues and greens.
“Now that I look at his paintings,” Sarah commented, “I see Jamaica in them. I didn’t really understand them in London. They seemed overwhelming, full of passion and color.”
“Like the man himself, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t really know him—”
“You will,” Sonja said with an impish grin. “He’s larger-than-life.”
“And all his subjects are women.”
“Women are the creators, and he’s reaching for the eternal through them.” Her hostess winked at her. “So he says, anyway. I have to respect that.”
“Don’t you get jealous? He must have models.”
“I used to. When you live with an artist, though, you have to accept the whole package, and that includes his subject matter. So far,” she said, knocking on the table she was leaning on, “his philandering has been limited to canvas—as far as I know, anyway.”
It turned out that Sarah was not to be the only guest. “We’re expecting a couple from New York,” Sonja had explained over dinner. “He’s a trumpeter, an old friend of Roper’s. I have to check, but I think they’re coming in a day or two after Roper comes back.” Sarah had gone to sleep that night certain that the couple, along with Roper and Sonja, would turn into a foursome, herself the odd one out, as usual.
A wave broke in front of her and pushed up the hilly slope of sand. Turning the sketch pad to a fresh page, Sarah drew another four-by-four square. The constant motion of the water was starting to frustrate her, her attempts to capture it unsuccessful. Her rapid pencil strokes quickly became irrelevant as the foam pulled back and prepared for another onslaught.
There was only one way to capture a close-up of a wave’s movement, she decided, and pulled her digital camera out of her bag. After turning it on, she rested her elbows on her knees and steadied the camera. Focusing on the slope of the beach in front of her, she zoomed the lens in and waited. As soon as she heard the pause of another wave curling over, preparing to crash to the sand, she clicked—and photographed a large brown foot planted in the middle of the foam.
“Shit!” Sarah muttered, and looked up. The owner of the foot had already passed and was streaking toward the end of the beach. Wearing only a pair of red trunks, the invader was a strapping local man, by the looks of it, his shoulders thick with muscle, his bald and shining head held high.
Discombobulated, as her father would have said, her heart beating fast, she pushed the camera into the bag. If she hurried, she could get away before he returned.
Carthena greeted her when she returned the stool to the kitchen. “You come back early.”
“The heat,” Sarah said, fanning herself with the hat. “I still have to get used to it.”
“Jamaica plenty hot,” the young woman said, and threw the scallion she’d been chopping into a bowl. The beads rattled when she looked up. “You must be careful you don’t burn, you hear?”
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
The words and numbers swam before Eric’s eyes. He groaned and patted the top of the refrigerator, his hand finding nothing but gritty dust.
“Shad, do you know where my glasses are?” he called to the bartender wiping a table at the rear of the restaurant.
“On the middle shelf, boss. You put them down after you fix the blender last night.”
Glasses found, Eric returned to his usual chair at his usual table and scrutinized the document.
“I think we have a problem,” he said, reaching for the pipe in his pocket.
“A problem?”
“The budget doesn’t include the cost of putting electricity and water on the island. We can’t have the people in the campsite without water and lights.”
While Eric lit his lignum vitae pipe, Shad peered over his shoulder at the report. “Can’t we run a water pipe out there?”
Eric blew out a column of smoke. “A quarter mile offshore? Cost a fortune.”
“What about rain barrels?”
“They’re going to need water to bathe in, to drink, to wash dishes, you name it—too much for barrels.”
“And they going to need electricity to cook with. They can’t use charcoal, like Simone used to use.”
“Next thing, they burn down the tents.”
Shad wiped a corner of the table absently, his eyes on the report. “We going to have to tell Mistah Caines, nuh?”
The problem hadn’t come to Eric while examining the business proposal, which he had never fully read since it was completed in December. He’d thought about it for the first time during his drive from Port Antonio earlier that day. His mouth still aching from the dentist’s injection, he’d been ambling from one self-pitying thought to another, most of them revolving around Simone.
Talking about her with Danny had made him miss her again, almost as much as when she first left Largo six months earlier. He remembered watching her brother’s rental car disappear down the main road—Simone’s thin, brown arm waving out the passenger window—and how he’d walked back to his apartment and sat on the side of the bed facing the island.
Before her arrival, the rocky little island had been loaded with bittersweet memories from years past. Seated on his verandah every night, staring into the blackness, he’d reminisce about the seven years he’d been the head honcho of the small inn, lingering over incidents like when a guest had had a heart attack and he’d taken him to the hospital in his Jeep and the man had lived. And the two guests who’d met at the hotel and married in one week—and he’d wonder if the marriage had lasted.
Everything had changed when he and Shad had discovered Simone living on the island. His nightly verandah vigils had become consumed by things she’d said, by her safety, by her needs. After they became lovers, he’d arrive on the island with treats, imported cheese and olives and wine, which they’d enjoy on her bed before making love. When she left Largo, they’d agreed there’d be no phone calls. Long-distance relationships didn’t work, he’d said. But he’d broken his own vow and called her a couple of times since, once to ask her permission to name the island after her, once to tell her that the island was now officially Simone Island. She’d met his calls in a cool yet friendly way and even called back once.
He’d been looking for another excuse to call her and had now found one. If the island were to be a campsite, he was going to say, they’d need her advice about outfitting it properly. It had then dawned on him that, although a canoe had been enough to transport her supplies, it would be way different for a slew of people. Fifty guests plus staff living and working on the island would need a lot more water than a few bottles a week. They’d need running water, and lights and power.
By the time Caines appeared later that evening in another tourist shirt, Shad and Eric were a grim duo. They watched him bouncing in, greeting the few customers as if he were already an owner, introducing himself, charisma flowing out of his pores.
“Had a good day?” Eric inquired, motioning for him to sit down.
“Great!” Caines said, and pulled out a chair.
“Anything to eat?” Shad asked with a strained smile. “We have some nice stew peas and rice tonight.”
“Miss Mac took care of me, thanks. But I’ll have a rum and ginger.”
Eric asked about his day and Caines mentioned he’d started running on the beach, the first time he’d run in a couple of years.
“I’m feeling like a new man,” he added. He looked boyish, wiggling his shoulders, excited by his discovery. “You feel like a youth when you running, you know. It takes years off your life. Ever tried it?”
“No, I’m not a runner.”
“It’s a great run, that beach. How long is it?”
“About a mile.”
“Two miles altogether. I’m going to do it every day. All the stress just goes away, man. Being on the beach does something—takes me back, you know?”
“Watch out for the jellyfish. Sometimes they wash up and sting you when you least expect it.”
“I’ll be careful, don’t worry.” Caines dropped the smile. Small lines appeared around his mouth, making him look older. “I’ve decided to rent a car, because I need to know the area, Port Antonio and the other towns, you know. I’m going to start driving around every day.”
“Don’t forget that we have to see Delgado, the contractor, tomorrow.”
“I won’t forget, and I want to meet Horace Mac.”
“MacKenzie, Horace MacKenzie,” Eric said, glancing at Shad, who was twisting off the ginger ale cap, his forehead in a rare frown.
“I’m liking the idea of a campsite more and more. Leasing the island could be cash money at the start, don’t you think? Setting the hotel up, running it, advertising, all the expenses in the first couple years is going to mean more money going out than coming in until we get our guest numbers up. And we’ll have to hire a marketing agent—”
“I used an agency in Miami for the old inn. I don’t know if they’re still in business—”
“And with all the initial outlay, we’re going to need the cash from that campsite,” Caines said, rubbing his palms together. “We need to talk details and terms, and start getting something down in writing with Horace Mac.”
There was nothing of the ingenue in the investor that Eric had expected. He’d assumed before meeting him that an African American with a few small properties in Queens and the Bronx would be green around the ears. Danny was anything but green. Amiable and easygoing, he deceived at first, but there was a hard core to him when it came to business.
“Shad,” Eric called. “When you’re coming, bring some of those mints in the green wrappers, will you?” The ones that settled his stomach. He turned to Caines. “Do you want peanuts or anything?”
Eric’s discomfort with the idea of a new hotel only increased listening to Caines, now sounding more like an entrepreneur than an island man returning home. His business acumen clearly went deeper than that of a human resource manager of a paper company. Although running the inn had taught Eric one or two things (he’d called his bumps in the road the school of hard rocks), he was just getting the hang of it when the hurricane had come along and school was out.
After Caines took his first sip of rum, Eric put his hand on the business proposal. “Speaking of Horace—we need to talk to him about how the campsite is going to get water and electricity. We thought we might negotiate—”
“There’s no water on the island?” Caines said, leaning forward, eyebrows high.
“There’s nothing but—walls. The hurricane destroyed the pipes running out there.”
“It has to have water.” The investor’s voice dropped an octave. “Does Horace know?” He frowned at the island, dimly outlined by the three-quarter moon rising over the water.
“We never discussed it.”
“If I were him, I’d want some kind of infrastructure. Who’s going to pay for that?”
Eric cleared his throat. “About the electricity, I thought we could—”
“We can use solar power,” Caines interrupted. “All the sunshine here, it shouldn’t be a problem. Expensive as hell to install, though.”
“I was thinking solar, too.”
“We’d have to add that on to the budget, though,” Danny snorted, twisting his upper lip.
Ten minutes later, the bar owner departed for his apartment, mulling his partnership with Caines. Several things were becoming clear. First, the man would argue for every penny he had to borrow or spend. Second, there was nothing about building this hotel that was going to be a cakewalk. And third, Caines was sounding more and more like a man who wouldn’t think twice about dragging someone into court. Eric sighed and tuned the radio to his favorite Havana station.
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
The big man slid onto the bar stool opposite, scowling brows low over his eyes.
“Another rum, Mistah Caines?” Shad asked.
“Yeah—and call me Danny.”
Shad turned the radio dial, cutting off the strident soca with a woman singer describing the grinding of cocoa beans for her man’s breakfast (complete with panting between grinds), and found a soft country and western with a woman crying over a heartless man.
“Why you turn off the good-good music?” Tri called from the far end of the bar counter where he’d been arguing with Eli about Kingston politicians.
“Pshaw, man,” Shad said, grabbing the bottle of Appleton rum. “Too much grinding make a person stupid.” And only served to remind him of his own lack of grinding, Beth’s body being off-limits, at least for the time being.
“I saw you running on the beach this morning,” he said to Danny as he placed the drink in front of him. “Look like you enjoying Largo.”
“It’s beautiful.” Danny sipped and licked his lips. “But I don’t like surprises.”
“You get a surprise?” Shad said, keeping the smile bright to fight off the sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Yeah, I need to put more money into the budget for water and solar panels on the island.”
After he’d gotten a round of drinks for a distant table, Shad settled down on his bartender’s stool. “Why Horace can’t help with the cost of the solar panels?” he asked.
“It’s not his property.”
“Maybe he can put up some money, and we can take it off the rent, slow like—you know, not all at once. That way he have to rent the island a long time to get back his money.”
“Possible, possible,” Danny said, and looked up at Shad. “So how come you all didn’t think of this before?”
“We was waiting for you to come down. We know you would ask some good questions, get us thinking. That’s what partners supposed to do, right?”
“Yeah, but not surprise you with a new bottom line, man.”
Even though Shad didn’t understand what bottom line meant and he wasn’t going to ask, he knew that Danny had eased up in his anger, because the grooves on his forehead weren’t as deep and his accent was starting to sound more Caribbean.
Shad leaned in. “I know you have an answer for the water, though. What you think is the best way to get it out there?”
“Cisterns,” Danny answered with a firm mouth.
“Cisterns?”
“Almost every house in the Virgin Islands have them, because we don’t have rivers like you guys.” Danny rested his elbows on the bar and put his broad fingertips together in a peak. “See, you have a house with a pitched roof and gutters. The gutters lead the rainwater down a pipe that drains into a big underground tank—that’s the cistern—and every time it rains, the cistern fills up—”
“And we can collect the rainwater.”
“Exactly.” The investor nodded.
“We just have to build a tank under the ground.”
“And we have to put in pipes and a pump to bring it up to the surface. But it’ll be even more expensive to put roofs on the buildings for the rain to collect on.”
Shad ran his fingers across his scalp. “We could use zinc, right? Zinc
is cheap; all our houses have zinc roofs. I could get the men in the village to help put them up over the ruins. We could give them a little goat-head soup and make it into a party. We could put that up in one day, put up some beams and nail the zinc to them.”
“And we could run the gutters around the zinc when that’s finished.”
So it was, on that night at the end of January, that Shad and Danny solved a problem and became friends, one man respecting the other’s ideas. And just when Shad was beginning to feel comfortable enough with his new friend to talk about Beth and the wedding problem, the arrival of a third party shifted everything, the way it always did.
“Good night,” Janet purred, depositing a large handbag on the counter. She flashed a smile at Danny that showed the gold tooth on her incisor to full advantage.
The dressmaker took Danny’s outstretched hand and clambered onto the stool beside him, wriggling her hips around until she was comfortable. She was wearing a red dress with a neckline that framed her breasts and made her skin look more coppery than usual. Her arms were gleaming like she’d rubbed them with some kind of oil and she was smelling musky sweet—a scheming woman on a hot night.
“I want whatever he’s having,” she said with a simper that would have made Beth roll up her eyes. Shad turned to the fridge and sighed.
“I remember you,” Danny said behind him. “You came to my welcome party, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You had on a white—”
“We talked for a few minutes, but you was so popular . . .”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name. There were a lot of people—”
“Janet.”
When Shad placed the drink in front of the woman, she raised her eyes over the rim of the glass and gave the bartender a look that told him to back off. She turned again to Danny, the hoop earrings swinging as she eyed him up and down.
“So, what you think of Largo, Mistah America?”
“It’s great,” Danny said. “I want to see the rest of the area, though.”
The Sea Grape Tree Page 5
