Without a Grave

THREE

HOW CHEERFULLY HE SEEMS TO GRIN,HOW NEATLY SPREADS HIS CLAWS,AND WELCOMES LITTLE FISHES INWITH GENTLY SMILING JAWS!Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures inWonderland, 1865

Saturday dawned sunny and warm, but the wind was piping up. With my morning coffee in hand, I stood on the porch and stared out at the white caps that were chasing from one shoreline to the other across the Sea of Abaco.

‘That’s a pretty good chop,’ Paul said behind me. ‘I don’t think we’ll be taking Pro Bono over to Marsh Harbour today.’

I agreed. The thought of powering an eighteen-foot outboard into the teeth of the wind, slamming into the waves – thwack, thwack, thwack – taking spray across the bow until water was ankle deep in the cockpit, made me shudder.

At eleven fifteen, Paul tuned to Channel 68 and hailed the ferry. We waited for the boat as usual at the end of Windswept’s dock.

The Donnie X was bang on time, with Brent Albury at the wheel. We watched, marveling, as Brent reversed engines and backed the big vessel slowly up to the dock where it idled, gently kissing the pilings. We hopped aboard.

I plopped down gratefully next to my husband on one of Donnie’s vinyl-covered benches, joining a group of passengers that swelled to thirteen as we stopped for pickups at Hawksbill and Man-O-War Cays. Brent went easy on the gas as he guided the vessel gingerly between the narrow cut that formed the entrance to Man-O-War, but juiced it up to full throttle when he reached the open sea. Donnie seemed to revel in the freedom; the boat reared up and roared through the channel between Sandy and Garden Cays, cutting through the chop like a hot knife through butter. Even the waves seemed to lie down before him.

Twenty minutes later, Brent eased the ferry into its regular slip at Crossing Beach just east of Marsh Harbour. We stepped off, strolled past the long line of cabs waiting for passengers and walked west on the main road, covering the half-mile or so to Island Designs in about ten minutes. Cars drive on the left in the Bahamas, so we walked to the right, facing traffic, taking advantage of the sidewalk – where there was one. When it inexplicably disappeared, we walked in the street, expertly dodging puddles and speeding cars as all the locals do.

Behind the banana-yellow wooden building that housed Island Designs and two other shops, a huge tent had been erected. Paul and I followed a pod of camera-bearing, flip-flop-wearing, German-speaking tourists inside.

Just to our left, Andy Albury’s hand-carved half-ship models were for sale, the natural beauty of their grain enhanced by what must have been hours of sanding and varnishing by hand. The booth next to Andy’s had been reserved by his daughter, Sonya, who was holding up one of her signature straw totes to give a customer a closer look. We passed up the artist who seemed to be specializing in celebrity portraits on black velvet – Puh-leeze! Will they never go out of fashion? – in favor of Kim Rody’s vibrant acrylic-on-canvas seascapes. Whether painting sea turtles, blue-striped grunts, angel fish or rock lobster, the Fishartista’s swirling brush strokes seemed to imitate the movement of water. Two booths down, I got distracted by a necklace to die for by Linda Schleif – an artist who lived on a boat in Hope Town marina – and when I looked up, Paul had gone. Promising Linda I’d return later, I went off in search of my husband.

I caught up with Paul at a booth displaying large, sofa-sized aerial photographs of the Abaco islands. Smaller versions of the photos, the vendor’s samples, were encased in plastic sleeves and stored in notebooks, one for each island group. Paul was flipping through the one labeled Man-O-War. ‘Check this out,’ he said when he noticed me breathing down his neck.

Sandwiched between Man-O-War Cay to the east and Scotland Cay to the west, little horseshoe-shaped Hawksbill Cay stood out like an emerald in a sapphire sea. Bonefish Cay, our island home, lay to the south-east, a half moon that formed a natural, protective barrier for Hawksbill’s harbor. If I squinted, I could make out our cottage on tiny Beulah Bay, and to the south of it, the speck of light blue that was my favorite swimming ground, Barracuda Reef.

I ran my fingers over the plastic-covered image of our little piece of paradise. ‘Buy this for me?’

Paul, bless him, produced his credit card and arranged to have a sixteen by twenty inch copy of the photograph packaged and shipped back home to Maryland where our godson was house-sitting for us.

‘Thank you!’ I gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘This is thirsty work,’ Paul said, as he tucked his credit card back into his wallet. ‘Do you think you can locate the bar?’

It wasn’t hard. That was where the line was. When our turn came, Paul bought us each a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. We carried our glasses outside into the sunshine where another line had formed in front of a booth bearing the sign:

Hors d’Oeuvres Compliments of

‘Cruise Inn and Conch Out’

Visit Us on Hawksbill Cay

We Monitor Channels 16 and 68

www.cruiseinnconchout.com

Paul and I were making do with pineapple and cheese on a toothpick, and engaging in idle chit-chat while waiting for the line to go down so we could get a crack at some of Cassandra’s amazing conch fritters when, behind me, somebody laughed.

I turned to see a woman wearing a flowered, halter-top sundress and strappy sandals talking to a guy in a white polo shirt and chinos. The woman I recognized from a picture in The Abaconian, Pattie Toler, goddess of the Net. Her brown, shoulder-length hair glinted with red highlights in the sun, and she’d caught it back at the sides with tortoiseshell combs. I had no idea about the guy, except to say that he was tall, bronzed and drop-dead, be-still-my-heart gorgeous. Think James Bond, of the Sean Connery persuasion, except Hispanic.

I elbowed Paul. ‘That’s Pattie Toler,’ I whispered. ‘I want to meet her.’

I was insanely curious about the guy she was talking to, too, but I didn’t think it wise to mention it.

I waited, watching for an opportunity to interrupt their conversation, twiddling my empty toothpick. Pattie pulled a cigarette from a pack in her purse, paused – presumably to ask the guy if he minded – before she put it between her lips and lit up. Pattie inhaled deeply, turned her head politely to the side to exhale, then continued talking.

Meanwhile, I polished off two carrot sticks and a piece of celery. When Paul took my wine glass away for a refill, I muttered, ‘Screw the wait,’ and wandered closer to Pattie and her companion. I hovered silently, but conspicuously at her elbow.

She acknowledged me immediately, almost as if she were glad for the interruption. ‘You look like you could use some champagne.’ She toasted me with her empty flute.

‘I could. Thanks.’

Pattie glanced around the tent, raised her glass and, as if by magic, a server materialized, carrying a tray of champagne. Parking her cigarette between her index and middle fingers, Pattie set her empty flute on the tray and snagged two fresh ones. ‘Here,’ she smiled as she handed me one of the glasses. ‘I’m Pattie Toler. Blue Dolphin.’

‘I figured,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘I’m Hannah Ives. My husband and I…’

I was about to add our particulars, but she already knew. Pattie Toler, moderator of the world’s largest party line, knew everything. ‘Windswept, on Bonefish. You’re the ones who found that stray dinghy last week, right?’

‘Guilty. It fetched up against our dock one morning. Belonged to one of the cruisers in Hawksbill Harbour who was very surprised to wake up and find himself stranded in the middle of the harbor with no way to get ashore.’

‘Except swim,’ drawled her companion.

‘There is that,’ I said, turning to study the speaker more closely. Movie-idol good looks, impossibly white teeth. The kind of mature guy who always gets the girl.

Pattie slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Where are my manners? Hannah, this is Rudolph Mueller. Rudy owns the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina. Been gone for a few weeks. Flew in on Wednesday.’

‘Testing the runway,’ Rudy grinned. He took my hand in his cool dry one and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I hope we’ll have the pleasure of entertaining you at the Tamarind Tree some time.’

‘We’ve been meaning to…’ I sputtered, my knees suddenly turning to jelly as Rudy’s dark-chocolate eyes augured into mine. ‘My husband and I,’ I stammered. ‘Uh, maybe for our anniversary.’ I’d become a gibbering idiot. Had Rudy peered out his cockpit window and seen me naked? He certainly was giving me the impression he had.

He still had hold of my hand. ‘We’re soon to open the restaurant, Hannah. May I call you Hannah?’

I nodded stupidly.

‘We’ve gutted and completely remodeled the old Tamarind Tree. And I’ve hired the chef from El Conquistador in Fajardo.’

‘Fajardo?’

‘Puerto Rico.’

‘Ah.’

‘He starts on Emancipation Day.’

‘Oh.’

‘August first.’

‘Right.’ I couldn’t put two words together to make a sentence.

‘So we’re having a banquet,’ Rudy continued, finally releasing my hand. ‘Prix fixe. Forty dollars. Benicio…’ He paused, smiling. ‘Our chef, Benicio Escamilla Ávalos, perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

I shook my head.

‘Well, no matter. What’s important is that Benicio prepares the best crack conch you will get anywhere.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder.

An electric charge, I swear, passed from his body into mine. And, damn the man, he knew it. ‘So we can count on you, then? And your husband, too?’ He raised an eloquent eyebrow that hinted at perhaps your husband will fall ill, or be lost at sea, or abducted by aliens, then fortunately we…?

Somehow I managed to breathe. ‘We’ll be delighted, I’m sure. And speaking of food,’ I rattled on, finding my voice at last, ‘the conch fritters here are to die for.’ I gestured toward the Cruise Inn and Conch Out’s booth where Cassandra and Albert Sands were scuttling about, catering to the ravenous hordes.

‘The competition,’ Rudy added, although from his tone, it was clear that he didn’t consider the Sands’ modest, home-style Bahamian restaurant any competition at all. Frankly, I’d take Cassie’s fried plantain over any highfalutin Paris-trained chef who whipped up the same dish and put it on the menu as banane frite, but I was polite enough not to say so.

While the three of us chatted, a young, twenty-something beauty showed up at Rudy’s side, hovering proprietorially. Trophy wife? She was dressed in an ankle-length floral skirt and a bright-yellow tank top that complimented her lightly bronzed skin. Voluptuous raven curls were twisted into a knot at the crown of her head and held in place with a tortoiseshell claw. When the conversation wound down, she touched Rudy’s arm and said, ‘Papa?’ neatly trashing my trophy-wife theory.

‘Qué quieres, mi pequeña joya?’

‘I’ve got a prospective buyer, Papa. I could use your help.’

Rudy took his daughter’s hand, tucked it under his arm, then turned to Pattie and me, bowing slightly. ‘Duty calls. You’ll excuse us, then, ladies?’

Pattie answered for both of us. ‘Of course.’

I took a deep breath and let it out. ‘Who is she?’ I asked when father and daughter had disappeared into the tent.

‘That’s Gabriele Mueller, Rudy’s daughter, as I’m sure you gathered. He’s got a son living on Hawksbill, too. Rudy’s wife…’ She lowered her voice. ‘Wife number two. She stays back in San Antonio with the twins. They must be four or five years old by now. And if they weren’t enough of a handful, I hear they’re adopting an infant from Columbia.’

‘Speaking of adoption, how did it go with the potcake puppies?’

‘Super! Both potcakes were adopted by a couple in West Palm Beach. Funny little sausages. The dogs, I mean. Terrier and collie with a smidge of dachshund thrown in.’

I chuckled at the image. ‘We missed you on the Net the other day.’

She waved her champagne flute. ‘Someone had to accompany the pups. It’s difficult to fly them out commercial, so we chartered a flight with Cherokee.’ Pattie raised an eyebrow. ‘Say, how long are you here for?’

I was puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘Six months,’ I told her. ‘Paul’s writing a book and he hopes to finish by December. Then we’ll have the family down at Christmas time.’ I managed a weak grin. ‘Alas, Paul has to go back to teaching in early January.’

Pattie tapped out the months on her fingers. ‘I have to go Stateside on family business in a couple of weeks and I need someone to anchor the Net while I’m away. You always seem at ease on the radio, Hannah.’

I pressed a hand to my chest. ‘Me? You’re kidding, right? How about that doctor on Knot on Call?’ I paused, trying to remember the captain’s name. ‘Uh, Jim. He did a great job this morning.’

Pattie shook her head. ‘Jim’s starting back to Virginia Beach around the first. He says he can’t afford the hurricane insurance for Knot on Call, and he’s already pushed his luck by overstaying six weeks.’

‘Surely there’s somebody…’ I began.

‘It’s a piece of cake,’ she insisted. ‘Really. I give you the script, you fill in for a couple of days just to get in some practice, and then… voila!’

I felt myself weakening. ‘How long are you going to be gone?’

‘Just two weeks.’ Her cinnamon eyes locked on mine. Her neatly groomed eyebrows arched expectantly. A friendly smile played across her lips.

I was doomed.

‘Sure,’ I told my new friend. ‘Why ever not.’

Pattie raised her empty glass and clinked it against mine. ‘I think that calls for a toast, don’t you?’ And with a friendly ‘Don’t go away!’ Pattie Toler went off in search of more champagne.

A few minutes later, Pattie got cornered by a sunburned vacationer who wanted to pick her brains about ATM locations, so I took the opportunity to slip away and look for Paul. I found him back inside the tent, standing in front of a booth where the main attraction was a meticulously constructed scale model protected from curious fingers by a Plexiglass dome. A banner in the colors of the Bahamian flag – turquoise with yellow lettering shadowed in black – announced that this was the booth sponsored by the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina.

I’d read about the controversial development in The Abaconian like everyone else. And I’d seen the clubhouse, too… through binoculars. But seeing the master plan laid out before me in all its ambitious and arrogant splendor was an eye-opener.

The miles of pristine sand beach were still there, but where acres of mangrove and rare Abaconian pines had once stood, there was a marina, and condos, and single-family homes, and vacation cottages, laid out on a series of man-made canals. Next to me, Paul leaned over the case and tapped the glass. ‘That represents the clubhouse,’ he said, ‘and the swimming pool. They’re mocked up in color, because they’re already complete. These others here,’ he added, indicating the housing complex, the tennis courts and the eighteen-hole golf course, ‘are in gray, as they’re still under development.’

‘Eighteen holes? You’ve got to be kidding.’

Paul gave me a sideways-through-the-eyelashes look. ‘It’s supposed to be eco-friendly. Paspalum grass, run-off management, natural methods of pest control. Gabriele has been filling me in.’

‘Gabriele?’ So, Rudy’s daughter had been a busy little bee. My husband must have been the ‘hot prospect’ she’d dragged her father off to see.

Paul straightened and hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. ‘She’s managing the project for her father, the developer, a guy by the name of Rudolph Mueller.’

‘I’ve just met Rudy. Pattie Toler introduced us.’

Now it was Paul’s turn to act surprised. ‘Rudy, huh? First name basis already?’

I grinned. ‘It’s the i’lans, mon.’ I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘I’m actually working myself up to hate the guy after all I’ve read about the evils of his development.’

Paul flashed me a crooked grin. ‘Give the guy a break, Hannah. He’s complied with every restriction the Bahamian government has placed on construction, and then some. It’s a prime piece of property in one of the most beautiful locations in the world. Development is inevitable, and not necessarily by somebody so sensitive to the environment as this Mueller fellow seems to be.’ Paul rested his hand for a moment on the Plexiglass dome. ‘It’s better than some alternatives I can think of.’

I scowled at my husband. ‘I see you’ve been brainwashed.’

‘Hannah, Paul. Now that you’ve had time to talk it over, I wonder if you have any questions?’ The voice came from behind me, rich and smooth as a shot of Southern Comfort, taken neat.

I felt my face grow hot. Damn! How did Mueller sneak up on me like that? Why didn’t he cough discreetly or wear squeaky shoes like everyone else? ‘Paul’s just been filling me in on your project here, Mr Mueller.’

Mueller held up an index finger. ‘Rudy!’ he reminded me.

Paul grinned sheepishly. ‘Rudy’s invited us to tour the Hawksbill resort, Hannah. See for ourselves what they’re up to over there.’

I tried to dredge up a smile, but couldn’t, thinking of the destruction of habitat, the pollution, the chemical run-off from his freaking golf course that marine experts agreed would kill the fragile barrier reef in less than three years.

I must not have hidden these thoughts very well because Mueller said, ‘I have a feeling you’ve been listening to our critics, Hannah.’ He shuffled through a pile of glossy brochures that were fanned out on the table and selected one. He unfolded it to a color picture of a hawksbill turtle swimming free in the crystal-blue sea. Poor turtle, I thought, as I took the brochure from Mueller’s fingers. Where will you lay your eggs when the dune buggies take over the beach?

While I leafed through the brochure, not really reading it, Mueller rattled on about reverse osmosis water plants and sophisticated sewage treatment systems. When he paused to take a breath, I said, ‘Frankly, I can’t see how your development differs all that much from the one up at Baker’s Bay on Guana Cay and that has been an ecological nightmare.’

That disarming smile again. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Hannah, but we’re much smaller scale than Baker’s Bay.’ He tapped the Plexiglass dome. ‘For example, we’ve reduced the size of the golf course from eighteen holes to nine. The land we save will be set aside as a nature preserve.’

When I didn’t comment, he went on, ‘And you’ve heard about our nursery?’

Oh, yes. I’d heard about the nursery, the centerpiece of Mueller’s so-called preservation efforts. According to something I’d read on the Internet, it worked like this: Before ordering his bulldozers out to level one of the last surviving barrier-island forests in existence, Mueller, or one of his cronies, dispatched workers to the muddy edge of the construction zone where they pried the orchids and bromeliads off trees that were about to be felled. Rare, air-breathing plants, those shooting stars of the forest that explode into bloom like Fourth of July fireworks in red, white, purple, and orange, end up in a greenhouse.

‘It seems to me, uh, Rudy, that rare plants should remain in their natural habitat, not a plant zoo.’

That patronizing smile again. ‘We’ll be replanting them after construction is complete, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I scoffed. To pass the time until I could politely excuse myself, I pretended to be fascinated by a pie chart showing how many Bahamians would be employed by the El Mirador Land Corporation on Hawksbill Cay. Meanwhile, Mueller zeroed in on Paul. The next thing I knew, the love of my life had agreed to a tour.

I reached around Paul’s back and pinched him, hard.

‘When do you suggest?’ Paul asked, unfazed by my primitive torture technique.

‘Anytime.’ Mueller handed Paul his business card. ‘The number’s right there. Call and we’ll pop over in the launch and pick you up.’

I’d seen a picture of the launch in the brochure. A thirty-six foot Hinckley picnic boat that I knew cost half a million, easy. I refolded the brochure into a neat accordion and handed it back. ‘We’ll certainly think about it… Rudy.’

‘How about next Friday?’ Gabriele Mueller had crept up on little cat feet, picking up the conversation exactly where her father had left off, almost as if she’d been eavesdropping. ‘We’re collecting a group at Mangoes and could easily swing by Bonefish Cay.’ While my eyes engaged Paul’s in a silent battle, Gabriele turned to her father, lowered her voice and said, ‘Papa, that reminds me. You need to speak to high me about that.’

Mueller bowed. ‘If you’ll excuse me, then?’ and hurried off to do Gabriele’s bidding.

‘High me?’ I whispered to Paul.

To my embarrassment, Gabriele overheard. Or maybe she read lips. ‘J-A-I-M-E,’ she spelled, ‘pronounced High-me. My brother hates it. When he was in high school, he wanted to be called “Duke.”’

Her laugh was infectious, as effervescent and intoxicating as champagne. Not the Nobile sparkling wine from Argentina that Tupps was serving that evening, oh no. Something high-end, I thought, like Veuve Cliquot.

‘Jaime is the Spanish equivalent of James. A perfectly fine name, if you ask me. But you didn’t, did you?’ That laugh again.

‘Is your brother here today?’ I inquired.

‘He’s over there.’ Gabriele waved a heavily ringed hand. ‘Next to the bar. That woman with him? That’s Alice. Jaime’s wife.’

Wife? I drew a breath. The fragile teenager who fluttered at Jaime’s elbow couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She was dressed like a teeny-bopper, too; white denim jeans that could have been sprayed on her rail-thin legs, and an elasticized hot-pink tube top that defied the laws of gravity. Gold hoop earrings the size of saucers banged against her neck as she tiptoed around on a pair of Tommy Bahama high-heeled slides.

But Paul’s eyes were glued on Gabriele’s. ‘So, tell me about the tour.’

Rudy Mueller may have left the room, but he’d clearly sent in The Closer. I knew I’d never drag Paul away until we made an appointment for their stupid tour, so I acquiesced as gracefully as possible, and we settled on Friday.

‘Rain or shine!’ Gabriele beamed attractively, lavishing attention on Paul who was grinning like a sap.

‘Rain or shine,’ I repeated so sweetly that I hated myself for it. I wouldn’t want to cross the Gulf Stream in an open-decked boat, but a Hinckley was so solidly constructed that it could handle such a voyage, easy. If a little rain or wind dared stir up the Sea of Abaco on Gabriele’s watch, it would be small potatoes for Daddy’s Hinckley.

Gabriele handed Paul a card. ‘My cell, just in case.’

Paul tipped the card to his eyebrow in an informal salute. ‘Until Friday.’

She beamed. ‘Friday.’

‘So,’ I said as we wandered out of the shelter of the tent and into the sunshine. ‘You planning to buy me one of those waterfront cottages as an anniversary gift?’

Paul tugged playfully on my ear. ‘Of course, darling. We must have a spare million lying around somewhere.’

‘Hold that thought,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, we can pray for a movie deal on that geometry book you’re writing.’

By the time four o’clock rolled around, the local conch population had taken a hit. Light munchies had been replaced on the buffet by mounds of fried conch, conch fritters, conch salad, conch chowder, and conch stew. A selection of desserts had also appeared: silver dollar-sized key lime pies, pecan bars, banana cake. Al and Cassie Sands kept the platters full, shuttling back and forth from a portable kitchen set up in the parking lot.

I picked up two plates from the end of the buffet table and handed one of them to Paul. ‘Conch, conch or conch?’

Paul raised a hand, palm out. ‘Maybe later. Will you be OK while I go check into that snorkeling expedition I told you about?’

Earlier Paul had pointed out a booth – ‘Dive Greater with Gator’ – decorated somewhat haphazardly with fish painted on pieces of driftwood. Holding a fried conch strip between my thumb and index fingers, I used it to wave my husband buh-bye. ‘You snooze, you lose, sweetheart!’ I dipped the conch into some tartar sauce, and popped it into my mouth. ‘Mmm,’ I moaned, licking my fingers.

Paul blew me a kiss. ‘You’re a heartless woman, Hannah.’

From behind the buffet table, Cassie beamed.

Conch can sometimes be tough, like eating rubber bands, but Cassie’s was sweet and oh-so-tender. ‘What’s your secret, Cassie?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. It involves aging, like beef.’

Cassie was right. It didn’t bear thinking about.

As much as I was enjoying the conch, I wondered what the Sands would do if the Bahamas’ supply of the giant sea snail got fished out. Key West, Florida, I recalled, was nicknamed the Conch Republic, but nobody’d been allowed to fish conch commercially in Florida for decades.

I was suddenly aware of somebody standing at my elbow. ‘I see you’re enjoying our local fare,’ Jaime drawled. A younger clone of his father, Jaime’s face was spoiled by a plump, pouty mouth, but he was still a dangerously handsome man, if you preferred guys with gold chains tangled up in their chest hair.

I piled spicy conch salad on a cracker without comment.

‘My sister tells me you’ll be visiting Hawksbill soon,’ the young man quickly added.

‘That’s right.’ Gabriele must have sent out an all-points bulletin. Maybe they were tag-teaming me.

Jaime staggered to one side, set his empty wine glass down on a corner of the buffet table and snagged a cold Kalik from a passing waiter.

‘It must be nice having a successful family business,’ I said as I watched Jaime wave off the glass being offered and drink his beer straight from the bottle.

Jaime wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s just one of the projects my father has developed all over South America and Mexico. This is our first here in the Caribbean.’

Technically, the Bahamas are in the Southwest North Atlantic, not the Caribbean, but I didn’t feel like correcting him. The British Virgins, St Kitts, the Grenadines, the ABCs – Aruba, Bonaire and Curacao. They were in the Caribbean.

Jaime downed a crab ball and chased it with another swig of beer from the long-necked bottle. I was glad he wasn’t my son. I’d slap him one upside the head and teach the brat some table manners.

I didn’t know where Alice, his child bride, had been hiding out, but she tottered up to us then, rolled her baby-blues and whined attractively, ‘Jaime, I’m tired. I want to go home.’

‘Not now, Alice,’ her husband snapped.

She tugged on the sleeve of his polo shirt. ‘Jaime, please…’

He jerked his arm way. ‘Not now!’

Alice folded thin arms across her chest, and pouted. ‘But, I…’ she began.

‘Shut up, I said!’ His voice was so loud that conversation stopped all around us.

My heart went out to the child, standing quietly, head tilted to one side, shifting her weight nervously from one foot to the other. After a few moments, still eyeing the sad excuse for a husband who was making an elaborate show of ignoring her, Alice reached out a cautious hand and selected four miniature pies from the dessert tray. As Jaime droned on importantly about a development in Port-au-Prince that his father was going to let him manage, Alice studied each morsel critically, turning it this way and that, before depositing it on her plate.

Alice finally made her selection – a tiny key lime pie – and slid it into her mouth. Her eyes closed in ecstasy.

‘… in the Pétionville area of Port-au-Prince, where there are more tourists,’ Jaime concluded. He paused, as if expecting applause.

Dessert plate in one hand, wine glass in the other, I simply stared, dumbfounded, when Jaime bent his head close to his wife’s ear and snorted, ‘Oink, oink.’

Alice tried to swallow, choked, tears came to her eyes, whether from choking on the pie or on the insult, it was hard to tell, but I could guess. I was about to say something when there was a voice behind me, velvet, but firm. ‘Jaime. I see you’re monopolizing Mrs Ives.’

Rudy Mueller. My knight in shining armor, or rather Alice’s.

‘Not at all,’ I lied. ‘Besides, Alice and I were about to go check out some jewelry, weren’t we, Alice?’

Alice’s eyes darted from the uneaten desserts on her plate to me and back again. In my opinion, the skinny waif was in need of some emergency ravioli, so I said, ‘Bring your plate with you, Alice.’ I grasped her elbow and drew her away from the men.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered when we were out of earshot of her in-laws. ‘I hate it when I get caught in between.’

I pointed to one of the pielets on her plate. ‘Eat.’

Alice obliged. While she chewed, I said, ‘Alice is a pretty name. I once had a great-aunt named Aliceanna. If I had more than the one daughter, I would have named her Alice.’

‘My full name’s Alice Madonna Robinson.’ The girl’s cheeks reddened. ‘Mueller, now, I mean.’

‘How old are you, Alice?’

‘Seventeen.’

Alice looked fourteen, fifteen, max. I wondered if she was telling me the truth and if children were allowed to marry children in whatever South American country she and Jaime Mueller had been in when they decided to tie the knot.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘A couple of months. I met Jaime on a high-school graduation trip to Bonaire. After we fell in love…’ She shrugged. ‘I just never went home.’

‘Where’s home, Alice?’

‘Chicago.’

‘Your parents?’

‘Oh, they’re still there.’

‘Have they…’ I began.

Alice shrugged. ‘They don’t really care. To tell you the truth, Mrs Ives, I wasn’t a very good daughter. Always getting into trouble. I think they were happy to get me out of the house.’

‘I doubt that,’ I told the girl, remembering how devastated we had been when Emily ran off after graduation from Bryn Mawr with the college dropout she later married. But at least Emily had graduated! The little-girl-lost standing next to me, her thin, fly-away hair floating palely above her bare shoulders, and the kind of porcelain skin that pinked up, rather than tanned, had barely made it out of high school.

‘Are you happy, Alice?’

She smiled sadly. ‘Mostly.’ She seemed to consider her words carefully. ‘Jaime’s all right, Mrs Ives. It’s just when he’s been drinking…’

Boy oh boy oh boy. A recipe for disaster, I knew. My father was an alcoholic – is, I should say, but in recovery – but dad had been the sad sack, cry in your beer kind of drunk. Not Jaime, though. From what I’d just witnessed, booze turned Jaime into a loud-mouthed jerk. Apparently Jaime’s father thought so, too, because he’d maneuvered his son into a corner by the bottled-water table, and if I read the body language correctly, Master Jaime was getting a good chewing out along with his bottle of Deer.

‘Come with me,’ I said to Alice. ‘I’m thinking of buying a necklace and I could use your advice.’

I led the girl to a stall manned by a local woman who sold jewelry crafted out of natural materials – sea glass, coconut, tagua and other exotic seeds. I picked up a necklace made of graduated rings of polished coconut strung on twine and held it up under my chin.

Laughing, Alice shook her head no.

I picked up a smaller version, this one featuring bright-orange tagua slices and dyed bombona seeds. She cocked her head, studying the effect. ‘That’s better,’ she said, ‘but still no.’

While I was fingering another necklace, Alice spotted a pair of earrings made out of bits of colored sea glass – white, Milk of Magnesia blue, and Coke-bottle green – strung on delicate, sterling-silver rods. She held them up to her ears, checking out her reflection in a mirror that the designer was holding up for her. ‘They’re so beautiful!’

I had to agree. ‘Go ahead. Get them.’

Alice hooked the earrings back on to the display rack. She shook her head, cheeks flushing. ‘I’ll have to ask Jaime. I forgot my purse.’

I didn’t believe that for a minute. Unless I was way off base, Jaime kept his wife on a short leash. If she owned a single credit card, or had more than ten dollars to spend at one time, I’d have been greatly surprised. But I didn’t want to embarrass her by saying so.

‘How much?’ I asked the shopkeeper.

‘Twelve dollar fifty cent.’

I dug into my purse for twenty dollars Bahamian and handed the bill over. While the shopkeeper was sorting through her cash box looking for change, I lifted the card of earrings off the rack and held it out to Alice. ‘Here. These are for you.’

Alice pressed a hand to her chest and stepped back, flinching, like a startled deer. ‘Oh, Mrs Ives, I couldn’t!’

‘Yes you can. I insist.’

Alice stared at me, lips pressed together, as she came to a decision. Her hand shot out to claim the earrings, and she grinned like a six-year-old on her birthday. ‘I’ll pay you back some time, I promise.’

I watched as she unhooked the hoops she was wearing and replaced them with the pair of earrings I’d just bought her. She turned to face me and tilted her head from side to side. ‘How do I look?’

‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘The blue glass perfectly matches your eyes.’

How was I to know that the next time I saw Alice Madonna Mueller, her eyes would be anything but blue?

We caught the last ferry home. Just. We’d lost complete track of time at the art show, overstaying so long that we had to hustle, blowing five dollars on a cab that dropped us at Crossing Beach with no seconds to spare. Paul pounded down the dock shouting, ‘Wait! Wait!’ after the departing ferry, but fortunately the driver had seen us coming, turned his side thrusters on, and eased the boat back to the dock.

We jumped aboard, and called out our thanks, barely getting into our seats before the ferry took off again, with us on it this time.

Close call. A night at a Marsh Harbour hotel, even the modest Lofty Fig, could set you back a couple of hundred bucks.

For that time of day, the Man-O-War ferry was surprisingly full. From the bags everyone carried, I deduced that half the population had been to Price Right for groceries and the other half had attended the art show, like we had.

The ferry had just nosed into Sugar Loaf channel when Paul said, ‘There’s somebody I’d like you to meet, Hannah.’ He dragged me to the opposite side of the ferry where we sat down on the bench next to a rugged, suntanned fellow who’d spent so much time in the out-of-doors that his sandy hair, eyebrows and even his watery-blue eyes looked bleached. ‘Hannah, this is Gator Crockett. He runs the dive shop on Hawksbill Cay.’

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, so I could talk to the fellow face to face. ‘Paul tells me you’re taking us snorkeling on Monday.’

‘Yup. Over to Fowl Cay.’

‘They say Fowl Cay’s spectacular.’

Gator nodded wisely. ‘Only place better is Snake Cay down Little Harbour way, but the wind’s rarely in the right direction down there. Kicks things up.’

A potcake lay at Gator’s feet, his wheat-gold head resting on his paws, liquid-brown eyes considering me soberly. ‘Hey, pal.’ I reached down and scratched the dog’s ears.

‘Name’s Justice.’

I smiled. ‘Good dog, good Justice.’

Justice rolled over and offered his stomach for some quality scratching. I obliged, and Justice’s tail thumped happily until the ferry pulled in to Man-O-War and some of the passengers prepared to disembark.

Gator picked up his backpack and collected his dog. Holding Justice’s leash, he stepped to the stern, put one foot up on the steps, then turned around and stuck his head back inside the cabin. ‘Best not to get too chummy with Alice.’

I blinked. ‘Why?’

Gator slung his backpack over his shoulder. ‘Just saying.’

And he was gone.