Without a Grave

FOUR

SO THEY PAVED PARADISE AND PUT UP A PARKING LOTWITH A PINK HOTEL, A BOUTIQUE AND A SWINGING NIGHTSPOT.DON’T IT ALWAYS SEEM TO GOTHAT YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU GOT ’TIL IT’S GONETHEY PAVED PARADISE, PUT UP A PARKING LOT.Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell

How to recycle an ashtray.

In an uncharacteristic exhibition of do-it-yourself know-how, Paul had drilled three holes into the rim of a 1950-style melamine ashtray, threaded shoestrings through the holes, and suspended the ashtray from a hook just outside our kitchen window.

Voila! A bird feeder.

I’d filled the feeder with sugar water, and the bananaquits were frisking around, squabbling over a foothold on the wildly swinging perch. The yellow and black wren-sized birds were so tame that they’d sit on your hand if there’s something in it for them. Try granulated sugar.

A dark shape passed over the sun, distracting me for a moment from the cheerful little birds who were squeek-squeek-squeeking like wobbly wheels on a grocery cart. I craned my neck to see a frigate bird soaring effortlessly overhead, riding the thermals, his silhouette jet black against the blue sky. ‘They’ve got eight-foot wingspans,’ Paul informed me lazily from his spot in the hammock. ‘Soar for days without flapping their wings, snatching food out of other birds’ mouths.’

‘I’m impressed,’ I said, admiring the bird’s forked tail, like a swallow, only twenty times bigger.

‘That’s how Man-O-War got its name, you know.’ Paul swung his legs out of the hammock, stretched and shook out the kinks.

‘I thought the island was named after a racehorse, or vice versa.’

Paul winced. ‘A frigate is a warship, my dear, sometimes called a man-of-war.’

‘Ah ha,’ I said. ‘Always useful to be married to someone with Navy connections.’ I watched as he wandered into the back garden, picked up the business end of the hose and twisted the tap.

From the depths of my pocket, my iPhone began vibrating. ‘Speaking of connections, darling, my phone demands attention.’ When I pulled it out, I saw from the display that the caller was my daughter, Emily, but in spite of repeated hello-hello-hellos on my end, the signal was too weak, so I lost the connection.

Paul was conscientiously watering the banana tree, once weekly, per our landlord’s instructions. Holding the phone loosely in my hand, I let him know that I was heading out to the point to see if I could get a decent signal.

I set out on the sandy path that circled behind the bunk house and led into the woods. Daniel and his trusty machete kept the path itself clear, but bushes grew tall and lush on both sides, forming a natural canopy over my head. The foliage was so dense in places that the sun could barely penetrate to the forest floor, but where it did, the delicate shafts of sunlight reflecting through the steam that rose from the rain-wet leaves made me feel like I’d wandered into an episode of Lost.

The path tunneled through the trees for another hundred yards or so, then opened into a clearing. Shielding my eyes from the blazing sun, I stepped out on to a jagged limestone cliff. Twenty feet below my feet the Sea of Abaco surged and foamed benignly against the rocks. I sat down on a primitive bench – two cinder blocks and a two-by-six – and punched in my daughter’s number.

My granddaughter, as usual, picked up. ‘Shemansky residence. Chloe Elizabeth Shemansky speaking.’

‘Hey, pumpkin. It’s your grandmother.’

‘I know that!’

Of course she did. How many people called her ‘pumpkin?’

‘Did you get my postcards, Chloe?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Does that mean yes?’ I teased.

‘The horse pictures were cool, Grandma. I like Bellatrix the best.’

At the ripe old age of eight, Chloe had two passions in life: ballet and horses. The wild horses of Abaco in particular, a critically endangered breed of Spanish barbs that had been reduced over the last century, by human intervention and habitat reduction, from a herd of several hundred to just eight – four stallions and four mares. Like the horses made famous by Marguerite Henry in her children’s book, Misty of Chincoteague, the wild horses of Abaco had been shipwrecked on the island during the time of Christopher Columbus. But unlike Misty and her foals, DNA tests had proved that the Abaco barbs had been so isolated, their pedigree so pure, that they were unique in all the world.

‘I’m looking forward to your visit, Chloe.’

‘Can I see the horses?’

‘Of course you can. I’ll call the woman who takes care of them and arrange a trip out to the preserve.’

‘Wanna know how my Brownie troop is raising money to help the horses?’ Chloe asked.

‘Of course I do. That’s wonderful! How?’

‘We baked cookies and cakes and went to the Naval Academy and sold them all to the Mids.’

It was a brilliant idea, and I told her so. Midshipmen had been known to eat just about anything, including baked goods prepared by eight-year-olds.

‘We got two hundred and twenty-three dollars and thirty-five cents. When I come, I’m gonna give it all to W.H.O.A.’

W.H.O.A. The Wild Horse Preservation Society of Abaco. Never had an acronym been so apt.

‘Where will I sleep, Grandma?’ Chloe asked, suddenly shifting gears.

‘You and Jake can sleep in the snore box.’

‘What’s a snore box?’

‘When Bahamians need another bedroom, they don’t build a room on to their house. They build a cottage nearby and call it a snore box.’

‘I thought you said I could sleep in the bunk house.’

‘It is a bunk house, but because people sleep in it, they call it a snore box.’

‘I don’t snore, Grandma.’

I decided to shift gears myself before this conversation with my just-the-facts-ma’am granddaughter started running in circles. ‘Can I talk to your mother, Chloe?’

Chloe ignored the question. Something else was weighing heavily on her mind. ‘Where’s Timmy going to sleep?’

‘Timmy can sleep in a bedroom with your mother.’

‘Good,’ she said, clearly satisfied. ‘Well, bye!’

The line went silent for a few seconds, and then Chloe belted out ‘Mommy!’ so close to the mouthpiece that I feared it would rupture the teeny-tiny speakers on my iPhone. They were still working fine, though, when Emily came on the line a minute later. She told me she’d arranged two weeks off from work, their e-tickets were already purchased, and all she needed was the ferry schedule. I gave her the URL for Albury’s.

‘We can’t wait to share this magical place with you,’ I told my daughter.

‘It’s going to be the best Christmas ever. You’re terrific, Mom.’

‘I may be aces in the Mom department, but I’m a failure as a housewife,’ I confessed to Paul a few minutes later as we sat at the table having lunch, a couscous vegetable sauté with bits of his favorite spicy sausage thrown in.

Paul shoveled a forkful into his mouth. ‘You could have fooled me,’ he said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘This is delicious.’

I’d planned macaroni and cheese, but mac and cheese was a challenge without milk. We’d barbecued the last of the steaks the night before and, in a weak moment, I’d fed Dickie the remaining can of tuna. Water-packed white albacore, too. I hope the greedy cat was grateful.

Tip for island living: Never run out of something on a Saturday night because the stores don’t open again ’til Monday morning. Or, Tuesday, if Monday’s a holiday. I was once caught for three days without eggs before becoming familiar with Bahamian holidays. Labor Day is the first Friday in June, Independence Day is celebrated on the tenth of July and Whit Monday, a moveable feast like Easter, can slide around and sneak up on you in May or even June. Hawksbill Cay residents took Sundays and their holidays seriously.

‘Nothing in the cupboard for dinner, though,’ I told him as I got up to clear my plate. ‘Unless you want to go all caveman on me and club some protein to death.’

‘Bahamian ground squirrels?’ he suggested.

I snapped him with the dish towel. ‘You could try fishing,’ I suggested sweetly.

‘I have a better idea. Let’s go to dinner at the Cruise Inn and Conch Out. My treat.’

‘Brilliant!’ I kissed his cheek. ‘I think I’ve tried everything except Cassie’s curried crayfish.’ I paused for a moment. ‘Lobster’s in season, isn’t it?’

‘August through March,’ said my husband, trotting out his nautical knowledge once again. ‘So unless she’s got some frozen, you’re out of luck.’

I folded my arms and pouted.

‘Poor Hannah,’ Paul said, rising from his chair with his plate in hand. It was his turn to do the dishes. ‘You better call Cassie, though, to make sure they’re serving tonight.’

While Paul squirted dish liquid into the sink and started the hot water going, I went to the radio, picked up the microphone and pressed the talk button. ‘Cruise Inn, Cruise Inn, this is Windswept. Come in.’

‘Windswept, this is Cruise Inn. Up one?’

‘Roger.’ I turned the dial to Channel 69 and pressed the talk button again. ‘Windswept on six nine.’

‘Go ahead, Windswept.’

‘Cassie, this is Hannah Ives. Just wanted to see if you were open tonight.’

‘Sure thing. Just you and Paul?’

‘Right. No visitors as yet, but I’m expecting our family over the holidays.’

‘That’ll be nice.’ I could hear the clinking of crockery in the background, then white noise as Cassie released her finger from the talk button while she consulted the notebook in which she kept track of reservations. Several seconds later, she was back. ‘See you tonight, then. Six OK?’

‘Perfect. Thanks. Windswept, out.’

‘Out.’

I slipped the microphone back in its slot, then turned to my husband. ‘Five hours until dinner. What do you want to do in the meantime?’

Paul had been wiping the countertops down. He tossed the sponge he’d been using into the sink and crooked his finger at me. ‘I have an idea.’

I walked into his open arms.

He cupped my chin, lifting it for a kiss.

As the bananaquits squabbled outside the window, I drew away and looked into his eyes. ‘Uh, let me guess. Hunt for sand dollars?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Hike around the island?’

‘Nope.’

‘I guess you’ll just have to show me, then.’

So he did.

The sun was still high and the Sea of Abaco smooth as glass when we set out for Hawksbill Cay that evening in Pro Bono, dressed in our Sunday best: chinos fresh off the clothesline and long-sleeved T-shirts.

After crossing the channel and entering the harbor, Paul aimed Pro Bono straight for the government dock. Just as it seemed he would crash into a piling head-on, Paul shoved the tiller all the way to the right causing the boat to drift sideways where it came to rest neatly against the foot of the ladder, starboard side to. ‘Show-off,’ I said, as I clambered up the ladder with the painter in hand and tied the boat off. Paul followed, grinning hugely, carrying a tote of white wine.

Hawksbill Cay was dry, and you couldn’t buy cigarettes there, either. There was no law against it. In this conservative, deeply religious community, it simply wasn’t done. At the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, thank goodness, it was BYOB, and almost everyone except the locals did.

At the restaurant, we stepped into a blast of welcome air conditioning to find Albert standing behind the counter, drying glasses with a clean white towel. ‘Hey, Al.’

‘Hey!’ A mountain of a man in any case, Al’s ever-expanding waistline bore silent testimony to his wife’s culinary talents. He wore his trademark tropical shirt tucked into Bermuda shorts belted low around his hips, Teva thongs on his feet. A diamond stud decorated his left ear.

The restaurant was already crowded, but I could see a few free tables. ‘Where shall we sit?’

Al eased his bulk from behind the counter and escorted us to a table for eight near the door with a plastic ‘Reserved’ card propped up against the salt, pepper and D’Vanya’s Junkanoo hot sauce caddy. As the popular restaurant filled up we knew we’d probably end up sharing a table with other diners, family-style, but that was sometimes half the fun.

Paul and I took seats across from one another at the end of the table farthest from the door. By the time we got settled, Al had returned with the menu, hand printed on a tall, narrow chalkboard with ‘Cruise Inn and Conch Out’ painted across the top in pink and orange script. He propped the chalkboard up on a chair and gave us time to study the selections while he went to fetch iced tea and glasses for our wine.

Around these parts, there are usually only four entrées: mahi-mahi, grouper, conch and lobster. It’s how they’re prepared that makes all the difference, and Cassie was a genius. No lobster, alas, but that night the mahi-mahi came broiled with a Parmesan cream sauce, and Al must have made a visit to the grocery in Marsh Harbour because there was a special – prime rib – heading up the menu.

No need to specify sides. I knew everything would be accompanied by coleslaw and by a rice and bean combination Bahamians called ‘peas-and-rice.’ Fried plantains, too, if we were lucky.

While Paul made up his mind, I looked around, checking out the other diners and admiring the décor. Plantation shutters covered the windows, with valences made of Androsia, a colorful batik woven and hand dyed on the Bahamian island of Andros, many miles to the south. Matching fabric covered the tables, which were protected from stains and splatters by paper place mats printed with a fanciful, not-to-scale drawing of Hawksbill Cay and the neighboring islands. Numbers on the map were keyed to local businesses whose ads framed the place mat.

One of Andy Albury’s ship models hung on the wall over the salad bar, and paintings by other local artists decorated the remaining walls. One image in particular caught my eye, a huge satellite photo of Hurricane Floyd.

I excused myself for a moment to use the restroom, stopping on my way to take a closer look at the photo. At the moment it was taken, in September 1999, Floyd was a dense white donut almost six hundred miles in diameter, and the hole of the donut – the eye of the storm – was smack dab over Abaco. Floyd looked surprisingly benign from that altitude, yet underneath that snow-white swirl I knew that from the Abacos to Key West to Cape Fear, homes and lives were being devastated.

I found the restroom – a small room with two stalls – clean, as usual, and pleasantly pine-scented. Curtains made of patchwork Androsia covered the single window and hid the spare rolls of toilet paper, paper towels and cleaning supplies Cassie kept under the sink.

I did what I had to do and was washing my hands when the door to the other stall creaked open. In the mirror, I saw the reflection of a young woman wearing white shorts, a blue T-shirt, and a pair of oversized Jackie-O sunglasses. In spite of the sunglasses, I recognized her right away. I turned around. ‘Alice!’

The girl smiled when she recognized me. ‘Hi, Hannah.’

‘You eating here tonight? I didn’t see Jaime.’

Alice stepped up to the sink and twisted the hot-water tap. ‘Nah. I was out taking a walk. Just stopped in to use the bathroom.’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t tell.’

I laughed. ‘I’m sure nobody minds.’ Meanwhile, I wondered why Alice kept her sunglasses on indoors; the sun wasn’t exactly blinding inside the Cruise Inn and Conch Out ladies room at six fifteen in the evening. Then I noticed a stain on her fair face, a purple discoloration that began at the corner of her eye, mutating into shades of green and yellow as it merged into the hairline at her left temple.

‘Ooh,’ I gasped before I could stop myself. ‘What happened to your eye?’

‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ Alice tipped the sunglasses up to her forehead so I could admire the damage. ‘Jaime’s got this sailboat and I didn’t duck in time.’ She waggled her fingers. ‘There’s this thingy that holds the sail.’ She demonstrated by holding her arm out stiffly in front of her.

‘The boom.’

‘Boom. Yeah. It clipped me one.’ She snatched a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser, dried her hands, chucked the used towels into the waste-paper basket and chirped, ‘Well, gotta go. Nice talking to you.’

Leaving me with my mouth hanging open. And wet hands.

When dinner arrived at our table, Cassie served it herself.

People used to seeing Cassie standing behind a counter were often surprised by how slim her legs were, how trim her ankles. The heavy thighs and ultra-wide hips those delicate limbs supported had nothing to do with calories and everything with genetics. The islanders had been intermarrying for two centuries. Until recently, hereditary blindness had not been uncommon. After a study by the Baltimore Geographic Society early in the last century (which still makes the locals froth at the mouth!), the islanders had been encouraged to marry off-island, or to adopt. Cassie and Al – who were quadruple cousins – had taken this on board. Their daughters who charged around the restaurant when Cassie’s mother wasn’t available to rein the little girls in, were Korean, about as far off-island as you can get.

I was halfway through my mahi-mahi and Paul was making headway on his steak when Al appeared at our table with a stranger in tow. ‘Here’s someone I’d like you to meet. Henry Allen, warden of the Out Island Land and Sea Park. You’ll be snorkeling over there soon, I hear.’

I grinned. ‘No secrets on Hawksbill, are there?’

Al grinned back. ‘Henry, this is Paul and Hannah Ives staying at Windswept over on Bonefish. Paul’s a professor at the Naval Academy in the States.’

I sighed. How about me? Did I have no identity? Not so long ago I was head of records management at a major Washington DC accounting firm. Considering the current financial climate, however, I had to confess my relief at being riffed before the company went belly up. So what was I now? Ex-records manager? Wife, mother, grandmother, sister, sister-in-law, friend? All these, yes, and survivor, too. But not exactly suitable abbreviations to follow my name on a business card.

‘Join us, please,’ said Paul while I was sitting there like a lump, feeling sorry for myself.

‘What will you have to eat, Henry?’ Al pointed to the chalkboard.

Henry didn’t even consult it. ‘The dolphin, if you’ve got it, Al. Broiled.’

When we first hit the Bahamas, seeing ‘dolphin’ on the menu had me worried. I quickly learned that ‘dolphin’ is dolphin fish. Mahi-mahi. Dorado. Weighs from ten to thirty pounds, with a flat, protruding forehead. A dazzling golden, blue and green when pulled from the water, not a gray, bottle-nosed mammal like its namesake. Not Flipper, thank heaven.

‘Broiled dolphin, coming up.’ Al disappeared into the kitchen to turn in Henry’s order.

Henry snatched off his ball cap to reveal a full head of densely curled auburn hair. He laid the cap on the chair next to him. ‘There’s a meeting over in Hope Town week from Wednesday,’ he announced without preamble. ‘A consortium of local citizens and second-home owners have banded together to try and stop Mueller’s development.’

Remembering my conversation with Rudy Mueller and his daughter, Gabriele, at the arts and crafts show, I said, ‘Mueller seems pretty sure of himself. He’s already hiring, you know. Someone told me he’s sending folks for training to one of his mega resorts in Cozamel.’

Henry moved a small bowl of butter pats aside and turned his place mat around so we could see the map on it. Using his fork, he drew a circle around Hawksbill, Bonefish, and several smaller, uninhabited cays to the east. ‘This is my territory, the Land and Sea Park.’ He dragged the tines down a long series of Xs that separated the islands from the Atlantic Ocean to the east. ‘And this is the barrier reef.’

‘I’ve heard it’s one of the finest left in the world.’

Henry’s gaze was firm, and steady. ‘And I plan to keep it that way.

‘And, here,’ Henry said, tapping a smaller cluster of Xs just to the north of Hawksbill Cay, ‘is Fowl Cay where you’ll be snorkeling next week.’ He looked up, his bottle-green eyes alive. ‘It is the finest reef in the world. Vertical drop offs, spectacular cuts, black coral forests, a couple of wrecks. And the sea life!’ He laid down his fork and folded his hands. ‘Octopus, giant grouper, lobsters as big and as tame as dogs. They’ve even got names.’

I nodded, thinking about my friend, Big Daddy.

With my finger, I reached across the table and retraced the circle Henry had drawn. ‘But if all this area is within the protected boundaries of the park, how come Mueller’s allowed to build on it?’

Henry scowled darkly. ‘Grandfather clauses. The government wanted to protect the reefs, but there was no way to do it without including Hawksbill Cay where a lot of the land was privately owned. You must have noticed there’s no commercial development on Bonefish Cay, where you’re living.’

I nodded. ‘And we like it that way.’

‘A lot of the locals agree with you, but some…’ Henry paused. ‘Well, you can’t blame them, really. It’s hard enough keeping your kids from leaving the islands, deserting it for schools and high-paying jobs in the United States. And Mueller’s development means local jobs, lots of jobs.’

‘It’s an uphill battle, isn’t it, Al?’ Henry continued as the restaurant owner appeared with a glass of ice and a Diet Coke and set them down in front of him. ‘The development’s already started. He’s renovated the old Tamarind Tree restaurant. Turned it into a private club.’

‘I know,’ Paul put in. ‘We’ve agreed to tour the resort next week.’

‘Watch it, Ives. Mueller’s slick. Before you know it, you’ll be plunking down two, three million for a condo.’

I gasped. ‘Two million? You’ve got to be kidding, right? For one of the mansions, maybe, but for a condo?’ I’d been reading the real estate ads in The Abaconian – a girl can dream! – and there were a number of fine properties on the market. Custom-built, four and five bedroom homes right on the water had been listed for a hundred thou or two on either side of a million bucks. I couldn’t imagine paying twice that much for a lousy condominium.

‘I wish I were.’ Using his finger this time, Henry traced along the southern shoreline of Hawksbill Cay. ‘This is one of the finest pink sand beaches anywhere in the world. But visit it while you can, ladies and gentlemen, because if Mueller has his way, it’ll soon be fenced off for the exclusive use of the American Express platinum card crowd.’

‘Surely the government…’ I began, thinking of the new Prime Minister’s stated commitment to local rights, sustainable development and keeping the Bahamas for Bahamians.

Henry raised a hand. ‘Don’t get me started. The government’s down in Nassau, and they don’t give a shit what happens up here in the Abacos.’

I’d read about that, too, in a picture book Windswept’s owners kept out on a coffee table. The Abacos – deserted since the 1500s when the native Lucayans were wiped out by slave raids and European diseases introduced by the Spaniards – had been resettled in the 1780s by New Englanders coming by way of North Carolina, British citizens who had played for the losing side during the Revolutionary War. Two hundred years later, in 1976, when the Islands of the Bahamas sued for independence from Great Britain, Abaconians picked up their machetes and their pitchforks and protested. They appealed to the Queen, reminding her of their sacrifice and unflagging loyalty to the crown in 1776. But alas, the Queen and her Parliament were unmoved.

‘So why?’ I wondered.

The park ranger rubbed his fingers briskly together.

‘Bribes?’ Paul asked.

‘Oh, you bet. I can’t prove it – yet – but if you have some time, there’s a videotape I want to show you.’

‘Goody. I love home movies.’

Henry didn’t return my smile. ‘You know where the park headquarters are, right? On Little Hawksbill?’

When Paul and I nodded, Henry continued. ‘We’re the first cove on the Sea of Abaco side. The channel tends to silt up, so keep well to the left of the green marks. Come during the week, any time. We monitor 16 and 68, so give us a call so we know when to expect you.’

Al brought Henry’s dinner, and we tucked in, chewing in appreciative silence as the restaurant filled up around us. I waited until Henry finished his slaw before asking, ‘What’s on the agenda for the Hope Town meeting?’

‘We’ve got some experts coming in. They all agree that run-off from the fertilizer El Mirador’s going to use on the golf course will kill the reef within three years, and the livelihood of our fishermen along with it.’

‘So I heard. And the sewage from all those houses and condos isn’t going to help the reef much, either.’

Henry pushed his empty plate aside. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his mouth. ‘And the destruction’s already started. Over the past several months, Mueller’s workers have bulldozed acres and acres of mangrove.’

I nearly choked on the last of my plantain. ‘But don’t they know how important the mangroves are? When Cyclone Nargis roared through Myanmar last spring…’

Henry raised a hand, cutting me off. ‘I know, I know. More than eighty percent of that country’s mangrove forests had been destroyed, so the cyclone had an easy ride into the delta. An impressive loss of life, and much of it completely avoidable.’

‘If there’s another storm as bad as hurricane Floyd…’ I paused, shook my head. ‘Doesn’t the Bahamian government get it?’

Henry scowled. ‘I guess they have other priorities.’

‘We can certainly come to the meeting,’ Paul said, ‘but we won’t be able to vote on anything.’

‘Doesn’t matter. What we’re looking for is a strong turnout, a show of force.’

‘I can help with that.’ I smiled at the park ranger. ‘Pattie Toler’s talked me into running the Cruisers’ Net starting next Monday, so I’ll plug the meeting in community announcements.’

Henry brightened at last. ‘Sounds like our Pattie! Mention that Albury’s running extra ferries out of Man-O-War and Marsh Harbour. No reason why folks can’t make the meeting.’ He laid both hands flat on the table. ‘I really appreciate your help getting the word out, Hannah.’

‘Do you have a website, Henry?’

‘Yup. It’s www.savehawksbillcayreef.com. We’re a coalition of islanders and second-home owners. We can’t dictate what Mueller builds on his own land, unfortunately, but where that impinges on our land, and our reef, then we have to speak up.’

I thought Henry had wound down, but he was just getting started.

‘Guana Cay is on firmer legal ground, many believe, because the Prime Minister at the time gave away, actually gave away crown land to a foreigner. Crown land is supposed to be reserved for the Bahamian people in perpetuity. For their children, and their children’s children.

‘Think about it this way. It’s as if George W. Bush had said to some fat-cat developer in, let’s say Japan, “Here’s Yellowstone National Park. Take it, it’s yours. Turn it into an exclusive gated community that only the ultra-rich can afford.”’ He picked up a fork and jabbed the air as if to punctuate his words. ‘If the Privy Council doesn’t find in their favor, the heritage of every Bahamian on Guana will be behind locked and guarded gates.’

He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. ‘Good thing my wife’s not here. She’d scold me for being long-winded. Just met you and here I am, already boring your socks off. On to other things. What’s for dessert?’

‘I have been reliably informed that it’s banana cream pie.’

‘Have you tried it?’ When I told him no, he said, ‘To. Die. For. Cassie doesn’t mess with store-bought piecrusts or Cool Whip. Just bananas and cream. What a concept.’ Henry waved his arm about like a schoolboy seeking permission to go to the bathroom. When he got Al’s attention he called out, ‘Pie all around!’

While we waited for our pie, I asked, ‘Other than the experts and the folks from Save Hawksbill Cay Reef, who’ll be there?’

‘Officials from Friends of the Environment as well as representatives of the Bahamas National Trust… or so they say. They may just blow us off. It’s happened before.’

I picked up my fork. ‘Do we need to bring persuaders? Machetes? Bahamian slings?’

Henry leaned back in his chair, threw back his head and laughed. ‘No. But hold that thought.’