Rum and Razors (3 page)

The move to St. Thomas from Maine had obviously been palatable for Laurie. She never looked better. She’d always enjoyed the natural look. Her tan was moderate, her gray, shoulder-length hair, pulled back into a tight chignon, was neither permed, moussed, or teased. A tan Banana Republic skirt and shirt, and leather sandals complemented her free-and-easy style, as well as her lithe figure. She was one of those people with a hypermetabolism who burned off everything she ate. I judged her to be about sixty, although it was hard to tell. She looked younger than when I’d last seen her in Maine three years ago. Perhaps having been a model in her youth helped. Or maybe living on a tropical island arrests the aging process.

We followed a road that took us in an easterly direction from the airport. At first, I thought Laurie wasn’t paying attention to her driving. We were on the left side of the road, the wrong side. But Laurie sat in the left seat. The steering wheel was where it ought to be, at least back home. She read my thoughts, laughed, and said, “You get used to it.”

The route was along the coast—The Caribbean Sea that separated St. Thomas from St. Croix to the south was on our right. We passed through the small town of Altona, whose narrow streets sloped gently down to Crown Bay, and then reached Frenchtown with its pretty pastel houses, most boasting some form of black wrought-iron decoration.

We arrived at the capital of the U.S. Virgin Islands, Charlotte Amalie, a bustling, picturesque small city crowded with tourists who poured off two huge cruise ships docked in the harbor. The streets were chockablock with shops and small restaurants. Dozens of street vendors dominated the dock. Cobblestone alleys with hundreds of hanging green plants linked the main shopping streets. There were signs offering every type of merchandise—cameras, clothing, electronic equipment, and jewelry. Jewelry stores everywhere. Small wonder St. Thomas was famous as a duty-free shopping mecca.

Not that that aspect of the trip appealed to me. My favorite shopping sprees involve going through catalogues from L.L. Bean, Land’s End, J. Crew, and Orvis in search of clothing to suit my style. I’ve been on the mailing list for Victoria’s Secret for years and keep meaning to write to suggest I don’t meet its demographic profile.

“Get some shopping in, Jess,” Laurie said, reading my thoughts.

“I might just do that,” I said.

After passing Government Hill and heading north on Mafolie Road, the scenery began to change. The vegetation became more lush, and the hills played a more dominant role in the landscape. And it was cooler. Laurie had used the Range Rover’s air-conditioning until reaching this point. Now, she turned it off and opened the windows. “Smell that, Jess,” she said, drawing in a long, sustained breath. I did as instructed. The air was sweet with the floral scent of red hibiscus, purple bougainvillea, and fragrant frangipani. It smelled and tasted fresh, and was cooler and less oppressive than at the airport or in the city.

As the trip progressed, Laurie fell silent. I observed her as she concentrated on driving—a prudent thing to do on the island’s winding roads—and noticed deep worry lines in her forehead. Nothing unusual about that, of course. Aging will add wrinkles no matter how little worrying we do. But there was an expression on her pretty face that spoke of concern about things other than avoiding cars that careened around curves as though they weren’t there. I felt compelled to initiate conversation. “Remember the last time we saw each other?” I asked.

“Of course I do,” she said. “What a snowstorm.” Two days before Laurie and Walt were to move from Cabot Cove to St. Thomas, I had invited them to my house for a traditional clambake, as traditional as it could be considering the time of year, and that it would have to be held indoors rather than on a beach.

We had such a good time that we never bothered to check the progress of a storm that had begun dumping snow in the morning. Not to worry. Walter and Laurie lived only a few miles from me. Besides, us Down-easters are used to snow. Doesn’t faze us.

But this storm did. The snow had fallen at a rate of three inches an hour. By the time my guests were ready to leave, the roads were impassable. Walt wanted to walk home, but Laurie and I dissuaded him (even though he’d consumed enough alcohol to get him through a night in a snowdrift.) They stayed overnight. The next morning, Walt got up early to dig out their car, fell, broke three ribs, and suffered a mild concussion.

“Bet you don’t miss the foul weather,” I said.

Her reply was a shake of the head. The lines in her forehead deepened, and I discerned a tremble of her lip.

Should I ask? When in doubt, I always do. “Laurie, is everything all right? I mean, you seem disturbed about something.”

It was a rueful laugh. “Is it obvious? I’d hoped it wouldn’t be.”

“Enough to prompt me to ask.”

She said nothing.

“I would certainly understand,” I said, “if this was not a good time for me to be visiting you and Walter. I could stay somewhere else. We could get together when it’s convenient for you.”

We stopped to allow a farmer to cross his goats. Laurie turned and looked at me. Her eyes were moist. I’d been right. She was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—we’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, Jess. I know I’m not myself. Nothing to do with you or your visit. And I don’t want to hear another word about staying someplace else. We’ve been looking forward to having you visit us ever since we moved here. In some ways, you might be just what the doctor ordered.”

“Sure?” I asked. “If you and Walter need some time alone to work things out, I would—”

The goats passed safely, and a driver behind beeped his horn. Laurie accelerated. “We’re not under
that
kind of pressure,” she said. “The marriage is safe. It’s the business that’s not.”

I nodded. “It’s such a difficult economic time,” I said. “So many people experiencing trouble these days.” I wasn’t sure how deep to delve into it. “I imagine the travel business is one of the first to suffer the repercussions of a recession,” I offered. “Travel isn’t something people need when they’re concerned about a roof over their head and putting food on the table.”

“You’re very right, Jess. But even people with money, and a roof over their heads, are scaling back on their travels. Lover’s Lagoon is no place for bargain hunters. We get—or at least we ask top dollar.”

“I’m sure it’s worth every penny,” I said. “I’m surprised you have a room for me. It’s the height of the season, isn’t it?”

“Right again, but our bookings are down. More than one vacancy I can assure you.” We drove in silence for another minute before she said, “Frankly, the problems we’re having aren’t just financial, although that’s part of it. Doing business in the Caribbean can be tricky. Lots of political intrigue, even outright corruption.”

I laughed. “Not unique for St. Thomas,” I said. I mentioned a politician we both knew in Cabot Cove who was caught siphoning parking violation fees into his pocket.

“If only it was as simple as that,” she said, her tone suggesting this topic of conversation was over.

After another fifteen minutes, Laurie pulled into a winding driveway lined with trees and plants, the likes of which I’d never seen. I asked about them. The Laurie I knew from Cabot Cove, who was as avid a gardener as she was a cook, would have stopped and given a detailed explanation of each piece of vegetation. Instead, obviously anxious to get back to her duties as the inn’s mistress, she said quickly, “The ones with the scarlet flowers and drooping pods are flamboyants. Those others are manzanillos. They’re poisonous.”

Before I had a chance to comment, she said, “I have to run.” She gave me a fast hug. An elderly black man with white hair and wearing a red jacket, white shirt, black tie, and black slacks came from the main entrance. “This is Thomas,” Laurie said. “He’ll take your bags and get you settled. We’ve given you cottage ten, the last villa on your right.” She pointed to a pink house at the end of a row of them that looked as though it could accommodate a family of eight. “Settle in, unwind, relax. Dinner’s at eight-thirty. Bye.”

While Thomas placed my hang-up clothing in a large closet and tended to other things, I examined my villa. It would have been nice to have someone with whom to share it, I thought. It was spacious and welcoming, a lovely, calm oasis. The master bedroom was stark white, which rendered the room’s appointments—pale blue porcelain lamps, a darker blue throw that had been purposefully placed over one of two white wicker chairs, and bold, modern paintings that I judged to be Haitian—that much more visible and attractive. The floor was a cool white-and-blue terra-cotta. Fluffy throw rugs were at the foot and side of a king-size pencil-post bed canopied with wispy white fabric. Thomas had switched on a large ceiling fan that spun lazily above me. But I noticed an air-conditioning switch. Just in case the fan didn’t do the trick.

There were two smaller bedrooms decorated in the same hues as the master.

The living room was larger than mine in Cabot Cove. It, too, was white, but the accents were bloodred, including vases overflowing with crimson flowers. Another ceiling fan directed a gentle breeze down on me. A large red lacquered desk dominated one corner. “My own fax machine?” I said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, smiling. “And your own VCR in the bedroom and this room. Movies are in the main house. Take those you wish to watch.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Yes, ma’am, it is. Would you care for a cocktail?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Your preference?”

“Make it
your
preference. Something distinctly St. Thomas.”

He grinned. “I’ll be right back.”

I used his absence to examine the bath. It, like the other rooms, was oversized. The shower stall, with jets coming at you from all sides as well as from above, would accommodate a party. A separate magenta marble tub was spacious and sunken, and doubled as a spa and whirlpool. Smaller vases of island flowers added splashes of color against white wall tiles. A vanity tucked away in the corner had a skirt flowing from it. The pattern, petite, pastel pink rosebuds on an even paler pink background, would have made a nice addition to my vacation wardrobe.

Thomas returned with a tall glass filled with a frothy, lemony liquid, and adorned with fruit. “Looks yummy,” I said.

“It is, ma’am. It’s called a Lover’s Lagoon. Dark and light rums, coconut milk, pineapple, kahlua, and a few other ingredients. It was created here at the inn and won the Caribbean competition held each year.”

“A competition for new drinks?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“I think not, but thank you. You’ve been very gracious.”

“Enjoy your afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher.” He backed out of the villa.

Was Thomas his real name, I wondered? If I’d been on St. John, a short ferry ride to the east of St. Thomas, would his name have been John? Thomas had opened French doors in the bedroom. I stepped out onto a large terrace. It had three walls which made it into a room of sorts. The fourth “wall” was the breathtaking view.

The floors were bleached wood. A glass table and four chairs, as well as several wicker lounge chairs with cushions covered in the same fabric as the rosebud skirt in the bathroom, were inviting. A dozen hanging pots held riots of color, purple and yellow, blue and red.

I went to the open end of the terrace and involuntarily gasped at the view. Immediately in front of me was a small, gently curved lagoon that might have been painted by an artist from the Impressionist school. Lover’s Lagoon, from which the inn took its name? Undoubtedly. Blue-green water gently lapped on to a chalk white strip of sand no more than twenty feet deep. Trees with large, glossy leathery leaves, and purple fruit that hung in grape-like bunches, ringed the lagoon with perfect symmetry. They were aptly called sea grape trees, I would learn.

No wonder Laurie often referred to the lagoon in her letters. She’d indicated in one of them that there was a native superstition attached to the lagoon. Something about standing in its waters and kissing ensuring a long, loving life together. A nice thought. How fortunate for Walter and Laurie to have been able to purchase such a prime piece of land on which to build the inn of their dreams.

I changed into a multicolored Indonesian batik wrap provided guests by the inn, took my Lover’s Lagoon cocktail and a book I’d been reading on the flight to one of the chaise lounge chairs and settled in, enjoying the sensation of all the tensions of the past year draining from my body.

When I awoke, the drink missing only one sip and my book unopened, the sun had fallen into the lagoon, splashing its water and sand with crimson. I started to laugh, held my drink in a toast to the serene setting before me, and said aloud, “To life.”

W
hen I arrived at the inn’s small dining room, Walter was seated alone at a table. I assumed Laurie was in the kitchen. He stood and extended his arms. “Hello, Jessica!” he said. “A sight for sore eyes.” We embraced. He then took my hand and kissed it. Moving to St. Thomas hadn’t altered that aspect of Walter Marschalk. He was known as Cabot Cove’s resident hand-kisser, sometimes to the chagrin of certain Cabot Cove ladies.

“Come, sit,” he said, holding out a chair that afforded a splendid view of Lover’s Lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

“Beauty in every direction,” I said. “I had no idea you’d ended up with such a magnificent property, Walter. You must wake up every morning and marvel at it.”

“Depends on how many bills arrived the previous day,” he said. His inflection was lighthearted, but I sensed he’d forced it. Maybe it was his physical appearance that told me so. He looked haggard, a man who’d suffered one too many recent defeats. Walter had always been a strong, solidly built man, but he’d lost weight. Too much weight. His hair had changed, too. It had been coal-black—I was certain he hadn’t dyed it back in Cabot Cove because men who dye their hair are always so easy to spot. At least for me they are. His hair was now almost completely gray and in need of a trim. That was probably the most telltale sign of all that something was wrong. This man who’d prided himself on a fastidious appearance was now unkempt. Caribbean-casual? Tropical laid-back? Somehow, I didn’t think so.