Awaiting the Green Flash

By K. Kelly O'Connor

Rine Tyler is loving life and what’s not to love? Her life is filled with beaches, bars, and backgammon - until she meets him. Living in the Virgin Islands, surrounded by gorgeous beaches, a steady stream of male companionship, an entourage of eclectic friends, and blessed with looks and a talent for backgammon when she needs money, life is great for Rine. Then he enters her life. Set in the 1980s amid the excesses of the decade and spanning several exotic locales, Rine tries to fend off demons from her past while being pursued by a mysterious British expatriate, the sexiest guy on the planet, and a Swedish hockey star at the pinnacle of his NHL career. Through desire and despair, Rine awaits the Green Flash.

Part Jimmy Buffett meets the Great Gatsby, part Bridget Jones meets Less than Zero, Awaiting the Green Flash is a Caribbean vacation in a book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Kelly O'Connor
• Release date: Sep 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988366510

K. Kelly O'Connor

Born and raised in Flint, Michigan, Kelly O’Connor also spent many years living in the United States Virgin Islands. An avid windsurfer, surfer, and diver, as well as hockey fan, O’Connor considers both Flint and St. Thomas, home. Kelly has lived in Nashville, Tennessee since 1995. Awaiting the Green Flash is her debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It is completely unimportant. That is why it is so interesting.

~Agatha Christie

St. Thomas, United States Virgin Islands – 1980s

He is quite simply, the sexiest man I have ever seen. He’s long and lean with wavy hair, and three-day-old stubble, which always piques my interest for some unknown reason. He has on Vuarnet sunglasses, the kind with the lens that makes everything look jaundiced, and a cotton shirt over a pair of shorts. Unfortunately, he also appears to be unconscious. He is passed out on top of the trampoline of an old catamaran abandoned long ago in the sand underneath the palm trees. Currently, he is being prodded and poked by a twig with two six-year-old boys attached. That he is suffering from an ill-advised night of carousing seems like a gross understatement. Ill advised, because while I am always a strong proponent of revelry, anything that leads to sleeping it off on the Tramp of Shame with kids poking at you with sticks is not a good move. The old trampoline is often utilized by the very hung-over and is hotter than hell, even in the shade. It is also in close proximity to one of the more popular picnic sheds where a vast number of West Indians enjoy a boisterous family reunion, complete with the sounds of brass carnival music blaring from speakers. The kids scurry off after I slam my car door and start walking towards sexy unconscious dude. He could be almost any age between 35 and 55 although the bits of gray in his hair suggest that he is somewhere north of 40. On the other hand, that could simply be sand.

Who’s the latest victim of the Tramp of Shame? I ask Trevor, the water sports rental kid, while motioning at the sprawled out sexy unconscious guy.

Hey, Rine-Rine! You know Nick-Nick.

No, who is he?

You know, Nick-Nick, Trevor repeats.

Trevor is the kind of kid who has an uncontrollable need to nickname everyone he comes in contact with. Sadly, he lacks the creativity necessary to come up with the most mundane of nicknames. Instead, he repeats a person’s first name. To be fair though, living in the Virgin Islands does put Trevor somewhat at an informational disadvantage. You can know someone here for more than ten years and still not know a last name. But then again, I doubt that Trevor could come up with a Smitty for John Smith or a J.D. for John Doe, even if he weren’t perpetually stoned.

Trevor’s father, Bob, owns the beach rental and is trying to groom his son to take over the business. At nearly seventeen, Trevor is far more interested in smoking weed and playing Frisbee than in running the family business. He loves the beach and enjoys the many perks of the location.

Spotting a high school-aged girl running on the beach, Trevor yells, Looking good, Jill-Jill!

Trying to refocus his attention, I asked, Is he a tourist or a local?

Who?

Trevor always reminds me of a blond, stoned, and sunburned version of Dicken’s Artful Dodger. Even though he lives in the weeds, his brain still functions more than appearances might suggest. Although he looks like he’s a couple cans short of a six-pack, he also possesses that perpetual look of feigned innocence. This look never fails to make me suspect him of trying my patience. I immediately regret my lack of trust, only to learn that the wily kid really is testing me.

Unconscious guy, the one on the Tramp of Shame.

Oh. Nick-Nick is definitely local. He’s been around for quite a while. You must have seen him around. He’s everywhere you are.

I take one last look at sexy unconscious guy, noticing that he has managed to keep on one of his flip-flops, while the other one had been abandoned two feet away. Focusing on the task at hand, I ask Trevor to fetch my board.

I peel off the clothes that cover my bikini and throw them along with my flip-flops, into the brightly striped beach bag. My windsurfer is stored here at the beach. Trevor rigs it up and unrigs it for me when he’s not too busy instructing tourists on the finer points of not getting lost at sea on a paddleboat or applying coconut scented suntan lotion to willing tourist girls. He also rents my board when he thinks that he can get away with it and pockets the cash for weed money. He doesn’t realize that I’m on to his scam, but it is, after all, a very small island.

Trevor carries my board out to the water. I dive shallowly into the calm, clear bay and swim a couple of strokes underwater. The coolness feels refreshing. I throw a knee onto the rough board, climb on, and stand up. Reaching down for the thick nylon line, I smile, admiring the neon green sail rising from the water.

People say that perfection gets old and that, over time, you begin to take it for granted. It is 86 degrees and sunny, without a cloud in the sky. The wind is blowing steady at about 20 knots, and I’m enjoying the view of one of the world’s most beautiful beaches, flying across Magen’s Bay on my windsurfer. How can you take that kind of perfection for granted? I have a multitude of flaws, but lacking appreciation isn’t one of them.

I spend the afternoon on the water, taking full advantage of the ideal conditions. Other than the West Indian family having a reunion, the beach and the bay are quiet for a Saturday. The wind keeps the tourists from learning to sail or windsurf. Although it’s too strong for beginners, it’s perfect for me. No sailboats or other windsurfers to dodge. The water in the bay is almost always calm. This allows the board to fly faster than if there is any kind of chop or wave action going. The sail full, I lean so far back that it is possible to dip my head in the water. A guy working on one of the sailboats anchored close by has been playing great music all afternoon, and I think it is actually making me go faster.

Admiring the pink sky as the sun begins to sink into the ocean, a fleeting shadow catches my eye. I have a quick glimpse of dorsal fins moving swiftly past and underwater. Hmm…guess it’s time to head in. It could be a couple of dolphins. The way that the fins were positioned though, like a front and back fin on the same body, looks more shark-like. The water is deep enough though, so I’m not sure. Contrary to Hollywood portrayals, sharks rarely skim the water showing off their fins. They like to swim deeper underwater. A glance at my watch alerts me that it is already after 5:00 p.m.- later than I thought and getting closer to feeding time, both for sharks and for me.

I didn’t think you were ever going to come in, Trevor calls as I sail in. He puts down a can of Old Milwaukee in the sand and darts to the water.

Gratefully, I let him take the board from me while leaning back in the water to slick my hair. Long salty hair hanging down your back is not pleasant. Wet, it’s still salty, just not quite as annoying.

Sexy unconscious guy was still on the Tramp of Shame, although he has changed positions and is now reclining against the mast. Grabbing my bag out of the equipment box, I open a large bottle of warm water from my bag. I take a long swallow and use the rest to rinse the salt from my face and hair. Plopping down in one of the chairs, I light a cigarette and inhale deeply while waiting to air dry and get some much-needed nicotine into my system before attempting to throw clothes on and drive home. Trevor leans against the equipment box, and we discuss the fins that I saw out on the water, a new restaurant that opened in Frenchtown and the marine report for next week. Eventually, I pull on the T-shirt and cut-offs and make my way to the car.

See you at Pelicano, right? Trevor calls as I roll down the window to get the air circulating to cool the car.

Absolutely. Although, I might be a little late.

The car, still the approximate temperature of an oven by the time the estate comes into view, passes through the entry gate. Ah, home sweet home! The estate where I live belongs to a baroness, Shirley Batts. The neighbors commonly refer to the Baroness’s estate as the Fortress or the Berlin Wall, because of the expansive tall walls, the lap pool, disguised as a moat, runs the perimeters of both the exterior and interior walls, and the small drawbridge and gate that cross the lap pool to enter the estate. The Baroness and her late husband built the place long before there were any neighbors to complain. The car comes to a halt in its shaded spot along the extensive outward wall, which wraps around the grounds. I bring the towel and the beach bag, and walk along the tree-lined path next to the driveway that runs between the outlying walls and the moat that keeps the rest of the world out. The scent of chlorine wafts up from the inside portion of the moat as I stroll next to it.

The so-called moat was really constructed to be a seemingly endless lap pool, wide enough for two swimmers. It snakes along the outer walls and runs the perimeter of the interior walls. The late Baron had been an Olympic swimmer and astutely combined his love of swimming with his wife’s fierce demand for security and privacy. Between having to cross not one but two water barriers and the two stone walls, the house gives off all the hospitality of a well-landscaped maximum-security prison - until the massive and ornately carved double set of mahogany doors are opened. The opened doors reveal a large and elaborately landscaped courtyard between two Mediterranean-styled villas. The larger one on the left is clearly the main house while the smaller one is a mirror reflection, in miniature. My place. The focal point of the courtyard, however, is the large, free-form swimming pool beside which, a plump, redheaded woman in her sixties sits at a wrought-iron table under a cheerfully striped umbrella.

Katharine, you are just in time for cocktails! The baroness calls to me, motioning at the chair across from her. Sit down and let me pour you some sangria while you fill me in on all the day’s news, she commands. I’ve already set up the board, she adds, gesturing at the backgammon board.

The Baroness, or Shirley, as she quickly instructs those whom she takes a liking to, to call her, has become much like a well-loved aunt to me. Fairy godmother might be an even better description. Although she does not suffer fools gladly, she has the proverbial heart of gold. I have been serving as Shirley’s house sitter and backgammon opponent for several years now and would willingly walk through fire for the redhead.

Plopping down on the chair, I pour myself a glass from the cold pitcher in the middle of the table. The contents of the pitcher are a surprise depending on the whim or the dinner plans of the Baroness. On Saturday evenings though, the pitcher contains margaritas, sangria, or a combination thereof, in deference to my Saturday night habit of eating Mexican food at El Pelicano’s with a group of friends.

Shirley is the only person who I will play backgammon against strictly for fun. I pick the dice up, and begin to tell her about my day. After a couple of games, she refills her drink, regards me a moment in silence, considering, then sighs heavily. You will not believe what the bimbo has done now.

The bimbo is the neighbor woman down the street who is a constant irritant to the Baroness. Shirley describes the latest offense. The bimbo has been spotted trespassing outside the gates with pruning shears going after one of the bougainvilleas.

Maybe she doesn’t realize that your property extends beyond the gate, I reply, trying to placate her.

If she didn’t, she certainly does now, she chuckles.

In response to my questioning look, she grins broadly and answers, I had her arrested.

You did what?

She was trespassing and wantonly damaging and destroying my property. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s not as if they are going to keep her locked up. Once she ends up paying the fines, the damages, and the fees, maybe she will learn to keep her silicone ass off my property. And if she wants fresh flowers for her dining table, she will buy them from a florist or massacre one of her own trees!

Even though I had poured a bottle of water over my hair and face at the beach, the grit of dried salt and sand has finally gotten to me. Standing up and stripping to my bathing suit, I walk to the pool, and dive in, surfacing at the other end. Dripping, I step out of the pool, walk back to the table, and sit down.

Sorry Shirley, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I felt like I was covered in sandpaper.

When I was your age, I could have worn that bikini, she sighs. At least my legs still look good. One of the benefits of having been a dancer in my youth.

I help myself to another sangria while we continue playing backgammon, and Shirley continues complaining about the bimbo next door. Eventually, I top off my glass to enjoy back at my place.

My little guesthouse is between the tip of the peninsula and the main house, and has its own small swimming pool and patio. You cannot reach this pool any other way except through my house because there are huge porous lava rocks, the size of icebergs that the house was built around. The so-called Berlin Wall that surrounds the Baroness’s estate stops at the rocks. There is total privacy. This is important because my bathroom is outside. Well, let me clarify this. The shower is outdoors. The sink, vanity, bathtub, toilet, and bidet are inside in a relatively traditional bathroom, although lacking an outside door that leads to the outdoor shower. The bathroom is on the front side of the house that faces the main courtyard, but my little cottage was built around the massive rocks, and my shower is really in a rock room. The rocks protect the shower. No one in the courtyard or by the pools or the little gardens beside my cottage would know that there is a shower beyond the rocks, much less be able to see or hear anything. The only way to the shower/rock room is through my cottage, through the bedroom, through the bathroom, and then to the shower. The cottage also boasts a kitchen, laundry room, and several large closets.

Still sipping sangria, I light a cigarette and pick up a few of the towels lying around my crib and walk out to sit next to my tiny pool and think about the evening ahead. Although I don’t ever miss my Mexican fix, Saturday night plans are always pretty fluid. I’ll go out after dinner, but could go out with the entourage from dinner or out prowling by myself. Sometimes I even go somewhere that I can pick up some work. I make a living playing backgammon. Some might call it gambling, but you can’t make a living solely relying on luck. I think of myself more as a professional athlete. There is a strong element of luck but you still need skill and training. The training just isn’t all that strenuous, can take place on the beach or in bars, and can include the consumption of alcohol…often in vast quantities.

A bodysuit, with a short sarong worn as a skirt, and slides with something of a heel will be casual enough for burritos with the beach buddies, and sufficiently dressy yet comfortable to dance in if that’s the direction the night takes. I turn on some music then make my way to the shower.

Chapter 2

The superfluous, a very necessary thing.

~Voltaire

El Pelicano’s is unusually busy for off-season. The parking lot is so full that I’m stuck parking at the bottom of the hill and walking up to the entrance. I am greeted by the scent of warm corn chips, jalapeños, and the cacophony of loud conversations and jostling plates, silverware, and the trickling water in the fountain. Pelicano’s is situated in a courtyard, complete with a hissing and splashing water fountain where children gather to throw coins in. A line of people wait to be seated, and the bar is equally crowded. The hostess sees me and points to the back corner. I make my way through the throngs, to the back of the restaurant.

Rine-Rine’s here! Trevor waves, pointing to the far end of the table where presumably there is an empty chair with my name on it.

I glance around and greet everyone, What’s going on in here that it’s so busy? I didn’t know there was this many people on the entire island!

Everyone laughs or nods in agreement as I make my way down the table. The usual suspects are here. Seated next to Trevor, are his parents Bob and Becky. Several of my windsurfing buddies are also there. Sean, a big muscular blond guy, owns a motorcycle dealership and flickers his hand at me while deeply engrossed in a conversation about rudders with Bob. I lean over and give Stacy, Sean’s hugely pregnant wife, a quick hug. Stacy, with her shoulder length pale blonde hair is a very cute girl with the looks of a twelve-year-old Norwegian, although she’s a Northern Californian in her late twenties. Stacy is also the younger sister of one of my best friends, Buick. I glance down the table, but Buick is not here. He is most likely flirting with his next future ex-wife or causing mayhem on innocent bystanders somewhere.

Next at the table, are a couple of guys in crisp new T-shirts. Come to think of it, most of the guys have similar-looking shirts on. Anyway, Vince is tall with a mop of sandy hair falling over his face and is seated next to Matt. Matt is one of those eternal bachelor types not by choice but rather by personality. He generally comes across as an ass to women. I’ve known him for years, and he’s a good guy once you get to know him and learn to ignore his asshole tendencies. He is just the opposite of Vince, who is a real sweet guy.

What’s with you guys all wearing the same shirt tonight? I inquire.

What do you think of our team shirts? Sean asks, grinning as he stands up so that I can read what is printed on his shirt.

Sean turns around, displaying the back of the shirt, which reads, Only the wind will blow us! They begin guffawing in expectation of my amusement. I do not disappoint and laugh, moving towards the empty chair.

Vince catches my eyes and says, Buick’s idea.

Should have known, I reply, reaching into my huge Louis Vuitton purse for a pack of cigarettes and matches. A waitress hovers next to my seat. I ask for a large frozen margarita with a swirl of sangria. She leaves as I pull a cigarette out of the pack and am greeted with a flame from a lighter from across the table.

Glancing up, I fall into some seriously blue eyes. The sexy unconscious guy from the beach is seated across from me, now fully conscious and looking none the worse for wear. If I thought that he was attractive at the beach earlier today, freshly showered, and wearing clean, faded jeans and a crisp shirt, he is damn fine.

Rine Tyler, it’s a pleasure to meet you, finally. I’ve been hearing about you for so long that I was beginning to think that you were a myth. I’m Nicholas Lawson.

God help me, he even has an accent! A Brit with a very posh accent, who is waiting with his hand extended for me to shake. I can’t help smiling at him, but those sapphire eyes and accent have rendered me nearly speechless, so I’m sitting, smiling dumbly, like the village idiot.

It’s nice to meet you, too, I say, silently kicking myself for sounding so stupid. Okay Rine, you have met men before. Get a fucking grip! I’m afraid to hear what these guys have been saying about me.

Very little, actually. You seem to have something of a cult following. Everyone knows about you.

Yikes! That can’t be good.

Fortunately, Trevor is trying to get our attention from the other end of the table.

Rine-Rine? You remember Nick-Nick from the beach, right?

I nod and turn back to Nicholas, Do you prefer to be called Nicholas or Nick?

Either is fine. Thank you for asking. Most Americans jump to Nick immediately, he pauses, gesturing his head in Trevor’s direction, Some even like it so much that they are compelled to repeat it.

Laughing, I watch Trevor sitting at the far end of the table, as he covers his tortilla chips in ketchup. Yes, he is drowning the tortilla chips in not guacamole, not salsa, not queso…but ketchup.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard Phelps’ theory. I ask Nick.

No, I’m not familiar with that one.

Glancing at Trevor, I explain, Phelps’ theory is that there is a negative correlation between the amount of ketchup consumed and intelligence. The more ketchup consumed, the lower the IQ. Personally, I have seen this theory upheld countless times and not once have I seen it disproved.

Who is Phelps?

A local television sportscaster.

Well then, that’s okay. It must be true. He would know.

Exactly!

Sex appeal is a relative thing. What you find sexy may do nothing for me, and vice versa. Nick Lawson is somewhere in the vicinity of 6’2, thin and wiry, with long hands and a craggy face. He looks to be in his forties and has nice teeth for a Brit. What you notice immediately about him, are those incredibly blue eyes.

He has an elegance of manner about him in spite of the scruffiness. Even with the blue jeans, snowy shirt, flip-flops, and three or four days’ worth of razor stubble, he appears polished. It is more than simply being comfortable in one’s own skin. He has that same elegance seen in people with very old money. People who are entirely at ease in any situation and who have total knowledge of propriety, yet are simultaneously exempt from having to follow it. They have the luxury of savoir-faire and yet are able to ignore the rules of convention and do whatever in the hell they want to do with impunity.

Listening to Nick place his order, I notice two things. First, he has a great voice. It is a rich-sounding voice containing both the elegance and arrogance of British aristocracy. I could listen to him read the dictionary and be enthralled. It’s the accent. Second, he is a carnivore.

I’ll have a veggie burrito, no beans, I say to the waitress who looks at me as if I were placing my order in Swahili.

I don’t think we have that, she says flatly.

Yes, actually you do, I say displaying far more patience than I feel. It’s a burrito with sautéed mushrooms, onions, and peppers, rice, lettuce, guacamole, sour cream, olives, pico, and cheese. Just tell Timmy that it’s for Rine, I hand her the menu and smile.

Nick and several others are staring at me, so I scoff, God save us from high maintenance women!

Vince snorts, but wisely keeps his opinion to himself.

High maintenance my ass! You are the finickiest eater on the damned island Rine, Matt scoffs, and high maintenance besides!

You’re just anti-vegetarian, I reply, smiling sweetly, remembering a funny story about having dinner with him.

Face it Rine, you can never order off the menu without changing something. You even have them change vegetarian items, Vince adds.

It is not my fault that people continue to put vile things in what could be something really wonderful, I defend myself. Once they are the beneficiary of my culinary enlightenment, they change their menu and everyone is happy. Why, just the other day, Fat Moe added my sandwich to the menu.

I am very proud of the fact that several restaurants have menu items named after me. Yes, it might be silly, but do you have a sandwich named after you?

Vince looks at Nick and stares, See what we mean?

So what’s in your sandwich? Nick inquires.

Fresh mushrooms, avocado, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, dill pickles, provolone and Swiss cheese, with horseradish mayo, on a Croissant, I reply proudly.

The fuck you eat that? He asks, alarmed.

It is my most favorite sandwich in the entire world!

It sounds ghastly- avocado, pickles, and mushrooms? No meat on the entire thing - only vegetables?

Yes, but it tastes like chicken.

Nick grins, Touché. So you are a vegetarian? A true vegetarian?

Ripples of laughter begin to roll over the table as Bob nudges Becky and says, Did you hear that? Nick just asked Rine if she’s a vegetarian.

When I respond, No, I’m a Catholic vegetarian, the entire table is laughing.

What the hell is that?

The laughter becomes louder and Sean shouts over it, pointing at Matt with a tortilla chip, and says, Tell Nick about your date with Rine.

Before Matt can speak, I quickly clarify, It wasn’t a date. It was a bet. Matt and I were racing in a windsurfing regatta, and he made a bet that whichever of us beat the other, the loser had to buy the winner dinner at Olga’s.

Matt’s face colored, as the painful memory seems to raise his blood pressure. Rine’s a vegetarian, right? Salad bar and maybe some mud pie, right? A cheap date, my ass! I never thought that I’d have to sell my car to pay for dinner!

Matt is notoriously cheap and prone to over exaggeration.

Don’t be a baby, I retort. If I remember correctly, you were the one who made the bet and chose dinner at Olga’s as the prize. And you didn’t exactly skimp on your own meal either, as I recall. You were trying to score a free meal and then pouted all night because you lost the race and the bet…to a girl!

Winking, Vince continues, Matt thought he was still going to get out of the bet pretty easy, and then watched in horror as Rine orders an artichoke, shrimp cocktail, salad bar, Maine lobster, rice, asparagus, mud pie, and proceeds to drink him under the table!

Bob calls from the end of the table, You were drinking DP that night right?

I grin and whack Vince in the arm with my napkin because he was the closest.

No, I did not order Dom Perignon – or any other champagne that night, although I should have. And there wasn’t that much food, either. What do you think I am, a condor?

Sean picks up the story and explains to Nick, Matt was rendered speechless with shock while she was ordering and just looks at Rine and stammers, ‘but…but… I thought that you were a vegetarian. Lobster isn’t even a vegetable!’

‘Lobster isn’t even a vegetable’ - that’s classic! I hadn’t heard that one, Bob sputters, laughing as he wipes tears from his eyes.

I love lobster and shrimp. If it’s okay for Fridays during Lent, then it’s okay the rest of the year too, as far as I’m concerned, I reply.

Sean says something to Vince about some new catamaran design, and the rest of the table resume their previous conversations, leaving Nick and me to each other’s company again.

Do you windsurf or sail, Nick? Or is your interest in boats limited to the Tramp of Shame?

Ignoring the reference to earlier in the day, he replies, I sail a bit. But, mainly I row.

"Row? Like ‘row, row, row your boat?’"

Yes, but not what you’re thinking of - they’re called sculls, and they look more like a kayak than what you are picturing.

We chat about the merits of assorted water sports until our dinner comes out.

The food is incredible. The flavor of anything can be improved with sautéed mushrooms…probably even milkshakes. After running around and windsurfing all day, I am ravenous.

Wouldn’t it be great to be dumped in a big vat of guacamole? I sigh.

Not something that I have contemplated, Nick replies.

Don’t you like it?

It’s all right in small quantities, not something that I would want to have a steady diet of.

I just adore it…crave it. Seriously, if I don’t get it every week, everyone knows it because I’m unbearable to be around.

Nick looks at Matt and asks, Is guacamole some new American euphemism for sex or is she really talking about that glob of green stuff, pointing to a scoop of guacamole sitting nearly untouched on his plate.

A week, Matt asks in disbelief, You Brits can last a week without sex? I’m impressed. We - Americans - can’t go more than twenty-four hours without it - something to do with the fluoride in our drinking water – strong teeth and constant sex.

Yes but unlike American men, when Englishmen have sex, they aren’t alone, Nick retorts.

Fuck you, Nick!

Vince turns to me and says, The thing is, I’m not sure whether to warn you to be careful of him, or if I should warn Nick about you. You’re both vicious!

Perhaps, but I’m not the one who wanted to be naked in a vat of that baby vomit! Nick says.

I didn’t say anything about being naked! I exclaim, laughing. The point is that I really adore guacamole. Although now that you mention it, it would be better to be naked in the vat. All of that avocado nourishing your skin and hair would beat any spa treatment. My God, I could gain five hundred pounds eating my way through it, but my skin and hair would be as soft as a baby’s butt.

If you were five hundred pounds, do you think that the softness of your skin would really matter? Vince teases.

Maybe not, but I’d still have a great personality. Soft skin and a great personality – what more could a girl want?

If you were five hundred pounds, there wouldn’t be room for anything more!

Tiring of the banter, I look at Nick curiously and ask, How did you get mixed up with these guys?

We go back a while, what about you? Windsurfing? He asks this, while looking down at my hands. Even under the dim lights of the tiki torches and hurricane candles, my hands, resting lightly on the table are those of a windsurfer. While they are deeply tanned, below the knuckles, my fingers are relatively pale. On the water, my fingers, curl around the boom, and are somewhat hidden from direct sun.

I nod in acknowledgment and blurt out, It’s interesting. You sound British, but you talk like us. I smile in what I hope is a charming manner, So are you a self-loathing Brit or really an American, who wants to be British?

Good…he chuckles.

Talk like you? How so?

There are certain ways Americans phrase things, particular words that we use and those we don’t. You use the same words and phrasing, but just do it with the accent.

You mean that I am not wagering the chaps a few quid over the cricket match against that bloody team from Barbados, God Save the Queen?

Something like that, I admit.

Americans have no idea how influential American culture is. It’s a wonder that we have even retained our accents, as inundated as we are with your movies, television, and music. Americans are not as exposed to our expressions as we are of yours. When I first moved to St. Thomas, it seemed that I had to use certain Americanisms to make myself understood. When I asked the guy at the gas station to check under the bonnet of the car, I had the distinct impression that he thought that I was a homosexual, he grins. It’s easier to learn to tell them to pop the hood. A fake accent is simply too hard to maintain.

Why would you want to? To an American, all Brits sound educated and sophisticated, so therefore they all must be. After all, I add sarcastically but with a smile, appearances are everything.

We fall into a conversational lull as I sip on my second swirled margarita and study Nick Lawson. Clearly even beyond the accent, there is a quick wit. He is an interesting cocktail - half Cary Grant and half Steve McQueen.

The rustling at the other end of the table indicates that the party is about to end for the evening.

You two want to go up the mountain and play some darts, Vince asks as he pushes back his chair and stands up.

Thanks, but I’ll pass, I reply. Think I’m headed for someplace more lively. Either Back Street or Frenchtown.

What a coincidence, Nick says. I was on my way to Razz’z first and then on to Frenchtown.

We all call our see you laters and wander off in separate directions.

Nick walks me out to the car and silently takes the keys from my hand. Unlocking and opening the door, he says that he’ll see me there.

I watch him as he walks to a new Jeep. I recognize it and often wondered who belonged to it, as it was frequently pulling out of spots that I was pulling into, or already elsewhere in the same parking lots that I frequent around the island. Funny, that for such a small island, you can go a surprisingly long time without meeting people that you share friends and watering holes with.

I take full advantage of the several traffic lights between Tutu and downtown, to smoke, reapply lipstick, Opium perfume, and fluff my hair while singing along with the radio. I spot Nick’s vehicle already parked on Back Street. Parking is available on one of the side streets, so I pull in and check myself in the rear-view mirror to make certain that I don’t have lipstick on my teeth.

Walking into Razz’z, I am greeted by several acquaintances. The music is not particularly good tonight and there is no air circulation. The room is stiflingly hot. Mixing and mingling, I chat briefly with several people I know, but see no one that I am in the mood to hang out with. Nick is nowhere to be seen even though I know that his Jeep is here. Outside, the night air is cool and the street is quiet in comparison to the loud scene left behind.

The waterfront is a welcome respite. A breeze coming off of the water is strong, and I am sorely tempted to get out of the car and jump into the harbor. Nothing is so beautiful as the waterfront, particularly at night. The lights of the houses reflect on the water, into sparkling, glistening swells. I could sit, watching the harbor and listening to the ripples lap at the shore all night. The scent of barbecue wafts faintly in the air and I see the barbecue stand still busy with people standing around socializing as they wait for ribs and potato salad.

Finding a parking spot is as much of a challenge in Frenchtown as it was earlier in Tutu at Pelicano’s. Eventually, I luck out, finding one next to the baseball diamond. The field is completely lit, although there are no players in sight. I suspect that several players’ vehicles are taking up parking spots as they finish their post-game beer and pizza.

I hear music from across the parking lot. The Blues Brothers blare out as people spill through the door of the Rock. Charlie must be behind the bar. You can tell who is behind the bar based on the music. Charlie, a chubby blond Florida surfer, is particularly fond of the Blues Brothers. The Rock is one of my favorite places and while it is the popular late-night bar, it also serves outstanding food in the room behind the bar. The people coming out appear to be the last of the dinner patrons. I walk by a parked car with two people just sitting in it, looking as if they are waiting for me to pass by. No doubt, they are doing lines of coke and waiting for the coast to clear. If they were smoking a joint, they wouldn’t be so circumspect.

I have always wondered what makes a hot spot, well...hot. The Rock has been a hit from the beginning. It is very dark and totally lacking in ambiance. A large bar in the center dominates the room. There’s Pac Man and a Centipede video game against the left wall near the bathrooms. The only thing that distinguishes it from any of the less popular bars on the island is the bartender and the music he plays.

The first thing I see when I walk into the bar is Charlie the bartender’s ass. He is standing on the bar bent over with his rear end in the air as music blares from the speakers. I stand watching as he twists along with the music and dances around, until he spots me and yells over the music, Rine, get your fine self up here!

I wave him off, spotting Grace Bailey, who motions to me. I move in her direction, while smiling at others in greeting. Grace works for a perfume distributor and is frequently off-island checking on accounts throughout the Caribbean. Grace wears her hair short in a sleek bob, which suits her thin, angular features. She has on a long T-shirt over leggings.

When the song ends, I point my finger at Charlie and joke, Get back to work, and get me a GM!

Have you been off island? I turn to Grace and ask. I haven’t seen you in forever!

I wish! My parents have been visiting for the past month, and I am celebrating the fact that they are on a plane back to the States this afternoon!

That bad?

She covered her face with her hands as her head gradually falls to the bar. She pops back up and groans, You can’t even imagine. It was excruciatingly painful. All I heard was how wonderful my brothers are, how successful, talented, intelligent - you name it – the boys are it. If they are so fabulous why didn’t they go visit the boys instead and leave me alone!

I groan and make a sympathetic noise, as Grace continues with her tale of woe. If I had a nickel for every time mother used the word fancy and grandiose, or dad used the word brilliant, I would have a healthy bank account in Tortola! Who in the hell says ‘fancy’ anyway?

In what context?

She didn’t want to go out ‘anyplace fancy’ for dinner, and if I made dinner it was, she pauses and twists her face, ‘much too fancy.’ But when I made sandwiches for lunch, she proceeded to tell me what a great gourmet my sister-in-law was! Everything was fancy or grandiose. I had these beautiful hand-carved French soaps that smell like heaven and cost a small fortune in the soap dish next to their sink for display and some nice but not expensive jasmine soaps in their shower. She made this big fuss about the fact that she didn’t need anything fancy and that the soap was much too grandiose for her, so she got something less fancy. Would you believe that she took the six dollar soap out of her shower because it was too fancy and took the forty dollar bars of soap out of the dish and used them to shower with? And they used both of them!

Laughing, I reached for my glass. Serves you right for spending eighty dollars on soap!

Well, I did get them as a party favor at one of the perfume launch parties, but still… She broods, taking a sip from her cocktail before continuing, If everything was fancy and grandiose with mother, according to dad, everyone was brilliant. My brothers are brilliant. Their wives are brilliant, and all of their friends are brilliant. I swear everyone he has ever met in his life, other than myself, of course, is brilliant. Grace looks me in the eyes and asks seriously. How many truly brilliant people are there in the world? I mean obviously you have the mathematicians and scientists working for universities and laboratories, and the people at places like NASA, right? So there are quite a few brilliant people in the world, but out and about - in the general population - there can’t be that many. My brothers are great guys, and they’ve done well for themselves but brilliant they are not!

Do their brilliant wives work? I ask.

One of my brilliant sisters-in-law teaches kindergarten at a public school. Another is a dental hygienist, and the other one is a secretary.

I can see why your father thinks they’re brilliant, I say with irony.

They’re good sisters-in-law. We all get along well, but he plays fast and loose with the term brilliant. Mainly, it annoys me because nothing that I do is ever good enough. I make more selling perfume than the brilliant ones, but I’m just a salesclerk, you know?

Does he know that you’re working on your Master’s Degree in Marine Biology?

Grace frowns, No. He doesn’t ever ask me anything about myself. He is too busy talking about all the brilliant ones. It’s nothing that I’m hiding from my parents. It’s just that no one cares enough about me to ask about my life or interests. They think they know everything about me and yet, I’m a stranger to them. She looks around the room, as if looking for someone and then turns back to me. Did you come here from Pelicano’s?

No, I stopped by Back Street first.

Was Vince there?

At Pelicano’s not at Razz’z. I think he was headed up the mountain to play darts.

Hmm, I think I’ll finish up here and head in that direction. Want to come?

Thanks, but I’ll stick around here for a while.

What was going on at Razz’z?

Same as always. I didn’t stay very long.

Trevor and Nick walk inside, drinking beer, after holding the door open for Grace as she left.

We’re all going to Sub Base. Jimmy Buffett’s on island and is playing at the Salty Dog tonight, Trevor informs me.

Anyone call the Salty Dog and confirm this?

They won’t confirm this – it’s supposed to be a surprise, Trevor quickly replies.

Glancing at Nick, I notice that he looks as skeptical as I am about the likelihood of a Buffett appearance.

If it’s such a surprise, how do you know about it?

Emily told me.

How did Snotnose hear about it?

I don’t know why you don’t like her. Emily’s really a great girl.

She’s an idiot and so are you. I promise you that Jimmy Buffett will not be playing at the Salty Dog tonight. Every year, there is a rumor that he’s going to play at the Salty Dog and every year a large group of the terminally gullible goes and sits all night waiting for old Jimmy to show up. He never does. I don’t know anyone who has ever seen him play in St. Thomas, and certainly no one has seen him at the Salty Dog even having a drink. It’s a recurring island myth. He looks at me as if I had just told him that Santa Claus had killed his puppy. I’ll tell you what - go down to the Salty Dog and if Jimmy Buffett shows, call me here, and I’ll be right over and pay your bar tab for the evening.

You’re on!

Nick and I chat for a while, and before I know it, it is nearly 3:00 a.m. I motion to Charlie and hand him some cash to cover my tab and reach for my cigarettes.

Nick, it’s been fun. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.

I’ll walk you out. I’m on my way out of here, too. Do you want to join me at Nautilus for a nightcap?

I haven’t been to Naughty’s for a while. It is late. I should go home and take a swim before bed, but there really isn’t any compelling reason not to stop at Naughty’s first. Besides, as much fun as I had tonight, I enjoyed talking with Nick, most of all. Okay, sure. I’ll see you there.

I close my car door and wave, driving through Frenchtown back to the waterfront.

Nautilus is open for lunch and dinner, but I don’t know anyone who has ever been in the place before 1:00 a.m. People go to Naughty’s when everything else closes up. It does the most business between 2:30 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. The rush is generally after 4:00 a.m. when the Rock and the Club close.

I’ll get the drinks, why don’t you find us a table on the porch. Grand Marnier?

Yes, thanks.

Generally, no one sits on the porch at this hour because the shutters have already been closed for the night to contain the noise and not wake the neighbors. The star-filled night sky is pregnant with possibility. A bob-tailed cat slinks across the street as Nick returns after I locate both Dippers and Orion’s belt in the Caribbean sky. We really should be at the beach with these drinks instead of here. The stars are particularly bright.

What view do you have? He asks.

I’m in Peterborg on the point and have both a down-island view and a Magen’s Bay view. What about you?

Oh, I’m just down the street past Havensight and have a harbor view.

It’s a toss-up. I get to watch the whales in the winter, but you get to watch the cruise ships come in and go out every day.

I don’t remember you receiving any phone calls tonight, he grins.

Was I supposed to?

Trevor.

I had forgotten all about Trevor’s search for Jimmy, and laugh. That was never going to happen. The first time I heard the Jimmy Buffett story, I thought that Buick was bored and spreading the rumor for kicks. The interesting thing is that Jimmy is always supposed to be at the Salty Dog, not the Club, not anywhere on the Nord side, Frenchtown or the East End. Only the Salty Dog. I think that the owner spreads the story himself!

So Buick was unjustly accused?

A rarity, I assure you. Buick is generally the guilty party! I didn’t realize that you knew Buick.

Everybody knows Buick Sinclair. And Rine Tyler. People have assumed for years that you and I were old friends and were constantly amazed that I hadn’t met you.

Trevor said the same thing. It’s interesting though for such a small island where everyone knows everything as it happens, that I constantly meet new people all the time that have lived here for years.

You aren’t from here. Do you ever miss your home?

This is home but there are certain things about the States that I miss, I smile.

Such as?

Good onion rings – the kind done in beer batter so that you can actually taste the beer. I only ate them about twice a year but that’s something I miss. Things to do such as going to a sporting event or an art gallery. And doughnuts. The bakeries here make doughnuts differently, and they aren’t as good. Choices and availability. Hell, you can go to Baskin Robbins 31 Flavors here, and they have less than ten flavors to choose from. That’s just so wrong!

So mainly it is food that you miss, he says, raising his eyebrow.

Laughing, I guess you’re right - food issues and the power thing. We have massive generators at the crib like at the hotels, so I do have dependable power in the case of a hurricane or power outage, but it is so damned loud that it drives you to distraction. Even so, you’ll go to dinner only to get there and have a transformer out. The usual complaints. What about you?

The silly things. What is it with telling everyone to have a good day? That’s just annoying. And ‘No problem.’ I ordered a Heineken tonight and the bartender says, ‘no problem.’ Nick looks at me mystified. I had no idea that in ordering a beer, there was even the slightest potential for a problem! Laughing, I reach for a cigarette. He holds out a lighter and lights it for me as he continues. Potholes. The roads here are terrible. Nick shrugs, But it is hard to complain as we sit outside under a sky like this and smell the frangipani in the breeze and know that it is going to be just as beautiful tomorrow as it was today. But the potholes and the power outages keep everything in perspective.

We talk for another hour as we finish our drinks. By the time we bade each other goodnight and drove off in our separate directions, it was after 5:00 a.m.

Chapter 3

All I need are some tasty waves, a cool buzz, and I’m fine.

~Jeff Spicoli, Fast Times at Ridgemont High

The perfect May weather continues for the next few days, and I spend as much time as possible taking advantage of the steady breeze and windsurfing at Magen’s Bay. I contemplate taking my board to the East End and sailing from Sapphire or some of the other beaches that are the preferred spots of boardsailors. But, I am too lazy to move my board, so I enjoy Magen’s and maintain my routine.

I have woken up on Wednesday morning and am gazing out the window at the shimmering water, trying to determine which way the wind is blowing, literally, when the telephone rings.

"Feliz Cinco de Mayo, Rine!"

It’s my friend Carmen.

"Hey, que pasa, chica?"

I am at work but want to remind you that today is Cinco de Mayo, and you need to come downtown early for Happy Hour.

How early?

3:00 p.m. 3:30 p.m. at the very latest.

Why so early? I could be at the beach.

The mariachi band will start down Main Street about that time.

What? Are they having a parade?

No, but the mariachis will roam the street and wander in and out of the downtown businesses. It is very special, and you don’t want to miss it. They will start here at Duarte’s.

You’re at the center of Main Street. Won’t they come from the Post Office and work their way down, I ask, trying to buy myself more beach time.

No, Mr. Duarte pays them to start here at the store. We sell more tequila than anywhere else in St. Thomas.

Carmen works as a perfume girl in Duarte’s flagship store, downtown. Rafael Duarte owns half of Main Street, including several duty-free liquor stores. The mariachis work for one of the tequila companies.

So I should just stop by the shop at 3:00-ish? What then?

We’ll go to Rosa’s Cantina at some point because they’re having a party.

It sounds good to me, so I tell her that I will see her then and hang up the phone.

There’s no time to waste, so I reach for a bikini as I step out of bed. Damn, it is already past 10:30 a.m. and the wind is looking great. Grabbing the beach bag, I walk to the kitchen and gulp some green goop on the fly as the door slams behind me.

You’re up and around early, the Baroness chortles. She sits writing letters at the table next to the main pool. She takes a sip from what appears to be a glass of grapefruit juice and looks pleased with herself. She may have slipped some vodka in it, for all I know.

Waving, I call, Gotta skittle! It’s Cinco de Mayo and I have to be at Duarte’s to meet Carmen, Annalise, and the crew by 3:00 p.m.

You are American, and you’re meeting a Puerto Rican and a French girl at a Cuban business all to celebrate a Mexican holiday?

We’re equal opportunity partiers, I call, reaching the door.

That you are. If I remember correctly, you made a rather large fuss about both Ground Hog’s Day and Arbor Day, she smiles ruefully, trying not to smile or worse, laugh and further encourage my waywardness.

Toodles, Shirley!

Wait – get back here! You can’t go out like that or the cops will stop you. Put some clothes on!

I look down. She’s right. I wear nothing other than a chartreuse bikini. The cops can stop and ticket you for driving in a bathing suit without a cover-up. Another odd, purposeless law is the one that also outlaws driving barefoot. I have found driving with bare feet is far safer than driving with heels, which can get stuck under the accelerator.

I nod to Shirley, and pull out a shirt and shorts from the beach bag and continue on my way to the car. Not that I was all that concerned about being ticketed on the less than two-mile, mostly residential, drive to the beach. I am, however, concerned with the prospect of burning my ass on the hot leather car seat.

At Magen’s, Trevor rigs up my sail while I have a quick smoke, and the cold Coke that I brought from home for breakfast. I apply sunscreen to my face and a dollop of hair conditioner on my locks before pulling up my hair, and heading down towards the water.

This is one of those days that if I could have stepped from bed onto my windsurfer, I would have, without stopping to collect two hundred dollars when I pass Go. It is that perfect. Still early enough so that the beach is deserted except for a couple of joggers, I spot only a small paddleboat out towards the end of the peninsula nearly to my place.

Despite the heat, the sand feels slightly damp, as if morning dew is on it. Trevor carries the board to the water for me. I wade in and jump on. The wind is coming straight off the beach and is unusually steady. Going out about midway in the bay, I take long tacks parallel to the beach. I can sail almost the entire length of the beach, nearly a mile or so, and then jibe around and sail back the other way. It is pure bliss. The fickle nature of Magen’s Bay breezes is the only potentially uncooperative factor. You can be flying across the bay with the wind just wailing. Your front leg is stretched as far as it will go, nosing the board out to get as much wind force as possible into the sail. Your arms are bent, pulled into your chest, and you lean so far back that your hair is dragging in the water. You absolutely love life. It’s a total adrenalin rush. And then, the wind dies. You fall backwards smacking the water as your board speeds past you until the sail fills with water and stops it. Sometimes I surface and am surprised to hear laughing out in the middle of the bay, only to realize that I’m the one laughing because it was so much fun. Other times, it’s just plain annoying. Today, the wind holds true.

After an hour and a half, I purposely fall off to get wet and to give my arms and shoulders a break. I pull off my hair tie, dunk my head in, squeeze out the water, and pull it up. I check my watch to see how much longer I can sail. It’s about time for me to head back in, but I really don’t want to. I take another run across to the far end of the beach and tack in order to start the long zigzag back to shore towards Trevor.

I hurry home, get showered, and am prettied up by 2:15 p.m., when I have time to catch up with Shirley, poolside. I have chosen clothing that is entirely trash-able so that if the clothes need to be burned afterwards, I won’t mind. I settle on an old short Indonesian sarong to wear as a skirt, a tank top, and an ancient pair of flip-flops.

Shirley is sitting at the table with a pitcher of lemonade.

I sink down in the chair gratefully and pour myself a glass.

Well? What’s the latest?

I nearly drove the car into Magen’s Bay swerving to miss a mongoose. One of the Senators from St. Croix supposedly got into a fistfight with a taxi driver last night somewhere on the waterfront. The Bovoni transformer blew this morning, so there will be revolving power outages until it is fixed. I take a breath, then a drink, and light a cigarette as she comments.

The mongoose is faster than your car, so there’s no point in swerving. They’ll move. She takes a drink and then smirks, Roberts is an ass.

It was Senator Roberts?

Who else?

She’s right. He is an ass. I yawn, Stacy is hugely pregnant. She’s leaving for San Francisco next week to stay with her parents. Sean will follow her the week after.

What about Buick?

What about him? I guess he’ll be an uncle.

Are you sure that there’s no romance between you two?

I momentarily ponder my relationship with Stacy’s wayward brother.

No, we are more like playmates. We just have fun together.

He is very good-looking and obviously not -

I know, I interrupt. He is adorable, but there’s nothing romantic going on. Besides, he’s already been married a bunch of times – I would like to think that he’s given up that habit!

Shirley fills me in on her news in the over sixty age bracket. She pauses for a moment to refill her glass and set up the backgammon board. She asks, apropos of nothing, Do you ever go to the grocery store?

Sure, but normally I just go to Fruits n’ Nutz for produce or to Nordside or Dash-In to pick up a few things.

Have you ever noticed anything about the imbeciles they hire at the grocery store to bag groceries?

I laugh outright. They aren’t imbeciles. They’re little boys! What are you expecting, Nobel Prize winners to carry out your groceries?

That’s just it! They don’t carry them out. They only bag, and they can’t even do that right.

Of course they carry them out to the car. And, how bad of a job can they do bagging, anyway?

She looks perturbed. They do not carry the bags out to the car for me, and I have a flat loaf of bread to show you if you don’t believe in bad bagging.

Trying to defuse her, I ask, Since when do you get groceries, anyway? Doesn’t Consuela do the shopping?

"I’ve always done the shopping. Consuela only does it when I’m not