Cole Bay Band: Adventure-Romance Caribbean Style

By T. Stelma

When Sandy Bennett met Jimmy Coleman, she was forced to keep her true identity a secret. On a second honeymoon from hell, Jimmy fell hard for the enchanting, young waitress from Paris. Was it only an island fantasy, or love at first sight?
Things are quite different for both of them these days. While one is reluctantly aboard the fast track to fame, the other is mired in misery and self-doubt. Are they only in need of a muse, or does one naturally and eternally complete the other?
Come back to St. Martin and find out in Cole Bay Band.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626750852

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PROLOGUE

When Sandy Bennett met Jimmy Coleman, she was forced to keep her true identity a secret. On a second honeymoon from hell, Jimmy fell hard for the enchanting, young waitress from Paris. Was it only an island fantasy, or love at first sight?

Things are quite different for both of them these days. While one is reluctantly aboard the fast track to fame, the other is mired in misery and self-doubt. Are they only in need of a muse, or does one naturally and eternally complete the other?

Come back to St. Martin and find out in Cole Bay Band.

CHAPTER ONE

Jimmy turned from his eighty-eight key music synthesizer and squinted through the sunlight pouring from the screen door of his Echo Park apartment. He had chosen this neighborhood in haste, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. The area was renowned for its history of creative residents, and the current inhabitants took great pride in maintaining a positive image for Los Angeles as well as the rest of civilization. Of course, criminality was a factor, as it is in any urban area, but Jimmy felt relatively safe most times. He hoped the spirits of Steve McQueen, Art Pepper, and Frank Zappa would guide him in this new environment and spur him on to success.

Although he lived on the second floor, the apartment building itself had no first floor. It was constructed on stilts made of steel and wooden beams. The owner, manager, and next-door neighbor to Jimmy had lived there for five decades and had declared it earthquake-proof when first showing it. Gus was Jimmy’s only friend other than Arnie: a sax player who lived on the other end of the U-shaped structure. Once a week, Gus would tap on the screen door and ask Jimmy to bring in the delivered water cooler bottle and put it in place on the dispenser. They would sit and chat for a while on those days, and Gus usually did all the talking. He took great pride in the palm trees and foliage he had planted in the space that filled in the U. Over the decades the plants had grown well past the elevated apartment walkway. This horticultural effort eventually provided privacy for residents facing each other while adding tropical ambiance and charm to the entire complex.

Jimmy had a habit of focusing on the palm trees. They reminded him of one such tree on the beachfront of a resort in St. Martin. He could not shake the image of the most beautiful girl he had ever met, encountered while using the tree to stretch before a run down the length of Orient Beach.

It also reminded him of his ill-fated second honeymoon and the following train wreck that derailed his path to success, so he never lingered on the imagery for too long. He turned his attention back to the keyboard and computer monitor and played back the track he had been working on. Sixteen bars in, he realized he had not created the Earth’s next mega-hit; instead he had only succeeded in ripping off an old Robin Trower song. Disgruntled and disgusted, he rose from his seat to take a fifth of Stoli from the freezer. Placing it on the old desk that supported the keyboard, he doodled on the keys, stopping every few minutes to pour himself a shot. The frost on the bottle gradually disappeared from the top down, forming a watery ring on the wood laminate glued to particleboard that was his work station.

Eight shots in, the evening sun gave way to twilight, and he gingerly replaced the bottle in the freezer before taking to the couch for a nap. The time of day when he slept was of little importance to Jimmy. What was truly important to him was getting some cohesive tracks together to finish his first album. He had cancelled the cable service for his television and internet in order to concentrate all his energy and creativity to this vital project. This act was two-fold in purpose. Keeping his media limited to a radio kept him from searching for Sandy. His obsession with the runaway housewife-turned fashion icon occupied his waking hours so completely, he could think of little else. He had removed anything that would allow the opportunity to see her images or hear of her progress in the world of style. But he could not turn off his memories. Even in this drunken haze, Jimmy could still picture her joyful countenance as she glided effortlessly around him in the ocean. Where are you? he said softy to himself as he settled onto the couch, closed his eyes, and faded into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER TWO

The former Mrs. Sandy Bennett awoke early, the sunrise acting as her alarm clock as usual. She felt stressed and weary from the week’s events, and she still had another week of tasks leading up to the grand opening of her Solange boutique in the prestigious Rue Saint Honoré fashion district in Paris. She drew back the curtains of her Louvre-Tuileries neighborhood apartment and impatiently waited for her tea kettle to boil. Her new life as a style icon was a far cry from the one she left behind her in Michigan. Her only expectations in those days were still fresh in her mind: to be a housewife and mother to happy and well-adjusted children. Being an only child, she had wanted at least two children, but a bad choice of spouse, followed by a remarkable turn of events had placed her instead at the forefront of the international fashion industry. Being the constant subject of scrutiny by paparazzi and tabloid magazines made those early aspirations seem enviable at this point in her life. But as is often the case with life, nothing had turned out as she expected. The man she had pledged her love to tried to kill her. An idea sprung from a whim had combined with her notoriety as an international fugitive to catapult her into this current position.

When the kettle whistled its signal, she poured the contents into a serving pot with three bags and sat at the small desk which contained her laptop and cell phone. Sandy looked at both with trepidation. One would contain of flood of messages and texts, and the other a barrage of emails, all concerning this new business venture. Although she had coworkers in St. Marin better equipped to handle these details, she was considered the face of the franchise, and her physical presence was far more important than her business acumen.

She chose to switch on the phone first, as her number was not readily available to anyone other than family, close friends, and business partners. She sipped her tea as the songs and sound effects indicating unheard and unread messages ran their course. Sandy speed-dialed her closest friend and confidant, Maya, and hoped she was still awake. Maya picked up on the third ring, sounding more exuberant than sleepy.

My favorite girl! Maya dispensed with the standard greeting, having seen her friend’s name on the display prior to answering. Aren’t you up a little early?

I suppose I am. Sandy smiled at the sound of Maya’s voice, I was afraid you would be asleep by now.

Not tonight, she replied with a giggle. "Leo and I had a late dinner, and we both got a little faced on Pinot. In fact, Leo just called you Coitus Interruptus." Sandy could hear him laughing in the background, So what’s on your mind, my little mood-breaker?

Oh dear. I just wanted to hear your voice, Sandy said apologetically. I can always call back later this evening.

Ten minutes later and you would have been hearing a lot more than that, Maya said impishly. Any time is the right time when it comes to you, my friend. Everything going okay there?

I suppose it is, but I never dreamed how many details needed to be addressed. You know I’m more the creative type. This business stuff is mind-boggling.

Tell me about it, Leo intoned. People’s priorities are always on the opposite side of the spectrum from your own. Maya had placed the phone in speaker mode.

Honestly, Leo, how to you do it? Sandy asked him in earnest.

I do things on my terms, and everyone else just has to get used to it, he advised. Just keep in mind that you call the shots. That means you also set the pace. They will deal with that, and if they can’t, screw ‘em. There are dozens of people lined up eager to take their place…and your people are more aware of this than you think.

Leo knew what he was talking about. He had turned a storefront music studio into a multi-million dollar business and had never cow-towed to anyone in the process.

Hey, I’ve got some news for you, Maya regained control of the conversation. Your buddy the singer’s band is back at the Wharf, but he isn’t with them anymore. Sandy picked up on Leo’s quiet attempt to hush his wife. An expression of concern furrowed her brow.

What happened? she asked. Sandy knew about Jimmy’ record deal and was hoping to hear his voice again, although this time on the radio instead of the small stage in the bar area of L’Hôtel sur la Mer, where she had first met him while posing as a French waitress.

I don’t really know, Maya replied, I guess I should have done a little research before telling you this. I’m sure he’s okay though. Leo hooked him up with people he can trust. Maybe he decided to leave the band behind and go with studio musicians.

Although Sandy didn’t know Jimmy for very long, she had a hard time believing he would even consider doing such a thing. I hope he’s okay, Sandy said worriedly, I wish I could talk to him, but I’m probably the last person he wants to hear from.

You didn’t do anything wrong, honey, Maya said soothingly. It’s all about the timing. Things are working out for him now and for you too. Just take things one crisis at a time. You’ll be home soon and we can relax together for a while. Sandy heard Leo whispering in the background. Maya laughed in response. Leo says it’s time to go…the pill is working. Sandy blushed and said her goodbyes.

She switched on the computer and scrolled through her phone text messages and emails simultaneously as she sipped her tea, feeling much more confident than she had before the call.

CHAPTER THREE

Jimmy gulped down a large bottle of water with three Ibuprofens and a stomach acid reducer after brushing the stale taste of vodka from his mouth with a combination of toothpaste and mouthwash. He was about to lie down on the couch again when the sound of a foot tapping the bottom of his screen door diverted his hangover recovery plan.

I would let myself in, but my hands are full, Arnie said, holding up a cardboard coffee cup holder in one hand and a small grocery bag in the other to illustrate his point. Jimmy welcomed him in and took the two large designer coffees to-go from their cradle and placed them on the kitchen table. They sat across from one another on cushioned tubular metal chairs and Jimmy pried open the lid on his cup as Arnie removed a box of plain donuts from the bag. Jimmy ripped open the cardboard zipper protecting the donut’s freshness.

How anybody can drink coffee without sugar has always been a mystery to me, Arnie said as he spooned four spoonfuls into his paper and wax cup.

I read somewhere that sugar makes you want to have a cigarette, Jimmy replied, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference to me. I want one just as bad as I did two months ago.

Permit me to quote Ian Anderson when I say nothing is easy, Arnie said as he blew across the top of his scalding beverage. He looked towards the keyboard and the still-present ring of water next to it. Another eight and out for you last night?

Yeah, that’s getting to be standard operating procedure these days, Jimmy said with resignation. Seems like there just isn’t anything up here anymore.

Well, you know I’m not one to preach, Arnie replied, but the thing about booze is—it only heightens depression. People use it to wash the sadness away, but it really makes the next day even worse, and the day after that, and the day after that…pretty soon you start feeling like you got nothing to live for. Trust me, I’ve been there.

Jimmy knew this to be a fact. Arnie was five years sober, but he never disparaged his friends over their vices, habits, and addictions. He believed in free will and was only trying to offer comfort, rather than recommend a lifestyle revamp to his friend.

You missed a beautiful gig last night, he said, immediately changing the subject, I wish I could get you to come out more often. I knocked on your door at nine, but I could see you were down for the count. You really should lock your front door before you go to bed, man. One day you’re going to wake up, and that amazing machine over there is going to be gone.

Jimmy looked over at the sequencer. Maybe whoever took it would actually get some use out of it. It doesn’t seem to be helping me any.

Aw, you just need some inspiration, that’s all. Arnie was eternally upbeat. That’s why you should go gigging with me more often.

I appreciate that, Arnie, Jimmy said. I like singing with you guys, but I’m supposed to be writing a rock album, not scat-singing in jazz clubs.

Arnie took out a cigarette and waited for a nod of approval before lighting it. I know it’s not your thing, man. Just thought it might help clear your head a little.

Arnie couldn’t really afford the four-dollar-a-cup coffee that he would bring over a couple of times per week, but musicians always seem to have trouble denying themselves things that bring them pleasure. In his reasoning, there were habits far worse out there, and this indulgence was quite modest in comparison to other vices from a financial standpoint. Jimmy and Arnie watched and listened to songs recorded from the previous evening’s performance long after the java was consumed, and Jimmy helped him pick the best sections of performance for posting video clips on the internet later that day. Arnie didn’t need to take notes; he had a brain like a tape recorder. The man could learn a Paul Desmond solo and recall it from memory, note for note, decades later. He was one of thousands of struggling musicians in the greater Los Angeles area, but he had the patience and determination necessary to make it. Arnie was going to make it…or die trying.

He envied Jimmy’s position, but he had never once said so. Jimmy had a one-year, one record deal with a small Indie label that was swallowed up by a conglomerate before the ink dried on his contract. Jimmy figured he and his group would be quickly kicked to the curb. To the contrary, their budget increased, and the new owner offered facilities that were top of the line. He and his band mates had six tracks in the can and were polishing up eight more in the garage adjacent to the five-bedroom house they were afforded in the Venice Beach area when Jimmy was called into a meeting with the record company’s legal team. He had signed the divorce papers in great haste, since both he and Cindy were parting with nothing more than they came into the marriage with. He did not realize she had laid claim to fifty percent of every song he had copyrighted during their marriage, and eight of them were supposed to end up on the album. Jimmy had structured the record contract carefully, allowing each of his fellow musicians twelve-and-a-half percent of the net royalties, with the remaining fifty going to him. Although he had written the songs himself, he felt the contributions of each player in performance were just as important. The sum of the parts, as his guitarist, Dennis put it, was more important than the single creative vision of the song itself.

Now faced with handing over the lion’s share of any conceivable profit to the stony bitch, Jimmy experienced a meltdown. He put the brakes on the whole project and resolved to write eight new songs so his ex would never exact her revenge upon him with a stream of royalty checks in her mailbox.

That’s when he hit the wall. The venomous hatred that surfaced as a result of Cindy getting the last laugh consumed him completely. The songs he wrote in the subsequent weeks were dark and ominous, completely lacking the free spirited energy and loving-life feel of the tunes that attracted the A&R reps in the first place. After overhearing a sound engineer compare a new work to a scene from The Wedding Singer, Jimmy held a somber late-night meeting with his band and recommended they return to their house gig in Saint Clair Shores, Michigan until he could present some material worth committing to. Two months later, he was no further along than the day they all left. He still had a considerable amount of advance money in the bank, but time was a much larger consideration. He was eight months away from an abandoned project and a bad investment tax write-off for the record company.

Jimmy realized he had let his thoughts drift away from Arnie’s music, but Arnie hadn’t noticed; he was immersed in the sounds of his band’s interpretation of an old Gino Vannelli ballad. Jimmy silently wished he could borrow his friend’s focus, and asked Arnie to accompany him on a run.

Arnie laughed. No thanks, man, I have a lot to do today. You know the neighbors would think I was dead if they didn’t hear me practicing.

Jimmy thanked him for the breakfast and pulled on some worn sweatpants, sneakers, and a T-shirt. The look was effective in keeping the criminal element’s interest to a minimum when he went for a run around the park.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sandy’s day wasn’t going any better than the previous day or the day before that. Although she had a natural ability when it came to fashion, the worlds of interior design, architecture, and construction all possessed a language of their own. Even though she had insisted on all contractors being bilingual, the terminology employed by her workers made as little sense in English as it did in French. The friction between her interior designer and general contractor was more than palpable as well. The morning meetings would abruptly turn into shouting matches between François and Jean, and she would be reduced to a bystander as their arguments escalated. To make matters worse, François was becoming the daily brunt of whispered jokes between the carpenters and laborers. Jean did nothing to stop it; in fact he seemed to enjoy the lack of respect his workers showed the world-class interior designer. François wasn’t helping things any by his choice of wardrobe either; one day he would show up in a blousy shirt with a colorful scarf, the next a white suit with black lapels, and on one occasion, black spandex shorts with a matching shirt. He always looked out of place surrounded by workers in torn jeans and T-shirts, and often complained of their unpleasant odor and complete unwillingness to keep dust out of the air and subsequently, onto his clothes.

The drywall was finished and freshly painted, but Sandy had to intervene when the workers had not realized the wiring between the frames was designed to be pulled through a hole near the top of each section of drywall. She had spent much of the day on a ladder with a tape measure, marking the spots where holes were to have been created and finished out. The idea was to construct floor-to-ceiling wooden boxes tall enough to hold two garments: one above the other. A single spotlight was to be mounted on the top, aiming down at the garments with a soft white light. This would contrast the effect of a glowing, dark blue ceiling with amber track lighting aimed towards the surrounding floor. The opposite wall of the long rectangular room would be devoted to a store-length granite counter. The counter would ultimately be manned by clerks bringing up items on large monitors for customers to make their selections.

This plan was a high-tech compromise to the island shop feel first suggested by her partners in St. Martin. Although the original concept was charming, it had no place in a setting such as this. François’ vision was a good one, and she had marveled at the sketches and 3-D modeling of what would be the finished boutique. Getting there under deadline was proving to be daunting, though.

Another verbal battle erupted when the workers brought in the wooden display boxes, only to find they were too tall to be put into place along the wall. Jean claimed he was given incorrect measurements by François’ architectural team, and François was insisting this was just another attempt to make him look foolish. Sandy studied the blueprints in the makeshift office that was to eventually become a changing area. She couldn’t concentrate over the shouting and didn’t feel she had the strength left to start moving a ladder around to re-measure and compare the two.

She slapped her hands on the plywood desk. Get a room, you two! The pair stopped shouting and both regarded her curiously before resuming their battle. Sandy raised her hands in resignation and rolled her eyes before leaving the area and heading straight for the front door. Once outside, she found a cigarette in her purse and lit it with shaking hands. She looked up at her yellow awning, wondering if the color had been a bad choice. It stood out dramatically from the blues and purples employed by the other designers in this centuries-old shopping district.

Bright like the sun. A male voice startled her. She glanced over and returned her gaze to the awning.

Do you think it’s too much? she asked, eager for an objective opinion.

I was speaking of you, not the canopy, he replied.

Sandy turned her attention towards the stranger, who was indeed looking at her and not the awning. She recognized him immediately: Michel Moreau, the top male designer in the business. His face was a trademark around the globe. He had a flair for style and inventiveness with the added bonus of devastatingly good looks. The latter of these qualities took her aback for a moment. He sometimes modeled his own creations in print ads, although you were far more likely to see him on the cover of a fashion magazine than on the pages within. He wore an elegant, yet casual, suit that fit him perfectly, and if not for the longer, flawlessly coiffed blonde hair, one would think they were looking at David Beckham. Indeed, he was to fashion what Beckham was to soccer.

I have always wished to meet the famed Solange, he said graciously. "Je suis Michel Moreau." He extended his hand in greeting, and she shook it gently.

I know who you are, she said, hoping he would not notice her trembling.

"Alors, you are cold?" He was more observant than she had hoped.

No, I’m used to this weather. More like stress, I’m afraid.

The weather in Paris during the month of December paralleled that of Southeast Michigan. She had assumed the frost from her breath was leftover exhaled tobacco and not a product of the temperature. She hadn’t even noticed the cold air.

You should not have to deal with things such as this, he said, looking towards the shop window taped with paper from within to hide the construction. But I like to stop in and look at the work too. I suppose we are both perfectionists in this way.

I thought I could handle it, Sandy confessed, but I didn’t expect everyone to be fighting most of the day.

That is often the case when it comes to these projects, he advised, but you will find it always comes together in the end.

Sandy was surprised Michel Moreau even set foot in one of his boutiques until its completion; his wealth was substantial, and she always had assumed this man never left his home or office for any other reason than a dinner party.

I’m not so sure, she said. "My deadline is less than a week away and looking at it right now, I just don’t think it’s going to happen.

May I? Michel gestured towards the front door.

Sandy balked. I don’t think I want you to see this.

He laughed. I have seen much worse, and many times, I am sure.

He graciously opened the door for her and they stepped in. The argument between François and Jean had spilled into the center of the room. The construction workers watched with amusement.

"Voter attention s’il vows plait!" Michel shouted above the din while clapping his hands twice loudly. Everyone in the room turned to look at him. François appeared to be ashamed at the site of Michel, and Jean looked just plain frightened.

"Liaisons faire les choses! Go home!"

The men sheepishly put down their tools and headed towards the back exit. François and Jean remained where they were, sharing an expression of confusion.

Tomorrow is another day, Michel lowered his voice to a conversational volume. He flicked his hand towards them like a farmer removing a ladybug from his shirtsleeve. François let out a shuddering sound of frustration, and the two followed the others to the rear of the shop.

But they still have work to do, Sandy protested.

"Cherie, it is eight o’clock in the evening. How long have you been here today?" She suddenly realized it had been over eleven hours.

These men are tired, he continued. They are of no use to you at this hour, and you are no use to them. Come, let us find a café and relax for a while.

That is the best idea I have heard all day, she replied as she realized it had been hours since she had even thought about eating.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jimmy put in a little over two miles, encircling Echo Park and pausing only to hand out leftover donuts he had placed in a plastic bag to homeless people. The air was cool in the morning, and it seemed to be overcast and windy more often than the previous months. Still, he was sweating by the time he returned to his apartment and quickly doffed the sweatshirt when he came in the door. His headache was fading, but the gloom brought about by his writer’s block left him feeling lethargic and helpless. A rattling sound diverted his attention from proceeding into the shower. He watched his cell phone move slowly across the coffee table as the vibration combined with the hard surface to produce movement and just as much noise as any ringtone. Jimmy didn’t need to read the display to know who it was.

Hello Dennis, he said, trying to sound cheerful.

Hey brother, his friend, band mate, and confidant replied. How are those sunny California skies treating you today?

Not as nice as you would think, Jimmy said, returning to the screen door to look outside, but I do have the front door open.

Go ahead, rub it in man, Dennis chided him, Just wanted to see how it’s going. You making any progress?

"Not as much as you would think. I wish I could tell