A Trip to the Beach (9 page)

Chapter 5

A rooster crowed in the distance, and I woke feeling empty and far away. Jesse would be fine, I told myself; he was in college and Walla Walla, Washington, would seem just as far from Vermont as it did from Anguilla. I knew I wasn't a bad parent—just a protective mother. If I could only shake this damned guilt. Bob returned to work with the Davis brothers, and I had plenty to keep me busy.

From the outside, Scotiabank looked like any other building in Anguilla. Inside, I was transported to another world; it could have been a Chase Manhattan branch on Lexington Avenue except for the two barefoot fishermen filling out deposit slips. There were sleek gray counters, orderly lines of customers, and even air-conditioning. I was immediately aware of the repetitive thud of rubber stamps, as tellers whomped every piece of paper that crossed their path—I had discovered a new Caribbean rhythm.

The morning sun angled in through a window, highlighting the two women in customer service. Ruth was tall and slender, with her hair neatly pulled back into a French braid and a stunning gold necklace displayed over her red uniform. Carlyn could have easily been a model had she not chosen to help people open bank accounts. They jumped into the stamping rhythm, manually applying an account number to each one of my checks.

There was a charisma about Anguillian women that was almost startling, I thought, looking around the bank. They walked slowly, with exceptional posture. They had high cheekbones, smooth chocolate skin, and smiles that illuminated the room around them. One young girl had her hair braided in what must have been a hundred strands gracefully hanging down to her waist. Another had long fingernails intricately painted with tiny gold stars that shimmered as she counted out money for a customer next to me.

Anguilla has always been an offshore tax haven. Though money laundering is against the law and the source of any large deposit is closely scrutinized, substantial sums of money from all over the world do pass through the handful of banks here. A customer service person has to be quite knowledgeable about international banking and foreign currencies. It is common for them to handle wire transfers and bank drafts in U.S. or E.C. dollars, pounds, francs, guilders, or marks. It was a sharp contrast between this cool, sophisticated Scotiabank and the simple, less complicated world outside. A bank job in Anguilla was like a bus ticket out of small-town Kansas. It wasn't vanity that made these women beautiful, it was pride.

From Scotiabank, I went to open accounts at Caribbean Commercial Bank and National Bank of Anguilla. Unlike Scotiabank, which was based in Toronto, the others were locally owned and operated, and every bit as refined and professional. We needed accounts for the restaurant in all three: one for Visa, one for MasterCard, and the other for American Express. They each had their specialty. I preferred doing business in the local banks, feeling it supported the island economy that much more. As it turned out, everyone, including locals, has accounts in more than one place. Barclays Bank was there as well, but four accounts seemed like overkill, given that we hadn't earned anything yet.

I was getting nervous about money. Though I had diligently recorded our expenses, I had not yet taken the time to calculate how much was left. The day of reckoning had come.

I was surrounded by receipts, and the columns in my green ledger book filled up quickly. Lumber, freight, and duty topped the list, but dozens of other expenses added up to alarming numbers. Thousands of dollars went to Cable & Wireless and labor for the Davis brothers. Little Joe the electrician and Charles the plumber were no bargain. Deposits on the house, hurricane insurance, buying the car, and countless other expenditures brought us to a grand total of $260,000. We were left with under $10,000. That was it.

I suddenly needed to get away from the adding machine and put my feet in the water. On the way to Shoal Bay I couldn't resist a group of schoolchildren, not more than five or six years old, who flagged me down for a ride home. They stood on the side of the road in their tiny pink uniforms with huge backpacks that hung down past their knees. “A lift,” they called out. “A lift. A lift.” Our little Suzuki barely held four adults, but by the time everyone was settled inside, eight children, backpacks and all, were crammed in. It was like the circus Volkswagen filled with countless clowns. The biggest boy claimed the front seat and put a little one on his lap. The backseat held four across, with two more on top. They had trouble closing the doors, but after much squirming and wiggling, they succeeded and off we went.

Just as the giggles and teasing started distracting me from my troubles, the real laughter began. I was so preoccupied that I neglected to slow down for a speed bump, and
wham
—everyone's head hit the roof of the car. My small passengers were having the time of their lives. “White lady hit the bump,” I heard from behind. “Do it again,” said a little voice next to me. I couldn't help but join in the laughter.

You loves Anguilla, don't you?
Joshua's words echoed in my head as I dropped my tiny friends off in Blowing Point, turned around, and went straight to the restaurant.
It's only money,
I said to myself.
It will work itself out once we're up and running.
I spent the rest of the afternoon upholstering bar stools.
Hard work is good therapy,
I reasoned.

The restaurant was coming together. The Davis brothers worked from nine to four, but Bob and I continued to work killingly long hours. We stopped to eat sandwiches, and I frequently ran up to a little grocery store for candy bars and cold drinks. I looked forward to my daily visits and loved to chat with Christine, the owner. Christine was cut out to be a shopkeeper even though she had worked for thirty years at the Mars candy factory in Slough, England. A very large woman, her benefits had undoubtedly included plenty of samples.

“You work too hard,” she would say, eyeing the paint and dirt that usually covered my clothes. “Don't you ever take a rest?” She'd then shimmy her shoulders with a large, sexy wiggle and say, “Mrs. Blanchard, we all need to get out and dance a little sometimes.”

“Christine, do
you
ever take a rest?” I would retaliate, knowing the answer. She, her daughter Sandra, and her niece Pat were in that store from six in the morning until eleven at night. Always happy to see me, Christine had become my confidante. We exchanged war stories, hers of candy bars, mine of salad dressing. While we talked, little children clutching fistfuls of coins came to buy whatever candy they could afford. Christine would help with their math, while I marveled at the selection of goods for sale: cod liver oil, ginseng extract from China, rum, condoms, cakes, and canned goods.

Our kitchen staff was taking shape. In addition to Garrilin we had hired Shabby as a grill cook, and Clinton had said, “I could try a little thing in the kitchen too.” They were planning to continue doing construction with their brothers during the day and work with me in the kitchen each night.

With only three weeks to go until opening, we were grateful when people began stopping by looking for jobs. It was a simple process compared to back home—no advertising, no applications, no formal interviews, and no references. When the restaurant started to look presentable from the road, people appeared daily in search of work.

Dressed in khakis and a light blue oxford shirt, one of our first applicants came with the obvious intent of making a good impression. He was surprised to see me, the boss, splattered from head to toe with pink paint. I immediately felt as if I were the one being evaluated when he asked if I'd been in the restaurant business before. He handed me a resumé and explained that he had worked in dining rooms in New York and Miami. He could run the whole restaurant, he assured me, and was certain we would never find another Anguillian with such a strong professional background. Perhaps not, I thought, but it felt unsettling to hire someone whose innocence had been lost in New York and Miami. I ended the conversation with a simple, “Thank you, we'll give you a call.” I hoped we could do better than that.

I was wrestling with a thorny bougainvillea when a white jeep pulled up and a tall, wiry young man hopped out and offered to give me a hand. After we had the plant safely in the ground, he continued to follow me around, helping in the garden. Lugging burlapped root balls of hibiscus, small palms, and lime trees, we set them beside their respective holes ready for planting and talked nonstop as we worked. I learned his name was Lowell Hodge and he lived right up the road in Long Bay, near Christine's shop.

“Are you looking for any waiters, or am I too late?” Lowell asked.

He helped me load the wheelbarrow with some smaller plants. “Actually, we don't have
any
waiters. We've hired a few people to help in the kitchen, but so far that's it. Have you worked as a waiter before?” I asked, hoping he wasn't going to tell me about his last job in New York.

Lowell smiled. There was an honest, accomplished look in his eyes. “I work at Coccoloba Hotel since I sixteen, but I ready to make a switch.”

“Are you having some sort of problem there?”

Lowell paused for a minute, assessing my dirty hands and torn T-shirt. The sun was hot, and I could feel the sweat streaking my face with dirt.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare. You never stop, do you?” he asked.

“No. I like to work. Are you sure you want to get tangled up with me? I guarantee I'll be working just as hard in the restaurant as I am out here, and I'll expect everyone to do the same.” Then I realized he hadn't answered my question. “So, is there a problem at Coccoloba?”

“No, not really. I just have a good feeling about this place. I think you're going to be real busy.”

Surprised that he had such a positive opinion about our project, I asked why he thought we were going to be busy.

“Everyone talkin' about you guys. You put this place up
fast,
and you workin' so hard. My brother a waiter up Malliouhana and they all talkin' about it. Everyone I see at Christine shop talkin' about it too. Just wait till the season. You gonna be packed.”

“And you want to be here when we are.”

“I a good waiter. You'll see. Give me a chance.”

I liked this young man. When I said he was hired, he offered to be at our disposal until the opening. Both of us, now equally covered with dirt, went inside to see Bob.

Lowell introduced himself with confidence. “Hey, Bob, I Lowell. The place looks great.” They shook hands, and after just a few short words I knew Bob agreed we were lucky to have Lowell on our team.

Every morning for the next few weeks Lowell and I worked side by side. The barren, sandy yard continued to transform into an enchanted garden. Bob and Clinton sometimes came outside to help. We built two oval-shaped fountains out of rocks outside the dining room, visible from almost every table. In each a series of water jets was installed along with underwater lights to illuminate them. The winding stone path to the beach meandered alongside one of the fountains. It continued through the dappled shade of the big, gnarled sea grape tree and then down to the sea.

I wouldn't have blamed Charles the plumber had he wanted to strangle me. I wanted a trickle, not a splash, in the fountains, and it took countless attempts to adjust the spray of water. First he had five-foot-high jets that gushed into the air. Then came short, fat, foamy bubbles, barely visible from the restaurant. “No problem,” Charles assured me. “We gonna get this water just the way you wannit.” We settled on something that looked like a mushroom or bell on one side and a multitude of fine sprays on the other.

Our only source of disagreement was aesthetic. Charles really wanted colored lights in the fountains, thinking this would make it more spectacular. He was disappointed when I said I wasn't looking for spectacular—just a calming sense of peace and serenity. “Whatever you want,” he conceded.

My mom always called me a tomboy, and I guess I've never changed. The only way I could seem to mix the dirt with the fertilizer was with my hands. I dumped the dirt in the wheelbarrow, added some fertilizer, and gathered up armloads at a time from underneath, blending it thoroughly. Lowell hosed in enough water to make a thick, muddy concoction—perfect, I declared, for filling in the holes around the plants. Not wanting to ruin my sandals, I did the entire job barefoot, and by the end of each day I was coated with black mud between my toes, under my fingernails, in my hair, and basically all over my entire body. “Pigpen Mel,” Bob called me.

Lowell and I painted the shutters, along with several trees and anything else that got in our way. We used teal paint to match the deepest part of the sea. I had bought a Wagner paint sprayer just for that purpose and was surprised at the excitement it created. Shabby called down from the roof, “Is that a Wagner?”

“Yes,” I said. “Have you ever used one?”