Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (4 page)

Sitting there in the jeep,
the dog growling at me in an increasingly unfriendly tone, I felt as if I was under surveillance – by someone other than the canine. The sensation intensified with every second I spent staring, lost and confused, into the woods.

Nonsense, I told myself.

I backed out onto the main road and turned in what I hoped was the opposite direction to when I entered.

To my great relief,
I soon reached the outskirts of town. With my internal compass reset, I restarted my path to the inn and arrived at its summit parking lot less than fifteen minutes later.

But t
hat unsettled cloud followed me home, and nothing would quell the knot that continued to grow in my stomach.

I tried to reason
it away, but the fear was real, palpable and, at times, near crippling.

Mine was more than routine paranoia. I had re
ason to be wary of unseen eyes.

Isla
nd life had loosened me, drawn out a recklessness in my nature that I had never before experienced.

I was ashamed of
the things I’d done, terrified that an unsympathetic observer might discover my indiscretions – and that the home I’d worked so hard to build would be destroyed by hate and anger.

But
I should have known from the start.

You can’t
keep secrets on an island.

DESPITE MY
APPREHENSION, the next few weeks passed without catastrophe or even minor disaster. Our Island Inn was off to a roaring start. Our rooms were steadily filled at about fifty percent capacity, and the restaurant was regularly booked up on the weekends.

I
began to let go of my worries. I told myself that everything would be fine.

F
or a short while, it was.

Life on
Parrot Ridge fell into a routine of sorts.

Oliver
and I woke at dawn each morning. Charlie the Chicken and his or her feathered friends made sure of that.

Afte
r checking in with Maya and Jesús, we’d eat a quick breakfast and then load the poodles into the jeep for a drive down to the beach. We’d found an isolated spot where the dogs could romp in the waves. The saltwater and sand made a mess of their coats, but Noodles and Yum-Yum loved their swims.

We were usually
back up at the inn by the time the overnight guests moseyed down to the eating area by the pool. We’d make the rounds, stopping at each table to ask if everyone had enjoyed their stay. The answer was almost always a resounding yes – not surprising, given how well they were pampered.

By midday
, the departures had cleared out and any remaining guests had left for excursions around the island. I generally spent the afternoon in the kitchen, overseeing the meal prep and occasionally running into town for last minute ingredients.

Oli
continued to staff the front desk, serving up rum punches with plastic flamingo straws to anyone who stopped by. He supervised the maids who cleaned the guest rooms and, of course, designed the place settings and décor for the restaurant’s evening service.

Dinner was
a circus, particularly on the weekends. It started around four with happy hour on the deck by the pool. By five at the latest, reservations for the sunset seating would be filled. We typically turned away a half-dozen or so people calling up from the resorts.

Word had
spread that Our Island Inn was the best place on the island to finish off the day.

~
~ ~

I WHOLEHEA
RTEDLY SHARED this sentiment about our quaint little inn, although for me, the end of the day didn’t take place until several hours later, when the plates had been cleared and the last dinner guests had either returned to their rooms or been driven back to their resorts.

About that
time, Oli would yawn and retire to our living quarters. He’d crawl into bed with the poodles and be fast asleep within minutes.

I needed
an hour or two to unwind, so I’d pour myself a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and collapse into one of the plastic chairs on the pool deck. By the light of a candle and, depending on the lunar cycle, the glow of the moon, I’d make a few halfhearted attempts to write in my journal.

Jesús
would usually join me with a tumbler of Scotch that he refilled several times over, along with my wine glass. His Spanish accent became thicker and less intelligible with every ounce of alcohol. Our conversations trended toward the ridiculous, in part due to linguistic misunderstandings, in part due to sheer exhaustion.

After several rounds of drink and laughter, we’d lapse into a peaceful silence.

Often, he and I would stay up past midnight, listening to the repetitive chirp of the tree frogs, the occasional random
squawk
from a feral chicken, and the ever-present rustling in the steep jungle beneath the deck – the last of which seemed to grow louder as the night dragged on.

THE FIRST INCIDENT
occurred on a Friday night, about two months after we opened the inn and restaurant.

I
t was an unusually popular dinner service. The tables were booked more than twenty-four hours in advance, and we fielded a record number of phone calls from folks seeking reservations.

There were
four couples staying at the inn that night, and all of them joined us for the evening meal. Tourists who were taxied up from the resort on the island’s west end filled the rest of the available seats. By late afternoon, safari trucks were maneuvering up and down the steep driveway, competing for parking spaces near the restaurant.

It was a
profitable session, with several parties celebrating anniversaries and, consequently, ordering the top-priced offerings on the menu. A number of diners chose to complement their food with champagne and fine wine, further adding to the night’s revenue.

In the kitchen,
Maya and Jesús struggled to keep up. Elsie from the cleaning staff offered to lend a hand, chopping vegetables, stirring sauté pans, and plating food as needed. Oli and I ran about like mad, trying to make sure the service flowed as smoothly as possible.

Given the extra demands of that evening’s crowd
, I didn’t notice the particularities of the couple seated at table seven until they reached the dessert course.

They were older, a
few years north of fifty, if I had to guess.

She was a petite blond, gracefully going gray
. She wore a lightweight cotton shirt and a pleated skirt. The tips of her toes peeked out through dainty sandals. Even her nail polish was a bashful shade of pink.

I glanced across the table at her husband
and shuddered. In picking out her lifelong mate, she had chosen poorly.

Perhaps she’d been wilder
when they first met. Or he might have been a choice of convenience, a compromise that she later regretted. Maybe his youthful geniality had simply soured with age.

This much was readily apparent.
He was now a boorish lout.

He sat sprawled in his chair
with his legs spread wide. His Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned one rung too low, exposing far too much curly gray chest hair for a formal dinner – even a Caribbean one. He wore more jewelry than his wife, none of it tasteful. The brassy chains around his neck were as obviously artificial as the hair implants tufting out the front of his scalp.

The
unpleasant appearance came with a deafening voice that was even more off-putting.

He had s
truck up a conversation with a younger couple seated at the next table. They were politely suffering through the one-sided exchange – as was the wife.

“Rented a yacht last weekend.
Me and the missus. Took it out around the north side the island.
Heh
. The last pair to stay in it left a stash of little blue pills in the main cabin. They were in a candy dish, right there in the center console.”

The w
ife shuffled her feet beneath the table. Her hands fiddled nervously with her napkin.

“You know what I mean
? The little blue pills? Buddy, have you tried ‘em yet? They do amazing things to a man. Just ask my wife here.”

The
other guests grimaced and turned away, but there was no escape for the wife. The crude monologue continued until the husband announced he was heading to the little boys’ room.

A sigh of relief swept through
the dining area as Oliver directed the loathsome man to the stairs at the far side of the deck.

The
steps led first to the restroom facilities located directly beneath the kitchen and then continued another level down, eventually opening onto the rough ground at the bottom of the clearing. The doors to the men’s and women’s facilities were lit and clearly marked.

Up until that night, we’d never lost a guest en ro
ute to the restaurant bathrooms.

Nevertheless, the demure woman with the pale pink toenails
sat waiting for over an hour for her husband to return.

The bill came. She
signed the meal to their room and sighed apologetically at the empty seat across the table.

I saw Oliver lean over
her chair to comfort her. I figured he was telling her not to worry. At that point, we had no need for their table. The dinner rush had ended soon after sunset.

The wife sat dutifully in her seat
until the last couples finished their meals, but the horrid husband never reappeared.

I tried not to stare when she finally
got up and exited the pavilion. There was a striking difference about the woman. Her posture had straightened. It was as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The wrinkles in her face softened, and I swear she looked five years younger.

When she checked out
of their room the next morning, she was bright, smiling – and alone.

As far as
I know, she never searched for her wayward spouse. She didn’t notify the police or report that he was missing.

But then, he was the type of person that no one really wants to find.

~ ~ ~

AT THE TIME
, I dismissed the episode as a bizarre domestic dispute.

I
was too busy with my other endeavors to pay much attention to the man’s disappearance. Between covering up the evidence of my ongoing infidelities and tamping down the related guilt, I had little time for anything else.

I thought I was so clever.

But of course, I had fooled no one.

And so I ignored
the monster I’d created.

THE NEXT DAY, Oliver stood in
the restaurant’s pool deck seating area, planning the layout for that night’s dinner service. An afternoon wind blew across the hilltop, the front edge of an approaching storm that had dropped the island’s temperature to a chilly 72 degrees Fahrenheit.

The innkeeper
ran his hands through his tousled blond hair, tugging at the longer locks. The evening forecast called for scattered showers trending toward a drenching downpour. The likelihood of inclement weather had increased the creative challenge for his decorative table settings.

A slim
young woman with tightly braided pigtails walked down the steps from the main residence carrying an armload of linens in a variety of shades and textures. She set the pile on a counter beneath the pavilion and patiently waited for Oliver to decide on his design strategy.

“What do you think, Elsie?” he asked, frowning up at the sky.

“Go with a darker color,” she suggested. “Something with a pattern. The cloth won’t show as much if it gets wet.”

Oliver nodded his agreement.
“Right you are.”

He thumbed through the pile, grinning apologetically
as he pulled out his selection. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

“It’s no problem, sir.” Her face crimped into a short smile. It was indeed a hassle to
keep twelve sets of table linens pressed and at the ready, but she liked Mr. Oliver – far more so than his partner.

Over the years,
Elsie had performed countless hospitality-related tasks. The island’s economy revolved around tourism, so there were always positions available in hotels, restaurants and catering. In her short life, she had worked for several employers and experienced a wide range of temperaments. Oliver was by far the kindest boss she had ever met.

“Okay, I’ll put the rest of these back
in the closet.” She knew better than to leave the discarded options within view. Oliver had the best of intentions, but he could easily change his mind five times – or more – before the dinner guests began to arrive. The quicker she returned the rejected linens to the storage unit the better. She picked up the pile and turned for the stairs.