Chapter Fourteen
“I saw you talking to yourself. They say that’s the way to be sure someone smart will always answer,” Doug said, right behind me.
“Oh, you caught me,” I said. I dropped the two mangoes I was holding and picked up my pencil and envelope. “I’ve made a list, and I have some ideas to talk to you about.”
I peppered Doug with more questions about finish-out, the island housing market, and the accessibility of groceries and drugstores from Annalise’s remote location. After he answered my volley of questions, he remarked, “Without construction experience, or, let’s face it, a man around the place, this could be too much. Plus, you’re isolated up here. I don’t mean to scare you, but this part of the island sees some rough types, players in the island drug trade. I could show you other places, beautiful finished houses in safer neighborhoods. If you haven’t been out to the condos on the East End yet, I think you’ll be surprised at how much you’d like them.”
This man was not listening to me. I hate it when that happens.
“Thank you, Doug, I sure do appreciate that,” I said, my Texas accent and phrasing growing more pronounced as my irritation grew. “But I’ve made up my mind. How do I go about making an offer on Annalise?”
He looked stunned. I locked my eyes on his and pulled the brim of my hat further over my face. He raised his eyebrows—skepticism or submission?—and motioned me back to the Rover.
“Let’s go back to my office and put an offer together.”
Ah, he was getting smarter.
On the way back to town, Doug turned into a historian.
“You know why town is called Taino?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “It’s named after the original inhabitants of St. Marcos. Most people just call it Town and spell it with a capital T, though. They put a lot of stock in local, in bahn yah.”
The information was interesting, but I wondered what his point was. If he had a point. I threw in some “uh huhs” again.
“You’ll see a lot of locals with Taino traits: dark skin, wiry hair, short, and thick through the middle, but stocky, not fat. Most of the locals are of African descent, though. There’s a large community of Dominicans, too, and a fair number of Middle Easterners. Caucasian is a minority.”
I thought about it. Taino was its own version of the island soup, kallaloo, that I’d had instead of salad at lunch. Everything thrown in the pot and cooked up together. I liked the soup. I liked the island.
“I’d noticed,” I said.
In the rainforest, “t’ings” were different from Taino, though. Not only was it ten degrees cooler than down in Town, but it was also no kallaloo. The rainforest of St. Marcos was a black West Indian world. A fact about which Doug was becoming more and more direct.
“The only community on St. Marcos where outsiders are truly accepted, especially white outsiders, is the East End. It’s the way things are here. I need you to understand this before I write an offer for you. My conscience and all,” he said, putting his hand on the center of his chest.
I damned him with the ultimate in Texas condescension. “Bless your heart, Doug. I appreciate your concern. And I’ll be fine.”
“All right, then. I’m done trying to talk you out of it.” He pursed his lips. “One last thing. Do you want to see the nearest grocery store?”
Now that sounded like a smart thing to do. “Absolutely.”
Doug took me to a medium-sized grocery called Courtyard. Sure enough, we were the only two people in the place with light pigment. It was astounding to me—humbling, really—that this was the first time in my life I had knowingly experienced minority status. I was a gecko who couldn’t camouflage to match the background.
My minority status wasn’t the only thing to get used to in the Courtyard grocery store. While the store was large, it wasn’t up to stateside standards of cleanliness, nor was it well stocked. The produce section displayed mostly exotic fruits and vegetables that I didn’t know how to cook, and the items that were familiar to me were scarce, limp, and close to rotting. I picked up an item marked “cassava” and another with a label that said “breadfruit.” Completely foreign.
The cassava fell from my hand. I set the breadfruit down. As I knelt to try to pick the cassava up, I bumped into a small woman I hadn’t seen. Actually, I bumped into her walker. She squawked.
“Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry,” I cried. I stood up quickly and put my hand on her back. “I am such a klutz. I dropped a . . . vegetable . . . and I didn’t see you, and, well, I’m sorry.”
“She’s fine,” a voice behind me said, in a “no thanks to you” sort of way.
A big hand extended the errant cassava in front of me, and when I turned to face him, it was Jacoby.
I took it from him. “Thank you, Officer Jacoby. I am so sorry.”
“Mind yourself around the elders. My grandmother is fragile.”
So warm, so friendly. Not. “Yes, of course.” I remembered my manners. “A pleasant good afternoon to you, ma’am, and to you, Jacoby.”
The ancient wisp of a woman said, “Good afternoon, dear.”
Jacoby said nothing.
I walked away, smarting. It didn’t appear I was growing on Jacoby.
“Did you run into friends?” Doug asked, rejoining me with two bottles of ginger beer.
“Not hardly.” I motioned toward the exit. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
I tried to resist looking back at Jacoby as we walked out, but I couldn’t stop myself from stealing a quick glance. I shouldn’t have. Out of uniform and in baggy black jeans, he was even more imposing. He glared at me, the very picture of malevolence. Note to self: Ask Ava what Jacoby has against me.
When we got back into the Rover, Doug handed me a bottle of the ginger beer. “A local soft drink,” he said. “One of the local favorites. It’s like root beer with a ginger bite.”
I took it from him and sipped it. The spice was almost peppery. “Thank you,” I said.
Doug asked, “So, if you were to buy this place, would you get a mortgage or what?”
I cleared my throat. “No. Just cash.”
“Oh, wow, well, that changes things. The owner—a bank that foreclosed on the property—highly prefers cash. This will really help you.”
I didn’t say anything. The bad juju from my Jacoby encounter had messed with my head. You should go back to the resort and sleep on this overnight, I told myself.
Doug said, “Last time I’m going to ask. Wouldn’t you prefer to sleep on this, think it over, and get back to me tomorrow? Annalise will still be there. I’d hate to see you get in over your head.”
What was he thinking? Sleeping on it was a terrible idea.
“I’m a decisive person, Doug. I’m making an offer.”
So I did, and I couldn’t even blame it on rum punch. I didn’t take time for reasoned deliberation. I acted exactly opposite from the way I would counsel my clients. I didn’t seek advice from my new island friends or my loved ones back home. I didn’t do any research or consult any experts. I ignored the implications on my life in Texas. Something about my voodoo-like connection to Annalise offered salvation. Maybe it was crazy, but I believed.
It was an impulsive decision, but hell, there was no way they would accept my lowball offer anyway.
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