The Best Of Me. Tina WainscottЧитать онлайн книгу.
pen would go, and stretched out nets and floaters along the beach like some sea monster washed up on shore. When it was too dark to work, he took a ten-minute ride farther south down the winding road that followed the coastline to Barney’s Happy Place for a Red Stripe beer. Maybe that would purge Lucy and her incredible derriere from his mind.
LUCY HAD finally wrenched herself away from watching Liberty, changed into dry clothes, and found Bailey hosing down the cement walkways.
“You didn’t chase the wicked man away?” he asked.
“No, and honestly, I don’t want to.”
He shook his head. “I see the way you look at him. What a crosses! Our only hope, and she fall for the wicked man!”
“What are you talking about?” She’d only looked at his eyes maybe once or twice. Only been slightly bewitched by them.
He shook his head. “Everyt’ing gonna go down the drain now dat your pupa is gone.” He nodded toward the drain the water swirled down.
Guilt nagged at her when she thought of his six—no five kids. “What would my father—pupa have done?”
“He would have punched the wicked man out who tief the big fish.”
“He’s not a fish,” she said.
“Cho, now you even sound like the tief!”
She rolled her eyes, glad not to have to put up with such insubordination back home. “My father would have been arrested for punching him out. Besides, Chris Maddox says he has authority. Is that true?”
“He must have tickled dere noses with a bit of cash.”
Somehow she doubted that. “Well, why don’t you show me the books? Let’s see if my father had a head for business.”
The books did not look healthy, she soon found out. No wonder Sonny only had two employees. When she propped her chin on her hand, she caught sight of a small photograph on a shelf. She walked over and picked up the dusty frame, surprised to see her own childish face smiling at her. Something tightened inside her. Sonny hadn’t forgotten her after all.
“Miss Lucy, I be ready to leave now. You want me to take you where Sonny live?”
“Yes, please.”
Bailey drove her south on a winding road in need of some repairs—and police supervision. The drivers were crazy, regularly crossing the centerline or stopping for no apparent reason.
“The rich people buy the fancy places and only live in them a few weeks a year,” Bailey said, pointing to some elaborate entrances on the ocean side of the road. “Everybody else live over dere.” The housing to her left was lower- to middle-class. People sat out on rickety front porches watching the traffic while goats grazed on weedy front yards. She shifted her gaze to the right side and caught sight of an entrance proclaiming The Caribe Plantation in discreet lettering.
Bailey turned shortly after that and pulled up to a pink three-story building with thick white balconies. Sonny’s apartment was a one-bedroom efficiency, a hot, stuffy one at that. She turned on an air conditioner unit installed in the window. She was beginning to regret her decision to stay there while she packed up his belongings, practical though it was.
If she’d hoped to find traces of her father here, she was out of luck. Against one wall were shelves of broken tanks and pump parts he’d obviously intended to fix. The furnishings were sparse, old, but clean. The junk food that had been behind his heart attack filled the shelves. She found a stack of wrinkled, water-stained Caribbean maps covered in notations. She ran a finger over his small, neat script. He’d found pleasure in nature, apparently, noting various reefs and abundant water life.
It was after eight-thirty when she dropped onto the old green sofa. Her foot pushed in a drawer in the coffee table, and she pulled it open. Yellowed newspaper clippings were piled up inside. She sifted through them, her throat tightening. They were all of her, graduating college, getting married, opening the advertising firm.
Sonny had kept up with her life from a distance. She felt like crying and smiling at the same time. If he’d known about her wedding, why hadn’t he written? At least he hadn’t known about her divorce.
Lucy peeked out of the listless curtains and watched people come and go at the nearby store. She had to get out for a while, breathe some of that fresh, salty air, and think things through. Bailey had said the neighborhood was safe, so Lucy pocketed some cash and walked into the starry night air. The muggy, starry night, she amended, as moisture wrapped around her. She’d been so busy fighting with Chris, and then with the numbers, she hadn’t begun to appreciate the island.
She walked along the ocean side of the road and headed south to a place Bailey had recommend for “da best ribs on the island.” Her stomach gurgled at the aroma of spices and hickory smoke emanating from Barney’s Happy Place. She paused, trying to judge the clientele by the exterior. Barney’s was right off the road, perched several yards from the ocean, or what she guessed was the ocean beyond the sandy shore that turned to inky darkness. The place looked like a large shack, with its faded wood and half walls. Reggae music tainted the night air with a festivity punctuated by the red, yellow and green Christmas lights strung outside. Palm trees rustled in the evening breeze, cast in the glow of those lights. Her parents and ex-husband would be horrified to know she was going into a place like this. She smiled and walked up the ramp.
She almost walked back out again when she saw all the people. Many looked like locals, dressed in colorful garb, their heads adorned with dreadlocks and cornrow braids. Barney’s was not a tourist hangout, to be sure, except for one couple that sat at a corner table with froufrou drinks and burned noses. Music rivaled the laughter and conversation that flowed out the back, which was entirely open to the beach beyond.
A long bar stretched out to the right where a bartender was telling a joke, using his hands and face for expression. The people sitting on the stools laughed in unison. She took a deep breath. Be adventurous. You can tell everyone you went into a real island joint.
Yeah, like they’d believe her.
She made her way to the bar. At least she had brought her one pair of shorts and a tailored shirt with short sleeves. She slid onto the padded stool.
The bartender flopped a red napkin in front of her. “And what have you, miss?”
What was it with the “misses” around this place? First Bailey, then Chris’s mimicked version and now the bartender. She realized that she’d been ensconced in her own little world where she was in control. No one there would dare call her Miss Lucy, nor would they ignore her. “I’ll have a frou-frou drink like that couple is having.” She watched him splash several liquors into a glass with the grace of someone who loved his job.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Miz Lucy herself hanging out with the locals.”
Her heart lurched at the sound of Chris’s voice, but she attributed it to surprise and turned to the man at her left. She let her gaze drop from his curly hair to the tank top and jean shorts he wore. To cover what she hoped wasn’t appreciation in her eyes, she said, “So that’s what you look like with clothes on.”
The bartender chose that moment to bring her drink. “Ah, so you know the lady already,” he said to Chris with a smile and a wink.
Her face went up in flames. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. He was in the pool….”
The bartender waved his hand. “No problem, lady. The island bring out the animal in lots of people.”
“But—” The man had already walked away, and she turned to Chris who was chuckling. She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t move too fast to defend my honor, now. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
He shrugged. “Hey, I’m way out of practice coming to a lady’s defense.”
She rolled her eyes. “To be sure.”
“So what if he thinks we’ve