I might die by driving on the wrong side of the road, but at least I would know how to drive the car I would end up wrecked in!
We got a map of Eleuthera and directions to get to La Valencia. It turns out it’s pretty hard to get lost on the island of Eleuthera. There’s only one road, which runs the length of the entire island, the Queens Highway. Once you left the airport we found ourselves on this one road and headed south. The airport is a few miles north of the town of Governors Harbor, and La Valencia is in the town of North Palmetto Point. We got there twenty minutes later.
I didn’t kill anybody on the drive down, not even Marilyn, who complained the entire time we were driving. “You’re going too fast! You don’t know how to drive like this! You’re not in America anymore! Stay over! Stay in your lane!” I wondered if I could hire that Honduran pilot who had dumped us in Nicaragua. He couldn’t have been any worse to drive with than my wife!
Chapter 66: La Valencia
We drove into the little town of North Palmetto Point and found the rental office. I parked and we went inside. A little bell rang when we pushed open the door, and a tall and slim black man came out from the back. He was wearing lightweight slacks and a polo shirt and sandals. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I certainly hope so. We’re Carl and Marilyn Buckman. We’re supposed to have a reservation for the next week. La Valencia?” I responded.
The man relaxed and smiled. “Yes, please come in. Welcome!” He came towards us and shook our hands when we met. “My name is Jonathan Finch and I’m the resort concierge. La Valencia is only a few minutes from here. Let me get the keys, and you can follow me out there.” Mister Finch spoke with a distinct English accent, but I could hear the sing-song cadence of the islands in his voice. He went into the back again and then came out with a set of keys and some papers. “Just follow me. We can do all the paperwork out there.”
We followed him out of the office and got back in our rental car. It wasn’t five minutes later when we were driving down a long driveway towards the beach. He parked and we parked behind him.
Well, it was simply gorgeous! It was done in a Spanish style. The place looked immense, and we could hear the surf from the far side of the building. It wasn’t clear to me if it had been a private home that had been converted to a resort or was custom built as a high end resort, but it simply looked unbelievable. There was supposed to be a staff, but whether they were full time or part time wasn’t clear either. Either way, just standing there in the sunshine, it made me think this was precisely what I had asked Taylor to find for us!
Finch came over to us and said, “Let me have your keys. I’ll see that your luggage is put in the master suite. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Certainly. Thank you.” I handed him the car keys and let Finch lead the way. I took my wife’s hand and we walked up the path to the house.
Once inside, Finch motioned for us to stay in the foyer, and he stepped into another room, and I could hear him speaking to someone, and then he came back out. “One of the groundsmen will be along in a moment to unload your car. Here, let me show you the master suite.”
It was almost too much to take in at once. The foyer led into the living room and dining room combination, which was bright and airy, with tile floors and twelve foot ceilings, and a variety of wicker furniture with cushions. It looked to be roughly the size of our entire town house! Down a short hallway to one side was the master suite, which was quite large, with a gargantuan four poster bed in the center, and plenty of dressers and cabinets. This room had a master bathroom that was simply sybaritic in detail, with a whirlpool tub, a shower large enough for both Marilyn and I and all our closest friends, and even a bidet.
“Perhaps you would care to freshen up before I show you around?” suggested Finch.
“Yes, please!” piped up Marilyn. She scooted into the bathroom and closed the door.
I simply nodded agreement and followed the concierge out into the living room again. “When she gets out, I’ll do the same.”
“Of course. Could I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Something harder?”
“Only if you will join us.”
He smiled. “It’s still early in the day, so perhaps just some coffee.”
“Well, you and Marilyn can have coffee, but if possible, I’d prefer tea,” I replied. After all, this place used to belong to the Brits, so maybe they still did tea.
He nodded and went off to the side room again. I just wandered around the room looking at things. When he came out, he said, “Mrs. Wilkes will bring it out in a moment.”
“Mrs. Wilkes?”
“Yes, she’s the caretaker. She’s normally here every morning, Monday thru Friday. I’ll introduce you both to her. Mrs. Wilkes actually runs the place. The rest of us are simply tolerated guests,” he said with a smile.
“I quite understand,” I said, laughing. Marilyn came out at that moment and I excused myself and went into the bathroom. I simply had to take a leak and wash my face and hands. I noticed, however, that Marilyn had taken her panties off and had tossed them in the corner. I guess after sitting in them, ‘squishing’ as she called it, she preferred going commando after cleaning up.
I returned to the living room to find Wilkes and Marilyn sitting at the dining room table, as a very large and very black woman served coffee and tea from a tea service and tray. “Tea, sir?” she asked, in a much heavier dialect than Wilkes had.
“Please, and cream and sugar. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” She poured me some tea. “It is Earl Grey, sir.” I nodded my acceptance, and she continued. “I am Mrs. Wilkes. I am the caretaker for La Valencia, and supervise the ground staff. I am here in the mornings, until noon, during the week. If there is anything I can do for you, I am normally in the kitchen.” She pointed to a room to the side of the dining area, and I realized that when Finch had gone in search of somebody with our car keys, he must have gone looking for Mrs. Wilkes.
“Thank you.” I glanced at my watch, and it was almost two in the afternoon. “I’m sorry we got here so late. I hope it doesn’t mess up your schedule.”
She waved it off. “No problem, sir, no problem!” She left the service and lumbered back to the kitchen.
I stirred some cream and sugar into my tea. “So, Mister Finch, I’m curious. Is La Valencia an estate used for rental part of the year, or was it designed for rental to begin with? What’s the story about this place?”
He smiled at me. “Well, actually, it’s a little of all of that. The original estate was built back in the Twenties by an Englishman who made his money smuggling rum into Miami during Prohibition.”
I smiled at my wife and the said, “Sounds like my kind of guy!”
Marilyn rolled her eyes. “Spare me!”
I had to laugh at her. Then I told Finch, “Keep going. After Prohibition?”
“Well, Sir Douglas — that was his name — died during the Blitz in the War. His son, an only child, died at Arnhem with the Paras. After that, the government took it over, and for the next twenty years it went through a succession of owners who all tried to turn it into a vacation resort or hotel. The original building was a Victorian monstrosity.”
“Not this place.”