This, she hopes, would force them into a conversation, or even a protest. But that never happens. They simply nod in agreement and apologize profusely. “Sarry, Miss Margot. Sarry. It won’t ’appen again.”
From time to time, strangers enter and leave — people she meets at the new hotel she manages. Most times it’s one or two of the girls she hires — the ones more willing to work extra for a bonus. Tired of pining over Verdene, Margot lives from one orgasm to the next, trying to fill her loneliness with other bodies before kicking them out under the awestruck gaze of the night stars. Never mind if Desrine sees them from her cottage in the back. The girl has been trained to see and unsee. To hear and unhear. When Margot hired her, she had hoped for the closeness she once shared with her sister. Desrine is young, with dark velvet skin and a gaze that flutters away quickly like a skittish bird.
The welts on Margot’s neck sting as though aggravated by the nightmare. Since the hotel opened last October, tourists have fallen victim to Pregnant Heidi’s waves. One woman disappeared when she went for a swim in the deep part of the sea, and a little boy almost drowned when a wave reached for his leg and pulled him under as it receded from the shore. It’s costing the hotel millions to install breakwaters and settle lawsuits, which inevitably have forced Alphonso to cut back on other expenses — like salaries.
When the rain finally lets up, Margot makes her way to the other side of the villa, walking through the house. Along the way, she passes the kitchen with the stone countertops, the living room that opens onto the pool terrace. The grass glistens with rain, and the bright green leaves of the mango, palm, and banana trees shudder under the weight of water. There’s a small fountain by the pool, where a naked female statue pours water into a base that is shaped like an oyster — an inspiration Margot took from one of Thandi’s drawings. She had kept it, though Thandi, like Verdene, has faded from her life as if she were never there. The last Margot heard of her sister, she had moved to Kingston. Maybe she’ll make something great of her life, Margot thinks, examining the statue, which was carved to perfection by a young Rasta fellow Margot found on the street. “Will I be paying for all this water?” she once asked the landscaper she hired to install the fountain. The man had looked at Margot with his one good eye like she spoke another language. “Is from di sea, miss. Unless di sea disappear, di wata won’t stop pour. Seawata free.”
As Margot stands on the pool terrace, the sun, which hasn’t shown itself in days, makes its way from behind the soft, dove-gray clouds, bright and unflinching. The rectangular pool shimmers before Margot. Everything glitters in the new sunlight, just like Margot had always thought it would. Except for her lone, grainy figure on the water’s surface, dark in the face of the sun.
Acknowledgments
It is with great honor that I express my overwhelming gratitude to those who made this book possible — those who provided me with advice, wisdom, encouragement, support, mentorship, instruction, and opportunities. Without you, Here Comes the Sun would not have been the book that it has shaped up to be.
Many thanks to my amazing agent and reader, Julie Barer, who believed in this book; my wonderful editor, Katie Henderson Adams, for loving this book and going above and beyond for it; Cordelia, Peter, Philip, Bill, and the entire W. W. Norton/Liveright team; Michael Taekens, for loving the book and opting to work for it; my mentor, Marita Golden, for her unwavering, unmatched support and encouragement from the get-go; David Haynes, for your vision and insight; Janae Galyn Hoffler, for being my dedicated, phenomenal reader; Erica Vital-Lazare and the Red Rock Review team, for publishing my very first story; Laura Pegram, Juliet P. Howard, and Ron Kavanaugh, for nurturing me and other writers in search of community and an outlet.
I am grateful for the MacDowell Colony and the Hedgebrook Residency, for providing me with the space and time to write; the Barbara Deming Fund, for the gift that enabled me to create; and Sewanee Writers’ Conference, Kimbilio, Lambda Literary, and Hurston/Wright, for providing fellowship.
Special thanks to the staff of Silver Sands Villas in Duncans, Trelawny, especially Tanesha, Kimesha, Miss Claudette, and Tracy-Ann, for your loving support and insight as I wrote this story; and also for the opportunity to be a part of a family. My heartfelt thanks always to the following cast of phenomenal people in alphabetical order: Alistair Scott, Brian Morton, Cheryl Head, Dahlia Campbell, Daniel Townsend, David Hollander, Dennis E. Norris II, Diana P. Miller, Diana Veiga, Dionne Jackson-Miller, Dolen Perkins-Valdez, Donovan Rodriques, Joan Silber, Jessica Deliazard, June Frances Coleman, Karenn Cohen Jordan, Kate Schmier, Kathleen Hill, Keisha Phipps, Krystal Brown, Laura Diamond, Lorraine Correlley, Mary Morris, Melesia Senior, Michael A. Fanteboa, Michelle Y. Talbert, Nancy Diamond, Natalie Wittlin, Nelly Reifler, Patrick Wilson, Rafael Flores, Romaine McNeil, Sadeqa Johnson, Sanderia Faye, Sharon Gordon, Shayaa Muhammad, Sheri-Ann Cowie, Soraya Jean-Louis McElroy, Stephen O’Connor, Timothy Veit Jones, Tracy Chiles McGhee, and ZZ Packer.
Also, I will forever be grateful for Professor Duane Esposito, for you knowing my destiny before me. Tina Whyte, for being the first real writer that I know and who inspired me to write my own stories! Verdene Lee, Ken Glover, and the Wari House girls, for enriching my experience at Cornell University; the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, where I wrote many a first draft and buried them; the Sarah Lawrence College MFA Program, for asylum. R. Erica Doyle, OyaBisi Id, Julia Fierro, and the Sackett Street Writers’ Workshop, for the courage to venture back into writing; and my Stuyvesant Writing Workshop students for being great teachers. Also, to the greats, Toni Morrison, Paule Marshall, Edwidge Danticat, Zora Neale Hurston, and Marlon James, who gave me permission.
I am grateful to my parents — Sharon Tucker-Gordon and Danville Dennis — who have instilled in me the importance of hard work; and to the rest of my family: Lewis “Louie” Benn, Juliet Jeter, Eugenia “Cooky” Benn, Joe Murray, David Watkins, Carol Horton, and Charles “Turkey” Benn, for your understanding and support.
And of course, my gratitude goes out to my beloved homeland, Jamaica, my muse and home of my grandmother Rowena “Merna” Hunter and my great-grandmother Addy — the woman who gave me the courage and freedom to write and live freely.
Finally, much gratitude to my amazing wife, reader, editor, listener, Emma Benn. Without you and your unconditional love, all this would not have been possible. Thank you so much for your patience and for putting up with me.