‘Wanna know how my Brownie troop is raising money to help the horses?’ Chloe asked.
‘Of course I do. That’s wonderful! How?’
‘We baked cookies and cakes and went to the Naval Academy and sold them all to the Mids.’
It was a brilliant idea, and I told her so. Midshipmen had been known to eat just about anything, including baked goods prepared by eight-year-olds.
‘We got two hundred and twenty-three dollars and thirty-five cents. When I come, I’m gonna give it all to W.H.O.A.’
W.H.O.A. The Wild Horse Preservation Society of Abaco. Never had an acronym been so apt.
‘Where will I sleep, Grandma?’ Chloe asked, suddenly shifting gears.
‘You and Jake can sleep in the snore box.’
‘What’s a snore box?’
‘When Bahamians need another bedroom, they don’t build a room on to their house. They build a cottage nearby and call it a snore box.’
‘I thought you said I could sleep in the bunk house.’
‘It is a bunk house, but because people sleep in it, they call it a snore box.’
‘I don’t snore, Grandma.’
I decided to shift gears myself before this conversation with my just-the-facts-ma’am granddaughter started running in circles. ‘Can I talk to your mother, Chloe?’
Chloe ignored the question. Something else was weighing heavily on her mind. ‘Where’s Timmy going to sleep?’
‘Timmy can sleep in a bedroom with your mother.’
‘Good,’ she said, clearly satisfied. ‘Well, bye!’
The line went silent for a few seconds, and then Chloe belted out ‘Mommy!’ so close to the mouthpiece that I feared it would rupture the teeny-tiny speakers on my iPhone. They were still working fine, though, when Emily came on the line a minute later. She told me she’d arranged two weeks off from work, their e-tickets were already purchased, and all she needed was the ferry schedule. I gave her the URL for Albury’s.
‘We can’t wait to share this magical place with you,’ I told my daughter.
‘It’s going to be the best Christmas ever. You’re terrific, Mom.’
‘I may be aces in the Mom department, but I’m a failure as a housewife,’ I confessed to Paul a few minutes later as we sat at the table having lunch, a couscous vegetable sauté with bits of his favorite spicy sausage thrown in.
Paul shoveled a forkful into his mouth. ‘You could have fooled me,’ he said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘This is delicious.’
I’d planned macaroni and cheese, but mac and cheese was a challenge without milk. We’d barbecued the last of the steaks the night before and, in a weak moment, I’d fed Dickie the remaining can of tuna. Water-packed white albacore, too. I hope the greedy cat was grateful.
Tip for island living: Never run out of something on a Saturday night because the stores don’t open again ’til Monday morning. Or, Tuesday, if Monday’s a holiday. I was once caught for three days without eggs before becoming familiar with Bahamian holidays. Labor Day is the first Friday in June, Independence Day is celebrated on the tenth of July and Whit Monday, a moveable feast like Easter, can slide around and sneak up on you in May or even June. Hawksbill Cay residents took Sundays and their holidays seriously.
‘Nothing in the cupboard for dinner, though,’ I told him as I got up to clear my plate. ‘Unless you want to go all caveman on me and club some protein to death.’
‘Bahamian ground squirrels?’ he suggested.
I snapped him with the dish towel. ‘You could try fishing,’ I suggested sweetly.
‘I have a better idea. Let’s go to dinner at the Cruise Inn and Conch Out. My treat.’
‘Brilliant!’ I kissed his cheek. ‘I think I’ve tried everything except Cassie’s curried crayfish.’ I paused for a moment. ‘Lobster’s in season, isn’t it?’
‘August through March,’ said my husband, trotting out his nautical knowledge once again. ‘So unless she’s got some frozen, you’re out of luck.’
I folded my arms and pouted.
‘Poor Hannah,’ Paul said, rising from his chair with his plate in hand. It was his turn to do the dishes. ‘You better call Cassie, though, to make sure they’re serving tonight.’
While Paul squirted dish liquid into the sink and started the hot water going, I went to the radio, picked up the microphone and pressed the talk button. ‘Cruise Inn, Cruise Inn, this is Windswept. Come in.’
‘Windswept, this is Cruise Inn. Up one?’
‘Roger.’ I turned the dial to Channel 69 and pressed the talk button again. ‘Windswept on six nine.’
‘Go ahead, Windswept.’
‘Cassie, this is Hannah Ives. Just wanted to see if you were open tonight.’
‘Sure thing. Just you and Paul?’
‘Right. No visitors as yet, but I’m expecting our family over the holidays.’
‘That’ll be nice.’ I could hear the clinking of crockery in the background, then white noise as Cassie released her finger from the talk button while she consulted the notebook in which she kept track of reservations. Several seconds later, she was back. ‘See you tonight, then. Six OK?’
‘Perfect. Thanks. Windswept, out.’
‘Out.’
I slipped the microphone back in its slot, then turned to my husband. ‘Five hours until dinner. What do you want to do in the meantime?’
Paul had been wiping the countertops down. He tossed the sponge he’d been using into the sink and crooked his finger at me. ‘I have an idea.’
I walked into his open arms.
He cupped my chin, lifting it for a kiss.
As the bananaquits squabbled outside the window, I drew away and looked into his eyes. ‘Uh, let me guess. Hunt for sand dollars?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Hike around the island?’
‘Nope.’
‘I guess you’ll just have to show me, then.’
So he did.
The sun was still high and the Sea of Abaco smooth as glass when we set out for Hawksbill Cay that evening in Pro Bono, dressed in our Sunday best: chinos fresh off the clothesline and long-sleeved T-shirts.
After crossing the channel and entering the harbor, Paul aimed Pro Bono straight for the government dock. Just as it seemed he would crash into a piling head-on, Paul shoved the tiller all the way to the right causing the boat to drift sideways where it came to rest neatly against the foot of the ladder, starboard side to. ‘Show-off,’ I said, as I clambered up the ladder with the painter in hand and tied the boat off. Paul followed, grinning hugely, carrying a tote of white wine.
Hawksbill Cay was dry, and you couldn’t buy cigarettes there, either. There was no law against it. In this conservative, deeply religious community, it simply wasn’t done. At the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, thank goodness, it was BYOB, and almost everyone except the locals did.
At the restaurant, we stepped into a blast of welcome air conditioning to find Albert standing behind the counter, drying glasses with a clean white towel. ‘Hey, Al.’
‘Hey!’ A mountain of a man in any case, Al’s ever-expanding waistline bore silent testimony to his wife’s culinary talents. He wore his trademark tropical shirt tucked into Bermuda shorts belted low around his hips, Teva thongs on his feet. A diamond stud decorated his left ear.
The restaurant was already crowded, but I could see a few free tables. ‘Where shall we sit?’
Al eased his bulk from behind the counter and escorted us to a table for eight near the door with a plastic ‘Reserved’ card propped up against the salt, pepper and D’Vanya’s Junkanoo hot sauce caddy. As the popular restaurant filled up we knew we’d probably end up sharing a table with other diners, family-style, but that was sometimes half the fun.
Paul and I took seats across from one another at the end of the table farthest from the door. By the time we got settled, Al had returned with the menu, hand printed on a tall, narrow chalkboard with ‘Cruise Inn and Conch Out’ painted across the top in pink and orange script. He propped the chalkboard up on a chair and gave us time to study the selections while he went to fetch iced tea and glasses for our wine.