So that’s how it happened that the first time I set foot on the grounds of the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina, it was in the company of a sun-bleached son of the islands, not my husband.
As we bumped along in Gator’s golf cart, the Queen’s Highway changed from a narrow strip of pavement to an even narrower one, then to a rutted dirt track, finally to hard-packed sand as it curved away from the settlement toward the sea. On the Atlantic side of the island it doubled back, crested a hill, then – fwap! – a spectacular view of the Sea of Abaco nearly knocked me out of my Crocs. ‘They should have this in their brochures,’ I raved as we coasted down the other side.
Near the resort, the track widened to a less teeth-rattling strip of concrete wide enough for two golf carts to pass, although we didn’t meet anyone coming from the opposite direction. The lane was bordered by sea grape, hibiscus and patches of flame-red poinsettias from which life-size animal sculptures peeked; clearly a landscape designer had been at work.
Before long we arrived at a crimson gatehouse designed like an old-style British telephone booth. A gate decorated with driftwood painted like barracuda barred our way.
Gator mashed his foot down on the brake pedal and the cart slowed silently to a stop. A guard dressed in the Tamarind Tree uniform stepped out of the booth to check us out. I recognized the young man as being among the volunteers at the wildfire the other day, but couldn’t remember his name. His shirt saved me the trouble. When he got close enough, I could read the writing on the pocket: Lou.
Gator seemed to recognize the guy, too. ‘Hey, Lou. We need to see Jaime Mueller. Is he in?’
‘Do you have an appointment?’ Lou sounded more like a receptionist at a law firm than a security guard in paradise.
‘Since when do I need an appointment?’ Gator grumbled.
‘Just following orders, sir.’ Lou slipped a hand-held out of his belt and pressed the call button. ‘Jenny, Jenny, this is Gate One. Come in.’
The radio crackled to life. ‘Jenny here. Go ahead, Lou.’
‘Got some people here to see Jaime. He around? Over.’
‘Tennis courts, I think. Over.’
‘Thanks. Gate One out.’
‘Out.’
Still holding his radio and giving me the hairy eyeball, Lou asked, ‘Can I tell him who’s looking?’
‘Gator Crockett, from the dive shop. And this is Hannah Ives.’
‘Oh, sorry, Mr Crockett. I should have known.’ He pushed a button on a remote he carried on his belt and the gate swung slowly open.
As we drove through, I muttered, ‘Darn right, he should have known. Your dive-shop logo is plastered all over the hood of your cart.’
Gator snorted.
‘Hey!’ Lou called after us. ‘Follow the path around to the left. There’ll be signs directing you to the tennis courts. I’ll let Mr Mueller know you’re coming.’
I watched in the mirror as the gate swung shut behind us.
Gator guided his cart along paved, gently curving lanes lined with tropical plantings and tiki lights on six-foot poles. The same artist who’d painted the fish on the main gate had also designed the whimsical directional signs we saw throughout the resort. We came to a fork in the road where a turtle directed us to the right for ‘tennis courts,’ but Gator sailed right past.
‘Tennis courts are that way,’ I said, pointing behind me and to the right.
‘I know.’ Gator spun the steering wheel to the left, gunned the accelerator and grinned. ‘Now that we’re here, I thought we might take a little tour.’
We passed a grouper, a pelican and a frigate bird directing us to the kitchen, laundry room, and crew’s quarters, respectively, before rounding a bend that skirted an ornamental pond and appeared to dead end at a greenhouse. I was squinting at the greenhouse windows, trying to see the orchids that Rudy Mueller had told me about, but everything blurred as Gator steered hard left and we shot through a gap in the casuarinas.
Long before we got to the dolphin that said ‘Generator’ we heard the drone of its engine, progressively increasing to a mind-numbing whine as we drew closer. Immediately behind the generator enclosure the water-treatment plant loomed into view, a state-of-the-art facility that supposedly used a reverse osmosis process to convert sea water to drinking water. Clearly, Mueller’s Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina had no intention of falling to its knees at the mercy of either the BEC or Mother Nature.
Gator’s tour had taken us in a wide circle to the western end of the island. When we reached the Atlantic beach, Gator killed the engine and climbed out of the cart. With both hands in his pockets he stood quietly on the dune, surveying the reef. ‘We’re standing on the fifth hole.’
I got out of the cart and joined him, appreciating the view while I could. ‘It’s criminal, isn’t it?’
‘How many golf courses does a small group of islands need?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Baker’s Bay, Treasure Cay, Abaco Beach Resort… they’re all just a stone’s throw from Hawksbill.’
I stole a look at him. His profile was set, grim. I wanted to hug the man and tell him everything would be all right even when I knew it probably wouldn’t. ‘It’s not over ’til it’s over,’ I said.
Gator adjusted his cap, pulling the bill down over his forehead to better shade his eyes against the glare of the sun slanting off the water. ‘It’s like trying to stop an avalanche.’
The man was in mourning. How do you console someone for the death of an island, a way of life?
I returned to the golf cart, climbed in and sat there quietly, leaving Gator alone with his thoughts. After a few minutes, he hopped in next to me, turned the key, floored the accelerator and sent the cart hurtling down the ocean path at breakneck speed, or what passes for breakneck speed in a golf cart, which is to say about fifteen miles per hour. He steered the vehicle around a curve and up a steep incline. The near-silent whine of the battery-powered engine changed to a rude putt-putt-putt as the gasoline booster kicked in to give us the extra oomph we needed to get up and over the hill.
At the bottom of the hill, we rounded a curve and sailed past the spa which was built up on stilts, South Pacific-style, before coming to a dolphin with ‘Tennis Court’ carved into its tail.
There was not one court, however, but three. Jaime Mueller was doing a stationary prance on one of them, looking very GQ in white tennis shorts and a blue polo shirt. A matching sweatband encircled his forehead. He was lobbing balls back and forth across the net with another one of the uniformed college boys.
Gator slotted his golf cart next to a cart emblazoned with the familiar TTR logo and we watched as Jaime missed a few easy ones. Gator chuckled. ‘Hole in the boy’s racquet.’
‘Maybe he’s letting the other guy win?’
‘Jaime? What are you smoking?’
Jaime’s opponent was poised with his racquet aloft and a tennis ball in his left hand when he noticed us. He lowered the racquet. ‘Mr Mueller?’
Jaime noticed us, too, and waved his racquet, halting the game. He ambled over to the sideline, snatched a towel off a chair and approached us, mopping his face and neck. ‘Hey, Gator. And it’s Hannah, isn’t it?’ He flashed a grin so white and toothy that I could have played chopsticks on his teeth. He flipped the towel over a silver buttonwood bush. ‘I never forget a pretty face.’
I bit my tongue.
‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘Some place we can talk?’
‘Iced tea?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Meet you up at the lodge, then.’
A few minutes later, Gator and I had parked the cart and were meandering up the well-maintained, beautifully landscaped path that led to the Tamarind Tree restaurant. ‘A bit more upmarket than the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, isn’t it?’ I commented.