providenciales, turks and caicos islands, 1989
It had been two weeks since Terry arrived. R was right—the place was stunning. By day he lay out on the beach and read some Stephen King or just enjoyed people watching while trying not to think of Ciaran, which for some odd reason was becoming easier by the day. Maybe it was just something to keep my head straight while I was so deep undercover?
His side was healing quite nicely. R had even arranged for a nurse to come in daily and redo the dressing after he showered. The nurse, a matronly Black lady who was a real charmer as long as you followed her instructions to the letter, had told him he wasn’t allowed to swim in the ocean yet, too much chance of infection. And just for giggles, she’d told him that infection wouldn’t be a problem as the sharks would eat his ass anyway. Two more weeks and he’d be good to go, so he could wait. For meals he strolled over to the resort next door and would dive into some conch chowder and spiny lobster salad for lunch. Dinner usually consisted of the fish of the day, lightly grilled with salad and fruit so fresh it tasted as though it had been picked only minutes before being served. Days weren’t the problem; it was the nights.
His recurring nightmare had decided to come on full force since his arrival. The first night he’d been awakened by banging on his door after resort security had been notified of the screams from an alarmed neighbor. Terry had sheepishly slipped the guard twenty dollars and then promptly closed his shutter-style windows. This continued until he found himself visiting the bar one night at the resort, and after many fine rum-based cocktails, he hit the sack and slept like a baby. The nagging hangover wasn’t necessarily pleasant, but at least he managed to get eight hours’ rest. Unfortunately, his alcohol-induced slumber had failed him after a week, so he had increased the amount of his home cure to the point that he found himself stumbling back to the house and passing out on the couch. It seemed to work wonders, except now he felt like total shit the next day.
It was a few days later, and five or six cocktails into his evening, when Terry first spotted Amanda. He was sitting at the far corner of the poolside bar surveying the resort’s boisterous crowd when their eyes met. Usually he would have looked away, but there was something about her that seemed to hold his attention; it was as if, even if he had tried to look away, some unseen force would have prevented him. She was a slim woman who appeared to be in her early twenties and was wearing a thin cotton sundress. Her blond hair, most assuredly not from a bottle, was shoulder length and held back from her face with a small tortoiseshell clip. Unlike the rest of her female companions, of which there were four, she wore no makeup apart from a light application of lip gloss. She had a very light tan—obviously a new arrival in paradise. To even the casual observer she would be considered a stunner. When she slightly smiled at him, the spell seemed to be broken, and he returned her acknowledgment with an embarrassed grin before refocusing on his industrial-strength mojito.
As the evening wore on and he got more and more inebriated, he noticed that every time he looked in the girl’s direction, she seemed to be looking at him. By now the evening had worn on so long that he would have been incapable of striking up a conversation with her even if he wished, so he decided to call it a night. As he stood up to leave, he realized that on this particular evening he had overdone it even by his recent standards, and as he reached for the bar to steady himself, he stumbled. The high barstool next to him fell to the floor with a loud bang and he almost joined it but for the swift hands of a passing waiter. His embarrassment seemed complete when he noticed that all conversation in the bar had ceased, apart from some whispers. Regaining his balance and focus, he looked over the crowd and was met by stares of displeasure, apart from the angel—as he now thought of her. She seemed sad. Not because he had failed some kind of female test of etiquette and behavior, but rather for him, for his pain. It was at that moment, as he walked gingerly from the bar, in his inebriated mind he fell head over heels in love with her, loved her for her kindness, her soul. But how would he ever get to know her, to know if his love was real, after the night’s performance?
Waking the following morning, the first thoughts that crossed his mind were Tylenol, coffee, and the girl, in that order. Terry gulped down coffee and Tylenol, then proceeded on his usual five-mile run. Eventually, he would increase his fitness regimen to ten miles, but for now, he was still recuperating from his injury. Some may have thought him nuts for even attempting five miles given that he had just been shot, but there was nothing worse than showing up after a leave and being out of shape, and three months of hanging out in the Caribbean was guaranteed to screw up his fitness level. After a shower and a visit from his nurse he settled down at the resort’s outdoor restaurant and ordered a hearty, English-style breakfast. Walking past the pool on his way to the magnificent white sand beach and its pure turquoise waters, he spotted his angel with her friends sunbathing on the far side of the pool deck. He stopped walking and just stared, not in some creepy way but as if his mind had completely frozen. As if guided by some sixth sense, she lifted up her sunglasses and smiled slightly at him, and Terry quickly scurried off to the beach like a nervous adolescent seeing his first crush.
He tried to read The Cardinal of the Kremlin by Tom Clancy, but he found himself staring at the page without taking in a word. He hoped to man up at lunch and introduce himself, but he was given a reprieve when there was no sign of her in the restaurant, and he consumed his conch salad in silence. He wondered if he was on the rebound from Ciaran, but as he thought about it, he realized that episode of his life was best left where it belonged, in his past. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Ciaran had ever known the real him. How could she have? After an afternoon sailing excursion he returned to his temporary home, showered, and changed for his evening meal. At dinner he ordered his usual forty-four-gallon drum mojito (or fifty-five-gallon drum, as the oil barrels are called in the States), followed by a double order of the conch fritters, the grilled lobster with crab stuffing, and fried yucca. He had just started in on his second fritter, dipping it in the spicy mango sauce that was served on the side, when he felt a presence over his right shoulder. He quickly turned to see his angel looking down at him, smiling.
“Looks good,” she said pleasantly.
“Excuse me?” he stammered back.
“The food,” she replied. “It looks really good.”
“Thanks. I mean yeah, it is. Would you like some?” he gestured at the plate of food. It quickly crossed his mind that she was English. Her posh accent was the tip-off. He had wondered if she was American or Scandinavian but no, she was a Brit through and through.
“I don’t mind if I do.” She placed her left hand on his shoulder and took one of the bite-sized fritters, dipped it in the sauce, and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes closed and she made a sound of appreciation as she chewed. Her hand remained on his shoulder.
He smiled broadly and shook his head. This chick has balls. He laughed and she joined in.
“I meant would you like to join me.”
“I know,” she replied cheekily. “Maybe later. I have to hang out with my friends for a while.”
She was turning to leave when he quickly took her hand as it moved off his shoulder. It was soft, delicate, and cool to the touch. “At least tell me your name. After all, we have broken bread together, so to speak.”
She paused for a second as if mulling over whether to divulge state secrets to a foreign agent. She smiled at him again and touched his shoulder with those oh-so-delicate fingers. His heart stopped in anticipation.
“Amanda. Amanda Clay.” She began to walk off.
“Don’t you want to know my name?” he almost begged.
“I already do, Terry,” she replied over her shoulder.