We began passing resorts, many with famous names—like Sandals and Club Med—that I’d seen in slick magazine ads and on TV back home. You could see their gates from the bus, and their beautiful hotels, swimming pools, tennis courts and beaches beyond. I wanted to pull the driver out of his seat, take his place and press my foot down hard on the gas. I had a tourist map on my knee, which was bouncing up and down with my nervous twitch. I knew we were getting close.
Ten or fifteen minutes later I saw the big blue sign for the little Ian Fleming Airport. I’d noticed it on the map, just minutes from Goldeneye, but it was amazing to see it in person. The creator of 007 had been in this very place! And, maybe, so had my grandfather. Had they plotted to help save the world right here during the Cuban Missile Crisis? Did they slip over to Cuba from these shores on inflatable boats, silently sneaking into that forbidding communist stronghold at night in black wet suits, real secret agents bearing Walther PPKs complete with suppressors? Did W send them? William Stephenson?
We passed Marley Beach and Reggae Beach and were told that James Bond Beach was nearby. We were really close. I thought of Dr. No being filmed here, with Sean Connery and his stunning Bond Girl both in bathing suits, one of the most iconic movie scenes of all time.
Goldeneye appeared moments later. We swept through the ornate gates and up to the front door of the beautiful two-story white building where guests checked in. Men in white jackets and shorts stood on the steps, holding small hot towels on shining silver plates for us to wipe our faces. I’d given Angel the window seat on the shuttle, and she had her face pressed up against the glass, looking very happy indeed. She smiled at me and took my hand as we got up to leave the bus. I let go as soon as we stepped down.
Everything was taken care of. A man took our bags. The Walther PPK was in mine, but I let him have it. All we had to do was show our identification and we would be taken to our accommodations.
“I, uh, had to book a one-bedroom villa. It was all that was available, and all I could afford,” I told Angel as we waited to be taken to our room. I felt really bad about that and had been putting off telling her. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d slapped me.
She blushed. “Not to worry,” she said and smiled again.
What did that mean? I was worried. If Shirley found out about this, she’d be furious. And I wouldn’t blame her, not one bit. I wanted to tell Angel right away that I’d sleep outside if necessary, but I couldn’t because our attendant had come back and we wanted to make the resort people think we were a couple. We had to be convincing. She even took my hand again, though she snickered a bit when she did, as if it was an inside joke. I didn’t give Bad Adam a chance to be excited about any of this. I cut him off before he could offer up a single thought; given his shallow views on Angel’s looks, though, he might not have been too thrilled by the situation anyway.
The resort was incredibly beautiful. We walked along a narrow wooden bridge that went over a lagoon where other tourists were paddle-boating and swimming. Couples walked hand in hand along the private beach up ahead, kids in the water cried out with joy, you could hear gentle music playing, and alluring aromas of spicy food filled the air, mingling with the smell of the salty sea.
Once the resort guy had opened up our villa and snapped back all the shutters, he handed “Mr. Murphy” the key and left, and I started into my full apology.
“Angel, I am really sorry about this. I’ll put some of the pillows on the floor and sleep in the bathroom or out on the—”
“Yeah,” she said, “never mind—we’ll work it out.” She said it in a kind of dreamy voice as she gazed around at her surroundings. I could understand why. The place was stunning. It was on the beach, a curving, gorgeous stretch of white sand in front of transparent pale blue water. White umbrellas stood over tables that dotted the sand, and an infinity pool, as crystal-clear as the warm water, seemed to hang out into the sea. Our front door opened right onto the beach. Our little building was almost like a Jamaican chalet, with a gray shingled roof that looked thatched from a distance and white exterior walls. We had our own deck with sun chairs, and an outdoor shower was just out of sight among the vines and flowers. Inside, the walls were cool and white, and the bed (which made me gulp) was huge and decorated with colorful pillows. You reached it by walking up a short flight of wooden stairs onto a light-carpeted floor. Angel kicked off her flip-flops. We had an en suite bathroom, a desk for writing and huge open windows looking out over the sea. There was a bottle of champagne on ice sitting on our gleaming wooden table. I had tried drinking a bit of alcohol a few times but hadn’t touched a drop since I’d come back from France. I didn’t think Angel would either. She didn’t seem like that kind of girl.
She looked so happy, I thought she might cry. I hoped not. I would have no idea what to do.
“We have to get to work,” I said.
“Right.” She fell onto the bed, giggling. “Work.”