Marcia Talley - Without a Grave

I plopped down gratefully next to my husband on one of Donnie’ s vinyl-covered benches, joining a group of passengers that swelled to thirteen as we stopped for pickups at Hawksbill and Man-O-War Cays. Brent went easy on the gas as he guided the vessel gingerly between the narrow cut that formed the entrance to Man-O-War, but juiced it up to full throttle when he reached the open sea. Donnie seemed to revel in the freedom; the boat reared up and roared through the channel between Sandy and Garden Cays, cutting through the chop like a hot knife through butter. Even the waves seemed to lie down before him.

Twenty minutes later, Brent eased the ferry into its regular slip at Crossing Beach just east of Marsh Harbour. We stepped off, strolled past the long line of cabs waiting for passengers and walked west on the main road, covering the half-mile or so to Island Designs in about ten minutes. Cars drive on the left in the Bahamas, so we walked to the right, facing traffic, taking advantage of the sidewalk – where there was one. When it inexplicably disappeared, we walked in the street, expertly dodging puddles and speeding cars as all the locals do.

Behind the banana-yellow wooden building that housed Island Designs and two other shops, a huge tent had been erected. Paul and I followed a pod of camera-bearing, flip-flop-wearing, German-speaking tourists inside.

Just to our left, Andy Albury’s hand-carved half-ship models were for sale, the natural beauty of their grain enhanced by what must have been hours of sanding and varnishing by hand. The booth next to Andy’s had been reserved by his daughter, Sonya, who was holding up one of her signature straw totes to give a customer a closer look. We passed up the artist who seemed to be specializing in celebrity portraits on black velvet – Puh-leeze! Will they never go out of fashion? – in favor of Kim Rody’s vibrant acrylic-on-canvas seascapes. Whether painting sea turtles, blue-striped grunts, angel fish or rock lobster, the Fishartista’s swirling brush strokes seemed to imitate the movement of water. Two booths down, I got distracted by a necklace to die for by Linda Schleif – an artist who lived on a boat in Hope Town marina – and when I looked up, Paul had gone. Promising Linda I’d return later, I went off in search of my husband.

I caught up with Paul at a booth displaying large, sofa-sized aerial photographs of the Abaco islands. Smaller versions of the photos, the vendor’s samples, were encased in plastic sleeves and stored in notebooks, one for each island group. Paul was flipping through the one labeled Man-O-War. ‘Check this out,’ he said when he noticed me breathing down his neck.

Sandwiched between Man-O-War Cay to the east and Scotland Cay to the west, little horseshoe-shaped Hawksbill Cay stood out like an emerald in a sapphire sea. Bonefish Cay, our island home, lay to the south-east, a half moon that formed a natural, protective barrier for Hawksbill’s harbor. If I squinted, I could make out our cottage on tiny Beulah Bay, and to the south of it, the speck of light blue that was my favorite swimming ground, Barracuda Reef.

I ran my fingers over the plastic-covered image of our little piece of paradise. ‘Buy this for me?’

Paul, bless him, produced his credit card and arranged to have a sixteen by twenty inch copy of the photograph packaged and shipped back home to Maryland where our godson was house-sitting for us.

‘Thank you!’ I gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘This is thirsty work,’ Paul said, as he tucked his credit card back into his wallet. ‘Do you think you can locate the bar?’

It wasn’t hard. That was where the line was. When our turn came, Paul bought us each a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. We carried our glasses outside into the sunshine where another line had formed in front of a booth bearing the sign:

Hors d’Oeuvres Compliments of

‘Cruise Inn and Conch Out’

Visit Us on Hawksbill Cay

We Monitor Channels 16 and 68

www.cruiseinnconchout.com

Paul and I were making do with pineapple and cheese on a toothpick, and engaging in idle chit-chat while waiting for the line to go down so we could get a crack at some of Cassandra’s amazing conch fritters when, behind me, somebody laughed.

I turned to see a woman wearing a flowered, halter-top sundress and strappy sandals talking to a guy in a white polo shirt and chinos. The woman I recognized from a picture in The Abaconian , Pattie Toler, goddess of the Net. Her brown, shoulder-length hair glinted with red highlights in the sun, and she’d caught it back at the sides with tortoiseshell combs. I had no idea about the guy, except to say that he was tall, bronzed and drop-dead, be-still-my-heart gorgeous. Think James Bond, of the Sean Connery persuasion, except Hispanic.

I elbowed Paul. ‘That’s Pattie Toler,’ I whispered. ‘I want to meet her.’

I was insanely curious about the guy she was talking to, too, but I didn’t think it wise to mention it.

I waited, watching for an opportunity to interrupt their conversation, twiddling my empty toothpick. Pattie pulled a cigarette from a pack in her purse, paused – presumably to ask the guy if he minded – before she put it between her lips and lit up. Pattie inhaled deeply, turned her head politely to the side to exhale, then continued talking.

Meanwhile, I polished off two carrot sticks and a piece of celery. When Paul took my wine glass away for a refill, I muttered, ‘Screw the wait,’ and wandered closer to Pattie and her companion. I hovered silently, but conspicuously at her elbow.

She acknowledged me immediately, almost as if she were glad for the interruption. ‘You look like you could use some champagne.’ She toasted me with her empty flute.

‘I could. Thanks.’

Pattie glanced around the tent, raised her glass and, as if by magic, a server materialized, carrying a tray of champagne. Parking her cigarette between her index and middle fingers, Pattie set her empty flute on the tray and snagged two fresh ones. ‘Here,’ she smiled as she handed me one of the glasses. ‘I’m Pattie Toler. Blue Dolphin .’

‘I figured,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘I’m Hannah Ives. My husband and I…’

I was about to add our particulars, but she already knew. Pattie Toler, moderator of the world’s largest party line, knew everything. ‘ Windswept , on Bonefish. You’re the ones who found that stray dinghy last week, right?’

‘Guilty. It fetched up against our dock one morning. Belonged to one of the cruisers in Hawksbill Harbour who was very surprised to wake up and find himself stranded in the middle of the harbor with no way to get ashore.’

‘Except swim,’ drawled her companion.

‘There is that,’ I said, turning to study the speaker more closely. Movie-idol good looks, impossibly white teeth. The kind of mature guy who always gets the girl.

Pattie slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Where are my manners? Hannah, this is Rudolph Mueller. Rudy owns the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina. Been gone for a few weeks. Flew in on Wednesday.’

‘Testing the runway,’ Rudy grinned. He took my hand in his cool dry one and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I hope we’ll have the pleasure of entertaining you at the Tamarind Tree some time.’

‘We’ve been meaning to…’ I sputtered, my knees suddenly turning to jelly as Rudy’s dark-chocolate eyes augured into mine. ‘My husband and I,’ I stammered. ‘Uh, maybe for our anniversary.’ I’d become a gibbering idiot. Had Rudy peered out his cockpit window and seen me naked? He certainly was giving me the impression he had.

He still had hold of my hand. ‘We’re soon to open the restaurant, Hannah. May I call you Hannah?’