Monica Richardson - An Island Affair

Last night, I’d allowed my staff to twist my arm and I’d reluctantly stepped outside of my comfort zone. I ventured to a local bar on Harbour Island and found every one of my employees there. They were loud and boisterous and encouraged me to be the same. My good senses told me to rule against it, but I didn’t listen. I started the night with a cold beer at the opposite end of the bar as them, wanting to alienate myself from the rowdiness. I rarely drank more than a beer or two, but my first few days on the island had proved to be somewhat trying. I’d had to work out a few details with the town planning board and Ministry of Works, make sure the proper permits were in place, bring my new hires up to speed. And then there had been a small fire, caused by improper electrical wiring, and one of my best workers had injured his hand. A trying week at best, and bumping heads with Jasmine Talbot hadn’t helped one bit.

By the end of the night, I had given in to the peer pressure. Taken too many tequila shots, trying to keep up with guys much younger than me. And now I was definitely paying for that decision. The morning sunshine creeping in my window had greeted me with a harsh headache and stomach pains. My ulcer screamed at me. I cursed Lance and the other guys all the way to the bathroom. But as I’d stared at the reflection looking back at me in the mirror, I knew exactly who was to blame.

As I stood in front of the Clydesdale, my phone rang. I looked at my mother’s face on the screen as a Jay-Z tune played—my ringtone. Jay-Z had been one of my favorite contemporary artists since Harvard. His music had gotten me through some of my most challenging days. However, I preferred old-school artists—Sugar Hill, Run DMC, Big Daddy Kane—that my older brothers listened to, and, unlike them, I liked jazz. But because they considered it an old man’s music, I didn’t let on.

I declined the call from my mother. I wasn’t ready to talk yet. When my phone rang again, I answered. One of my suppliers I’d been waiting to speak with for two days was finally getting back to me. As I talked and paced back and forth, Jasmine walked past—headed up the road. Those jeans hugged her in all the right places, and her shirt crept up her back with each step. I forced myself to look away. Why was I even checking her out? I would never date anyone so self-centered. She wasn’t my type at all. Of course, she was attractive, and I only dated attractive women. But she was all over the place, wasting an education and running off to Hollywood to chase a pipe dream of being an actress or a model. And as soon as things didn’t work out, it seemed that she’d rushed back home to the islands to live off her parents again. Why would I be checking out a woman with no stability and misguided ambitions? That wasn’t the type of woman I would have in my life. Not that I was looking for one. A woman like that was sure to be unhappy with my work schedule. Depending on the job, I was often gone for months at a time, and I kept late hours, never leaving a job site until the work was done. My business came first, no matter what, so there was no room in my life for a high-maintenance female.

I made a few more calls, and then I caught myself watching Jasmine again as she moseyed back down the road.

“Here you go,” she said, handing me a disposable cup with a lid.

“What’s this?”

“Warm water and lemon,” she said. “I ran to the little restaurant just down the way.”

“Really? Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Hope you feel better.”

Answering her ringing phone, she started chattering with someone on the other end and took off for the house. I was moderately touched by her act of kindness.

I watched as she walked into the house, couldn’t take my eyes off of her. But then I chastised myself for looking at what I couldn’t have. And didn’t want.

Chapter 6

Jasmine

The old wood on the kitchen floor had been revived. The walls had been sanded but not painted yet. The only appliance was an antique gas stove, which needed to be cleaned. I rolled up my sleeves, put on a pair of rubber gloves and commenced to clean it. I had my work cut out for me, and it took the better part of the morning to get the stove to usable condition.

As a gesture of goodwill, I’d decided to prepare lunch for Jackson’s team. It was impulsive, I knew it, but I wanted to show them how much I appreciated them for tending to all my little requests. Jackson hadn’t been the friendliest person, but his guys had been more than helpful and accommodating since they’d started work on the Grove. They’d moved things around and carried heavy furniture to places where I needed it. I’d chatted with a few of them during their smoke breaks, given advice about women, laughed at their jokes. We’d become great friends in a short time, to Jackson’s dismay. Occasionally he’d walk past while I joined them during their breaks and scowl at us. Every one of them expressed that Jackson was a workhorse and needed to loosen up, but despite that, they had the utmost respect for the man who paid them very well and loved them like family.

“He has a hard exterior, but a big heart,” said Jorge one afternoon while taking a puff on his Marlboro. “Last Christmas when I was having a hard time financially, Mr. Conner bought Christmas gifts for all four of my children. Dirt bikes, Tonka trucks, dolls, a PlayStation...even clothing. He left it all on our back porch on Christmas Eve. Sent me a text message and told me to go look outside. It meant the world to me and my wife. It was a great gesture.”

“When my mother was about to lose her home, Mr. Conner made a few calls to some of his buddies at City Hall and turned everything around for her,” said Diego. “She makes him pulpeta at least once a month.”

“Pulpeta?” I asked.

“Cuban meat loaf,” Diego said matter-of-factly. “Meat loaf is his favorite.”

I was startled to hear all of the admirable things that Jackson had done for his employees, particularly since I hadn’t seen that side of him. The side of Jackson that I’d experienced had been far from admirable.

I finished cleaning the old stove. Then I fired it up to make the men an authentic Caribbean lunch. I prepared conch salad, conch fritters, Bahamian spiced chicken and cassava bread. On the old folding table Jorge had pulled out of the closet for me I placed the platters on a crisp white tablecloth along with two candles and fresh flowers in a vase that I’d found.

I plugged my docking station into the wall and searched for a nice Caribbean playlist. Something upbeat and contemporary. I found a nice mix of Caribbean rhythms and pumped up the volume.

“It’s time!” I yelled.

“Time for what?” Lance removed his hard hat and gave me a wide grin. A tall, light brown, thin man, Lance was a flirt, and I was careful not to give him false hope.

“I prepared lunch for everyone,” I told him.

“Really?”

“Yes, and it’s getting cold. So, let’s go!”

“Jackson ran out for a bit,” Lance explained. “Had to meet with a supplier.”

“It’s okay. We’ll put a plate aside for him.”

“I don’t know if he’ll appreciate us eating and listening to music and stuff on the job...”

“You’re not allowed to eat and listen to music on your lunch break? You do get a lunch break, don’t you?” I asked. “US labor laws require that you get at least thirty minutes. I’m sure Bahamian laws are much looser.”

“We do get a lunch break. It’s just that it’s still early. We don’t usually break until around one.”

“So make an exception today. What’s the big deal?”

Lance looked around as if he was contemplating my question. Then loudly he made the announcement to his crew. The men slowly began to gather in the dining room.