(Sequel to Romancing Rebecca) Chapter One Joy’s butt bounced up from the wooden seat, as the longboat cut through the surf and each successive wave lifted the boat high then slammed down. No seatbelt kept her safe and nothing protected her from the constant salt spray. The sun was low near the horizon and the midnight black boatman in white cotton pants and nothing else looked as comfortable as Joy felt miserable. Her silk paisley dress, the purple one she always wore traveling, was damp and her feet sloshed in sensible black shoes. She’d left Phoenix early that morning, flew to Miami, flew to San Juan, flew to St. Croix, and took a taxi to the inter-island ferryboat dock to catch this boat. The “captain” had placed her in the bow mumbling, “Ballast.” Damn him, she wasn’t that overweight. At thirty-five she had the figure of a mature woman, a boon to her in business, but devastating to her love life. After all the other passengers disembarked onto nameless islands, she waited for the boatman to turn his back, then ripped off her shredded pantyhose. Her skin was so chapped, burnt, and coated with dried salt, she was sure that if she smiled, her cheeks would no longer stretch across her face. Sunblock was in her luggage, which Gladstone—or Glodstone in his deep West Indies accent—told her would arrive on tomorrow’s ferry with her laptop and books. The paperbacks she carried as travel diversion were unreadable wet lumps. With a “Ptsst,” she blew a chicken feather from the end of her nose, a remnant of the raucous bird, companion of a fellow traveler, the same ancient woman who pitied her enough to give her a hat woven of palm fronds. That silly dish-shaped thing, barely large enough to cover her short curls, offered protection from the sun and seemed like a blessing from the gods. At last Gladstone cut the engine and called out, “S’albins,” which she understood to mean that they had arrived at St. Albans Island, her destination. She turned and watched the island rise up out of the ocean. She knew that from above, the ten square mile land mass was crescent-shaped, but from here, it looked like a floating croissant—maybe because she was so hungry. When she turned back, there, in the middle of the boat between her and the boatman, stood a pirate. Not a guy dressed like a pirate, but a real—a little transparent—but a real looking 18th century pirate. He glared, squinting his uncovered eye at her. How trite: black eye patch, cloth tied around his forehead, and leather vest laced over hairy tanned chest. The only thing missing was a pegleg. Do not come onto my island, the pirate sneered. You are not wanted. “Stuff it!” Joy told him, definitely in no mood for his opinion. Gladstone turned. “I didn’t say nothin’, mum.” “I wasn’t talking to you.” Then to the pirate, as if addressing a bothersome insect, she hissed, “Go away!” The pirate frowned, floated a few feet up above the boat, and evaporated. Right now Joy was too tired to put up with the irritating side effects of being a natural psychic. Spirits could find someone else to talk to, she wasn’t here to be their cheap shrink. Joy knew she had a problem turning off her talent and tried to ignore the fact that often her life was so boring, talking to spirits was better than TV. The boat headed into a broad harbor formed by the two promontories. Each high point held a formal plantation house looking out over the calm Caribbean Sea. On the hillsides terraced fields faced the setting sun. A couple dressed in white waited on the dock. The clothing glowed surreally in the twilight. She felt she was entering another time and another world. The boat glided closer and with a bone-jarring thud the wooden bow clunked against tire-covered pilings. “What are you doing here?” the blonde woman in flowing skirt and halter-top asked. Rebecca DuMaurier Paxton sounded upset. “I knew you needed my help,” Joy told her, hoping for a warmer welcome after her hazardous journey. “But I just e-mailed you this afternoon.” Rebecca looked puzzled, but stepped aside to allow the boatman to boost Joy from the boat and toss her bag next to her on the dock. “How could you be here already?” A tall, sandy-haired man in loose white pants and shirt put his arms around Joy in a warm hug. “Welcome. We’re so happy to have you here on our island. We both need your help” “Thanks, Tom. At least you’re polite.” Joy stuck her tongue out at Rebecca. “I come all this way because I knew you needed me. And look.” She gestured to her ruined dress and seawater soaked shoes. Tom stepped back and burst out laughing. “There are many dangers in being a psychic.” “Tell me about it. You only channel spirits’ messages, but they want to tell me their entire life’s story.” Rebecca hugged her. “So, you’re here because you knew I needed help. But I said in my email, not to come until we had more rooms renovated. The resort’s not ready. I wanted you to be comfortable.” “Relax. Joy’s exhausted.” Tom picked up her carry-on bag and led the way to narrow stone steps. “Let’s go up to the big house and figure out what to do.” Half way up the steep path Joy’s legs felt ready to give out and she stopped to rest. Workmen going down passed them carrying lumber, paint, and battery powered tools. “How much farther?” she panted. “Just a bit more.” Tom pointed to lights above them. When Joy thought she could climb no more, Tom stepped onto a stone patio lit by candles and torches. She stumbled behind him noticing the columned plantation house’s formal entrance and this vine-draped portico and gardens of intoxicating flowers faced the harbor. The boat that had brought her—the nerve of calling it a ferry boat—was a white dot on the darkening water. Rebecca caught up and led Joy into a newly renovated room. Mahogany floors and woodwork gleamed, but no furniture filled its unusual oval shape. She gestured, “This is the dining room. It’s coming along, slowly, very slowly. Caribbean time.” “St. Albans time.” Tom smiled. “That’s even slower.” He turned to Rebecca. “How about we put Joy in the Settlers House. It’s finished.” Rebecca wrinkled her nose. “I know it’s your office, but Joy will be helping you. It’ll be fine. Relax. “ Rebecca smiled at her new husband and nodded. “Good idea. Joy’ll be away from the construction noise. And when she’s not helping me, you’ll have it to yourself.” Joy smiled for the first time. A house of her own. That sounded very nice. “Now she needs rest. We’ll talk in the morning.” Tom again picked up Joy’s bag and headed out the opposite door. Rebecca nodded, “I’ll ask Phoebe to bring your dinner down from the kitchen. There are advantages in living at a resort. Rest well.” Joy wasn’t sure. This wasn’t like places in the Catskills with pools, shuffleboard, and miniature golf. Nor like the Sedona resort where she’d worked as a concierge, where shopping, meditating, and getting massaged were top tourist activities. She followed Tom outside and watched him disappear down a path. Down? Now she had to climb down to this house. Tom and Rebecca had begun remodeling both plantation houses and outbuildings as soon as they returned from their honeymoon. Rebecca, mindlessly in love with Tom, the famous trance channel and author, decided to chuck her high-powered law career for full time island life, as long as she had all the advantages of electronic satellite communication. St. Albans Island had been owned by Tom’s family since the 1800s and coincidently—as a psychic Joy had no problem accepting coincidences—Rebecca’s father had bought it as an investment, began turning it into an upscale resort, and then gave the entire island to Rebecca and Tom as a wedding present. Now John Dumaurier and Rebecca’s mother Charlotte, newlyweds for the second time, were traveling the world, visiting national capitals wining and dining officials in an attempt to get St. Albans under the jurisdiction of some country. Rebecca was writing a romance novel based on the diary of a woman who had lived on this island one hundred and forty years ago. Joy’s research background as a librarian and her amazing computer skills would be a great help. Rebecca also managed the resort’s renovation and the building of new guestrooms and cottages while Tom planned the retreat programs and trainings the resort would offer. Tom wanted Rebecca to be free of all but the legal work. Joy’s organizational skills and could help them both. Rebecca never did anything halfway, but marriage to Tom had softened her. Joy knew the old Rebecca would have been the boss from hell while the new Rebecca was enthusiastic but pragmatic and caring. Tom and Rebecca settled Joy in the house and fifteen minutes later a slim black woman who introduced herself as Phoebe maneuvered that path with a tray and a glass of wine. Dinner was broiled fish, sweet and light, and mounds of sliced pineapple, melon, and fruits of unrecognizable colors and flavors. After inadvertently swallowing a gallon of sea water, Joy found the fruit refreshing and the wine relaxing and as soon as she peeled off her stiff silk dress she lay down and fell asleep. *** The next morning Joy woke, removed her support bra and not-so-brief cotton briefs. Traveling and sleeping had been unkind to her clothing. Looking around, she saw someone had brought a gauzy white robe, a carafe of coffee, and more fruit. She slipped on the wrap, modestly pulling the soft fabric close around her, opened the French doors and walked hesitantly out onto a deck cantilevered over black volcanic rock cliffs to the Atlantic Ocean. To the right she looked down on a postcard perfect cove of pink sand, calm turquoise water, and swaying green palm trees. She sighed. Coming here hadn’t been such a bad decision after all. The air was perfumed by flowers and, except for bird calls and ocean waves, nothing disturbed this peaceful island paradise. She walked along the deck inspecting exotic potted flowers and vines that shaded the lounge chairs. Holding her hand next to a scarlet hibiscus blossom, she guessed the petals measured over eight inches in diameter. She noticed binoculars on a table. Must be for bird watching. Noticing movement in the placid water below, she picked up the glasses. She focused and adjusted until she located the source and brought the scene into focus. A man swam near a small boat on the beach. His honey-colored body diving in and out of the water like a dolphin. Joy stepped behind the hibiscus and increased the resolution. She sensed his pure animal pleasure in the morning and the ocean. Curious, she tried to sense more, but faced resistance. This man, as free as he seemed, was not open to her psychic skills. He stood in waist-high shallows and walked effortlessly toward shore, shaking the water from his shoulder-length hair. He raised his face to the sun, obviously glorying in the morning. At the same moment he glanced toward the deck and the woman holding the binoculars, Joy realized he was naked. Gorgeously naked. Certain he was too far away to see her, she decided not to lower the binoculars. Then he waved, pushed the boat back into the water, and jumped in, all in one strong, lithesome move. He started the motor and with one look at her over his shoulder in her direction headed out to sea. Joy flushed all the way to her navel. |
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