Page 39 of Tiki Hut Tragedy
Noting the pastor’s hesitation, the man began following them, discounting the original rate he’d stated. “I will be your personal guide to keep you safe in the Dominican Republic. It is not wise to venture off on your own.”
“We’re going to Umbrella Street.” Millie made the mistake of engaging, which only emboldened the aggressive entrepreneur.
“I will take you to Playa Dorada, the best beach in the world.”
“We’re not dressed for a beach day.”
“But you don’t have to swim. It is bea-youuuuu-teeful just to look at.”
Millie didn’t answer. Intentionally focusing straight ahead of her, she figured he would get the message and eventually give up. He didn’t. Instead, he grabbed her arm.
She jerked back and spun around to face him. “I can see you’re a hardworking man who is just trying to make a living. However, we are not interested. If you touch me again, I’m going to flag down the police.”
The man muttered a word that rhymed with snitch and stalked off.
The pastor moved closer to Millie, standing between her and the other locals hawking their services. “You weren’t exaggerating. The vendors here are very aggressive.”
“Where’s Annette when you need her?” Millie sighed.
“Who is Annette?”
“Annette Delacroix, my friend who also happens to be the director of food and beverages on board the ship.”
“I’ve heard you mention her before. Her name sounds familiar. She may have attended a church service.”
“She has.” Millie shared the story of her first visit to Jamaica and almost being mugged. “Annette scared them off.”
“What you’re saying is she would be a good person to have along on this adventure,” the pastor joked.
“Yep. A firm ‘no’ usually does the trick, but sometimes you get an overly eager vendor who won’t give up.”
Reaching the main drag, they made another turn, passing by a pair of gun-toting uniformed officers.
A crumbling concrete building was directly to their left, and Millie briefly wondered if they had taken a wrong turn. Up ahead, she noticed a group of tourists gathered on the corner. “I think we’re close.”
In a few short steps, much to Millie’s relief, she and the pastor reached Umbrella Street. “This is neat.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocketand snapped a photo of the umbrellas strung from metal bars, a rainbow of colors—green, red, yellow and blue.
They posed for a quick selfie and meandered along the walkway. Quaint cafés and businesses, a blend of old shops in hues of vivid red and mustard yellow, lined both sides.
Salsa music played in the background. Millie paused to watch locals dance to merengue and bachata, the Dominican Republic’s music. It was a tune she’d heard before, and she hummed along.
“Shirley would have loved this place,” the pastor said wistfully. “The vibrant colors, the music, the sights and sounds.”
“She liked to travel?”
“Loved it. Unfortunately, we never had a lot of extra money or time off to explore.”
“I’m sure she’s up in heaven right now smiling down.”
“I hope so. I’ll admit I feel a little guilty.”
“Survivor’s guilt,” Millie said. “I might be overstepping my boundaries, but I’m beginning to notice something.”
“Which is?”
“You haven’t given yourself permission to enjoy life again.”
The pastor grew quiet. “You’re right. I’m still mourning her death.”
