Page 46 of That Birthday in Barbados
The young man who helped us out of the harnessessmiles at me and says, “You come back tomorrow. We’ll make a time for you.”
I smile back at him, saying, “That was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done.”
I’m not sure who looks more pleased, him or Anders. The driver eases the boat back to the beach, and once we’re close enough in, Anders and I climb out, thanking him for the ride.
We’re headed back to the Jeep when I notice the sprinkle of rain on my shoulders. I look to the sky, see the dark, almost isolated cloud that is opening its contents above us. Anders grabs my hand, and we run to the Land Rover. He opens my door, and I climb inside, pushing my now wet hair back from my face.
He climbs in the driver’s side and with a hand on the steering wheel, looks at me with a half-smile. “We need to make you a list.”
“Of what?” I ask, hearing the teasing note in his voice.
“Things you’ve never done before.”
“Oh, a bucket list, you mean?”
“Not a list for preparing to die. You need a list for living. A life list.”
“Well, that was a good one to start with,” I concede. “Never imagined myself doing that.”
He laughs a light laugh, starts the engine. “Show you where I live?”
I see the line I’m about to cross, as if it’s been drawn out between us in red paint.
Sensible Catherine would say, “Better get back to the hotel.”
Newly adventurous Catherine says, “I’d love to see where you live.”
*
BY THE TIME we make the turn onto the drive leading to a lovely, surprisinglylarge off-white stucco house with a slate roof, the rain has begun to pour in earnest, pelleting the windshield like diamonds being hurled from the sky. Thunder rumbles an ominous soundtrack. Anders cuts the engine, and says, “We can wait here, or make a run for it.”
I open my door. “I’m game if you are.”
We race to the front entrance where he pulls a key from his pocket and opens the heavy mahogany door.
We’re both soaked, my T-shirt and shorts sticking to me.
“I’ll just grab some towels,” he says, disappearing into a bathroom to the right of the foyer. He returns a few seconds later with two thick white towels, passing one to me and drying off with the other.
I run it across my hair and try to absorb some of the moisture from my shirt. I wrap the towel around my shoulders, taking in the house before us. The foyer is two stories high and opens into a very large living area with wide glass doors that offer a view of the beach and ocean beyond. A well-appointed kitchen sits to the left. I note the Wolf stove with its trademark red knobs. The flooring is a beautiful travertine stone in an antique white.
Canvas paintings add vibrant color to the neutral walls. Casual, dark leather furniture sits on top of a sea-green rug. The house is impressive, yet welcoming. “This is beautiful,” I say,not hiding my surprise. “Wall Street must have been very good to you.”
He shrugs. “I left some in the market, but I have to admit, as investments go, I’d rather live in one than look at it on paper.”
“Real estate good here?”
“I bought this place at a noted market low. If I needed to sell, I’d come out pretty well. And you know what they say. God isn’t making any more land.”
“True,” I say.
“Can I get you a dry shirt? Don’t think I have any shorts that are going to work, but-”
“A dry T-shirt would be great.”
“Be right back.”
The house is onelevel, and he jogs off down the hall to our left. I walk over to the glass doors, staring out at the rain that has now lowered its intensity, washing the heat from the cascade of vivid bougainvillea draping the wall between the pool and beach. I wonder what it would be like to live here, and I know a stab of envy that is not typical of me.
