What Happens in Paradise - Elin Hilderbrand Page 0,26
cut through all the chatter and the restaurant quieted so that I could clearly hear Harry Belafonte singing, “Yes, we have no bananas.” People whispered and sneaked glances at Oscar and I yearned to tell them to stop. Couldn’t they see that was what he was after?
I then watched the Big Deal Family’s daughter, Lucinda Caruso, who has made sure to tell me every year for the past three years that she “recently graduated from Harvard” (which I take to mean that she has yet to find a job, a theory reinforced by the fact that she signed every charge to her father’s room), approach Oscar’s table and proceed to take the fourth seat. Lucinda was wearing a very short, sequined cocktail dress that would have been better at an event where she remained standing. I overheard her say, “Are you guys rap stars?” I rolled my eyes, not only because Lucinda was feeding the beast but also because she probably couldn’t imagine a black man having the money to order Dom unless he was a rap star or a professional athlete. I could have shut her up by telling her the truth. He sells drugs, Lucinda! But it was none of my business.
The yacht gentlemen’s food was up. I set one order of conch fritters—piping hot, golden brown, and fragrant, served with a papaya-cayenne aioli—in front of Russell from Iowa City. This is my favorite part of the job, other than the money, introducing the Caribbean to people who have never experienced it. I plunked the tower of sushi—the way Chef had arranged it was quite impressive, and the fish was so plump and fresh, it looked like art—in front of Todd Croft.
“There you go, doll,” I said. “Enjoy.”
Russell from Iowa City barked out a laugh so surprised and genuine that I gave him a wink.
The night progressed. It was busy. I kept one eye on the yacht men—after all that, they barely touched the sushi—and one eye on Oscar and his friends. Lucinda stayed at the table; they ordered another bottle of Dom. Mr. and Mrs. Big Deal stopped by the table and tried to entice Lucinda to go with them to the Chateau Bordeaux, but she refused to leave, and the second her parents were out the door, she rose from her chair and sat on Oscar’s lap.
At that point, I turned away. I knew Oscar was showboating just to goad me into reconsidering my decision, but I hadn’t done all my soul-searching only to cave because I couldn’t stand to see him with a silly rich girl on his lap.
I tended to my other tables. I was even nice to Tessie. When I saw her heading out with a third bottle of Dom, I said, “Tonight is your lucky night. Oscar is an excellent tipper.”
Around ten, things started to quiet down. Two of the yacht men—Todd Croft and the tall, bald Brit—left, and Russell from Iowa City moved to the bar and planted himself in front of the television to watch a basketball game. When I checked the screen, I saw Iowa was playing Northwestern. I went up to him because I had a minute and also because Todd Croft had left an even five hundred dollars for a three-hundred-and-twenty-dollar check.
“You’re rooting for Iowa?” I asked.
“Northwestern, actually,” he said. “My alma mater.”
“Ah.” I knew more about football than basketball, and nearly all my basketball knowledge was limited to the San Antonio Spurs in general and Tim Duncan in particular because he hailed from St. Croix and some of my Small cousins had actually played a pickup game with him once on the courts in Contant. But it was best I change the subject. “So, your friends left you behind?”
“They went into Cruz Bay,” Russell said. “Looking for women.” He held up his left hand. “I’m married, with two boys.”
“Well, your wife is a very lucky woman,” I said, and I patted his shoulder. “Your next drink is on me. How did you like the conch fritters?”
“I loved them!” he said. “I was meaning to ask if you knew a place I could get some real Caribbean food. I have the day to myself tomorrow and I want to explore.”
“Well,” I said, “if you want local flavor, go to the East End. There’s a place called Vie’s on Hansen Bay.”
He took a pen out of his shirt pocket and pulled a cocktail napkin off the stack. “Vie’s?”
“She makes some mean garlic chicken and the best johnnycakes,” I