Andy nodded like this was the correct answer. “Ah yes. You look like a man who needs a break.”
He had a lot of opinions for a stranger. “I feel like a man who needs a break, too.”
Andy seemed to think this was funny because he laughed harder than I expected and slapped his hand on the middle of the steering wheel. The horn tooted softly. “The nightlife in Cruz Bay is very good, Peter. You should go down there tonight or tomorrow and meet people. Three months alone inland will be good to your soul and spirit, but it is the people of the island who will refill your well.”
“You’re a pretty bossy cab driver, you know that?”
Andy laughed, chortling and snorting. “I have been told. But I have also been thanked. Been living here a long time, Peter. Long time. I know things only locals know. And I know what city boys like you come to a place like this looking for. Trust me. You will find it here. Let the people guide you.”
I felt as if I’d been transported into an animated movie for children about destiny and princesses and spiritual awakenings. I said none of this to my driver, of course, who spent the remaining ten minutes of the drive telling me all about the top places I should visit. One comment was about the daily market, which was stocked with fresh produce and fish by local farmers and fishermen. He assured me it was the only way to shop for food on the island.
I promised I would make my way out there tomorrow.
The paved road ended and we rolled slowly onto a pothole-ridden dirt road lined in overgrown foliage that brushed against the sides of Andy’s car. At the end of the road, I spied my destination, the quaint little cabin I’d rented online from an elderly couple who resided in Miami.
It presented better in a picture than it did in real life. That was for damn certain.
“Home sweet home,” Andy announced as he put the car in park. He flashed me a smile and drummed his fingers on the wheel. “What do you think?”
I peered at the lopsided deck with peeling paint and the beginnings of rot. The cabin itself seemed structurally sound, but the deck was in bad shape. Forest-green shutters framed the two front windows. The glass was cloudy and in need of cleaning. The roof looked new, and that was a relief.
I nodded. “This will do just fine.”
Andy and I got out of the car. He insisted on helping me with my bags and left them on the front porch. It creaked under the small weight of my bags and I worried about walking across it. I was a two-hundred-pound man. If it had troubles with my suitcases which were a grand total of seventy pounds, we were in for some trouble.
I paid and tipped Andy and he wished me a good stay on “his island.”
As he drove off, I stood with my fists on my hips, staring at the little home that would be mine for the next ninety days.
“All right,” I said to myself. “This isn’t too bad.”
The stairs of the porch groaned and moaned beneath my weight, but they held fast. The porch was more obnoxious in its protests, but it too held me as I unlocked the front door with the key that had been left on top of the doorframe. I shouldered the door open and stepped inside.
I could smell the dust.
It sat upon every surface, windowsill, and floorboard. It made the sunlight streaming through the fogged glass windows look muted, like a filter had been applied to it. The air was intensely still.
I took a step forward and plumes of dust rose from under the soles of my shoes.
I dropped my bags on the floor and buried my nose and mouth in the crook of my elbow as dust particles rose up to dance in the sunlight.
“At least you’ll have something to do to kill some time,” I muttered.
Chapter 2
Katie
Hop, the big Russian who worked the morning shifts in the cafe and the evenings in the cigar lounge, already had my drinks sitting on the counter ready for me to pick them up that morning when I came down from my suite.
He greeted me with his classic smile and a nod of his big bald head. “Good morning, Katie.” His voice was as deep and rough as he looked.