locked up, Christmas wreaths in her rigging. The idea of her surviving the hurricane unscathed gave Els a jolt of relief tinged with something akin to hope.
Towers of shrink-wrapped cargo turned the damaged wharf into an obstacle course, and she was grateful for a porter’s help in shifting her luggage to the Jeep, which was parked near the Ginnery as Lauretta had promised. The creased bonnet and round headlampsgave the car such a quizzical expression that Els decided not to repair the dents and that the vehicle begged for a name. Wilma.
Before entering the harbor road along the battered seawall, she stopped and watched Iguana tug at her mooring line. In her business travel, the reality of a place seldom penetrated her shield of meetings, hired cars, and posh hotels. The foreignness of this place was exciting, but her otherness and na?veté rang a warning bell. She knew by name only a handful of people who called Nevis home. She wondered if any of them, or anyone at all, would become her friend.
Jack’s had a new rolling gate and cattle guard, and one of the drive’s royal palms had sprouted opposite branches holding golf ball–sized fruits, red on one, green on the other, as if it had decked itself out to welcome her for Christmas. The fallen trees were gone, and the newly mown grass baking in the sun reminded her of haying season. With its polished windows reflecting the afternoon sun, the house appeared larger, more gracious. Lauretta had arranged outdoor furniture on the gallery. Nevis Pottery urns spilling pale blue flowers flanked the door.
A stroll through the rooms reassured her that their quirkiness remained intact, though they were tidy and bright with tropical fabrics now. She set about unpacking and arranging the few personal treasures she’d carried in her luggage. She placed her portrait of Mallo on the bedside table and the triangle-folded Saltire and bothy’s tin cup on the study desk next to Jack’s shaving mug and a piece of brain coral.
Crunching gravel and a slamming car door announced Lauretta’s arrival in the court. At her call of, “Inside?” Els went to the gallery. She found Lauretta leaning against a gleaming white Lexus sedan.
“Where else would I be?” Els asked, suspecting her renovation had paid for the car.
“Hollerin’ ‘inside’s’ the Nevisian way of knocking,” Lauretta said, “but from farther away, to respect people’s privacy when they don’t have normal doors.” She hugged her yellow pad to her chest. “For only two weeks since you got title, are we making progress on this sow’s ear, or what?” She looked particularly pixieish today, her ginger frizz held back in butterfly clips.
“Enough for me to stay here,” Els said.
“Only if you plan to shower in the rain like a dumb chicken,” Lauretta said. She climbed up the steps, and Els ushered her into the lounge. “The water permit got all twisted up—don’t get me started—and there won’t be any new hookups until after New Year’s. The stonemason hasn’t fixed the crack in the cistern yet. You’re dry for at least two weeks. The new fridge won’t arrive ’til then, either. If you hadn’t rushed back, holiday coming and all, I’d have had time to get a lot more ready.”
“I cleared out my London flat,” Els said. “I needed a roof over my head.”
Lauretta flipped the wall switch. The ceiling fan rotated. “You’ve got current and a working cooker. Only two of the big four necessities of civilization.”
“Then I’m canceling the hotel,” Els said.
Lauretta cocked an eyebrow.
“I made it through the hurricane wi’ a lot less, didn’t I? Look, I slept out on the moors all the time as a kid, sometimes in the snow.” A memory stabbed her: warm dogs, shooting stars, falling asleep with Mallo to the voices of men telling tales. “The new mattress will be luxury enough.”
“Top of the line,” Lauretta said. “So you won’t feel any peas.” She walked to the window. “There’s a flush privy and lavatory with its own cistern by that outbuilding that had its roof tore off. Stella insisted on scrubbing it, even though I told her you’d never use it. Don’t even think about drinking that water unless you want bugs in your belly.”
Els looked out at the shell of the chattel house she’d imagined as a painting studio and guest room once the roof was replaced. “Where can I get water?”
“Tourists buy bottled. People without their own cisterns like Jack’s or government water use the public cisterns. There’s one at