Last Resort Read online

  “Wow, Phillip, you know a lot about this place,” Gwen notes with admiration.

  “Just some stuff I read online,” I reply sheepishly.

  “I think it’s fascinating,” Alexandra says.

  “No offense,” Conner grins and gives me a hard clap on the back. “But you can keep the swamp birds. I’ll be out on the ocean with a jet ski. You jet ski, Phil?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind going out on one of the little catamarans I saw in the brochure.”

  “They’re called hobie cats,” he explains. “They’re fun if you want to putter along, but if you really want to fly you need the jet skis.”

  “I want to try that—the hobie cat,” Gwen says, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Phillip, you can steer and work the sails while I lay up front like a princess.”

  I laugh. “Okay, your Highness.” Her enthusiasm is infectious, momentarily eclipsing all the turmoil between us.

  We descend and the pilot calls our attention to a small town at the center of the island. “Just ahead is the capital of Isla Fin de la Tierra: Rio Galera. Population: 4,000. Give or take a hundred.”

  The shadow of our plane races over the hillsides. It is fascinating to see the topography of the island from such a vantage. Many of the homes we pass over are little more than shacks, their roofs made of rusted sheet metal and their patchy yards festooned with rusting automobiles.

  “It’s hard to believe people actually live in homes like that,” Alexandra remarks.

  “Even paradise has a ghetto,” Conner jibes.

  “No, no, I would not call it a ghetto,” the pilot corrects him. “People here don’t need as much to get by. They live simply.”

  Conner shrugs. “You can keep it. I need hot running water and a flat screen TV.”

  Our landing is smooth. There is no airport, not in the traditional sense, anyway. From a small control room two men emerge to assist the pilot in unloading our luggage into a waiting van that will carry us to our resorts.

  The air has a different scent here, something subtle. Perhaps it comes from the salty sea or the sun-baked rocks. Even the light seems different here—brighter, more intense. It fills me with a quiet thrill, this sense of being somewhere foreign and free of my familiar surroundings. I look at Gwen and know she feels it, too. For no particular reason she rests her head on my shoulder and I do not mind at all.

  Alexandra dons her oversized sunglasses and approaches the driver of our van. He is a tall man in his early twenties, his skin the darkest brown from the omnipresent sun, and he wears a crisp resort uniform.

  “Owen, at your service,” he bows with a smile. His island accent is strong but still easily comprehensible.

  “Can you tell me what nightclubs there are in town? Or duty free shops?” Alexandra asks.

  “Sorry, we have nothing like that here. No disco clubs. No duty shops,” he gestures to the town around the small landing strip. “We have a church, a police station, and a hospital, but hopefully you won’t need to go there.”

  “Why, is the doctor horrible?” she asks, her mouth pursed with concern.

  “Ha, no,” Owen laughs. “We have very good doctor, but it is your holiday, no? Who wants to go to the hospital on holiday?”

  Alexandra chuckles. “I see your point.”

  Gwen touches my arm to get my attention. “Look at that stray dog. Poor thing. I wonder the last time anybody fed it.”

  The dog she points to is a raggedy mongrel, sniffing the ground, roving for anything edible.

  Gwen reaches into her purse and finds a granola bar. “Maybe it will eat this.”

  She approaches the dog with soothing words, the granola bar held in her outstretched palm.

  “Gwen, you don’t know this dog. Leave the food on the ground,” I advise her. “If the dog is hungry it will take the food without you getting too close.”

  She ignores me, bending down to appear less threatening as the dog warily approaches. The dog takes the bar from her hand and sits in front of her to wolf it down. Gwen ruffles the dog’s fur and flashes me a triumphant smile.

  “Ugh, that thing is probably crawling with fleas,” one of the debutantes sneers.

  Gwen walks back to us with the mongrel trailing.

  “It seems you’ve made a friend,” I grin.

  “I know, isn’t he adorable? He or she. Whichever. It’s so dirty I cannot tell. I wish we could bring it with us to the resort.”

  Owen loads the last suitcase into the van and joins us. “I would not fret for it, miss. The dogs on this island have the life of kings.”

  “He does not seem very royal,” Gwen replies.

  “Perhaps not by the standards of your American dogs, with their groomers and trainers and fancy dog food, but believe me the dogs on this island live well. They get to enjoy year round what you lovely people only get to experience for a week or two…the sun, the sea, the tropical breezes.”

  With a rueful expression, Gwen climbs into the van and turns to the waiting dog. “I am sorry. I have no more food to give you.”

  The dog gives a quizzical tilt of its head as Owen slides the door shut. As we drive away, Gwen waves to the dog. It watches us from the curb.

  “I feel so bad for that animal,” Gwen says.

  “As I said, miss, don’t fret for this pup,” Owen says. “It won’t miss many meals, believe me.”

  We bounce over pitted and crudely patched roads. Owen drives with self-assurance taken to the point of recklessness. Men and women—their skin dark and leathery from the blazing sun—walk on the cracked sidewalks and gutters alongside the narrow road. Some of them stop to watch us drive past. Can they see me through the tinted windows? More than once, I flinch as Owen nearly sideswipes one of the pedestrians, but he drives on without pause. The other drivers sharing the road are just as heedless, each behaving as if there were no other vehicles on the road.

  At the center of town the homes are little more than shacks with sheet metal roofs and crumbling, graffiti tagged concrete walls as dividers. Serpentine roads twist among the closely packed homes. The afternoon sun casts long shadows in the alleys between the homes where I glimpse flocks of chickens and the occasional goat.

  As we pass a white clapboard church, Owen points to a small building beside it. “Dis is our police station.”

  Alexandra remarks, “It’s no bigger than a fast food restaurant.”

  “Dere is very little crime on de island. Maybe every once in a while somebody steal a chicken.”

  Gwen chuckles.

  “We ban all de guns,” Owen continues. “We have no killings, no robbery. Safest island in de West Indies.”

  Conner glances at the poverty all around us and whispers conspiratorially, “I think we’ll stick to the resort, thanks all the same.”

  Once outside the center of town the homes scatter over the hillsides, separated by fields of switch grass and brush. Some of the homes are fairly large and modern—topped with satellite dishes drawing television channels from around the world to this remote outpost and probably used as vacation homes by rich foreigners—but most of the homes are similar in size and construction to the shacks in the town. Sometimes, through a break in the hills, we glimpse the sea. I am eager to sink my toes into the sand and feel the waves lap against me.

  We drop Piper and Willow off at their hotel. Steep, rocky slopes bound the road to our resort. The slopes become cliffs that surround our resort in a protective bowl. At the end of the road lies a sizable hut where we check in. The staff, all native islanders like Owen, greet us with warm smiles and help the women alight from the van. While Owen removes our luggage, the staff offers us tropical cocktails.

  “Now this is my kind of greeting,” Alexandra winks and sips her daiquiri from a coconut shell. Gwen handles our check in and I take the opportunity to wander. Tiny red lizards skitter along the side of the building. The lagoon spreads before me, surrounded by mangroves and dotted with flocks of migratory birds. On the far side of the lago
on lies the resort. A man drives an electric cart over the narrow wooden bridge that spans the lagoon. He parks the cart alongside the van so Owen can load our luggage onto the back of it

  “I am Jonas Dunlap, the resort manager,” says the man from the cart with a courteous bow. He wears an elegant linen suit and has the dark skin and heavy accent of the other islanders. His closely cropped silver hair gives away his age, but his skin is unlined, his figure long and lean and he moves with the grace of a ballet dancer.

  “I trust you had an enjoyable flight,” Jonas continues. “Now is the time for you to relax and let us pamper you. Leave the cares of the world behind. Should you have any request—no matter how small—please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention. We pride ourselves on our hospitality. I may be biased in my opinion, but at the end of your holiday I am sure you will agree that Isla Fin de la Tierra is the closest place to heaven on earth.”

  Jonas drives us across the bridge to our bungalows.

  “It’s beautiful,” Gwen enthuses upon seeing the interior of our bungalow. “We have to take pictures. Check out the bathroom. This is the nicest place I’ve ever stayed.”

  I have to agree. The bungalow has a vaulted ceiling with exposed wooden beams and a massive ceiling fan with blades shaped like banana leaves. Our bed is on a platform overlooking a seating area that comprises a few comfortable chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. The bathroom is spacious with a large, walk-in double shower.

  This is the first time I have been alone with Gwen since we left home. I collapse on the bed and kick off my shoes.

  “You hungry?” she asks.

  “Starving.”

  “I’ll take a quick shower—then we can hit the restaurant.”

  I hear the shower faucet turn on. I begin to unpack my luggage and notice a silver, ice-filled pail with a bottle of champagne sticking out of it. The card taped to the pail reads:

  To Mr. and Mrs. Crane. May this be the first of many romantic nights. Courtesy, Jonas Dunlap.

  Holding the pail, I feel like an impostor. It is a welcoming gift better suited for honeymooners—not for a man and woman just coming off a months long separation. If things on this trip go successfully, we can drink the champagne on our last night to celebrate. If the trip ends in disaster, I can always drink the bottle alone to get good and drunk. I take the pail, open the sliding glass doors to our small patio facing the beach, and toss the ice to the sand. The champagne I place far back on the top shelf of our closet. Gwen hums softly in the steamy shower. I do not mention the champagne.

  “Honey, can you help me with my dress?”

  Gwen is in the bathroom. I enter to find her topless, wearing only lacy panties. I am stunned. We used to walk around nude in front of each other all the time, lounging in bed for long hours, naked and carefree, but that was before I discovered her affair. This is the first time since we separated I have seen any skin on my wife past her collarbone. Before her exquisite beauty, my mouth hangs open and I stammer nonsensically. If she notices my awkwardness, she does not let on.

  She puts the bra on and turns her back to me. “Can you buckle this?”

  I fasten her bra. She slips into her dress—a flattering red cocktail piece that tempts me to run a hand over the smooth silk that hugs her curves.

  “I hope you’re going to get dressed,” she says as she turns to the mirror to apply make-up. “They won’t seat us for dinner unless you’re in formal wear. Isn’t that exciting, Phillip? Getting all dressed up for dinner? I feel like I’m in a classic film.”

  “Sure, I’ll get one of my suits.”

  “Don’t you want to shower first? A hot shower is so refreshing after a day cramped on airplanes.”

  The thought of stripping down and exposing myself to Gwen is unnerving.

  “It will take too long,” I dodge. “Maybe I’ll take one later.”

  She shrugs, and then turns to me eagerly. “Hey, Phillip, before we go to dinner can we walk on the beach?”

  “I like that idea. I was hoping to hit the beach as soon as we arrived.”

  “Great. When we walk on the beach, make sure you roll up the hem of your pants. I want to be near the waves. I find it so romantic—walking on the beach with my handsome husband.”

  I blush.

  “This might sound sort of silly,” she adds. “But there is something about waves washing on the shore—one wave after another, forever, endless—that strikes me as incredibly rejuvenating. The water wipes everything clean.”

  Wipe everything clean. The subtext doesn’t escape me. We finish dressing and walk along the deserted beach. The sun has nearly left the sky. Without prompting, I take her hand. Across the dark bay, a lonely red light flashes on a small, barren island. Crashing waves spray a light, salty mist on our skin. The brightest spot on the beach is the restaurant. We say nothing as we walk towards it, enjoying this moment together. Gwen is right. The crashing waves are renewing.

  The restaurant stands above the beach on a wooden deck. Thick ropes—the kind normally used to tie a ship to a pier—serve as railings on the deck. Calypso music from a band wafts into the night. Couples dance arm in arm on the deck. Most of the other guests are older than we are. Jewel bedecked women in flowing evening gowns sway in the arms of white haired husbands.

  Jonas Dunlap converses with one of the kitchen staff, but upon seeing us, he walks over. “Mr. Crane, if I may say so, Mrs. Crane looks marvelous tonight.”

  “Is a table for two available?” I ask.

  “We are preparing one at this very moment. Have you visited the bar?” he gestures to the far end of the deck where other couples congregate around a circular bar. “While you wait for your table, our bartender would be pleased to mix any drink you desire.”

  As we approach the bar, I notice the handful of people there are closer to my age group on the younger end of the spectrum. I spot Conner leaning against the bar holding court with Alexandra seated on a stool sipping another daiquiri. Off to my side through the foliage I glimpse the swimming pool. The idea of spending more time around Conner’s cheery perfection gives me an idea.

  “Hey, let’s check out the pool you saw from the plane,” I suggest, steering Gwen away from the bar.

  Water splashes along the faux rock formation into the pool. Ripples on the surface bounce undulating ribbons of light into the palm trees. Numerous people dressed in evening clothes congregate in small groups around the pool. Others lounge in bathing suits in a steaming Jacuzzi carved into the side of the rock formation.

  “C’mon in, lovely lady,” an islander half submerged in the Jacuzzi beckons to Gwen. “De hot water will do you good. Let de heat penetrate your bones.”

  Gwen is surprised the man singled her out, and holds up her hand in mild protest to his offer.

  He brushes her refusal away with a hearty laugh and flashes a gold-toothed smile. “Dese good folks with me have the right notion.”

  “He’s right,” one of the smiling guests in the Jacuzzi, an Englishman, adds. “This feels wonderful.”

  “Perhaps after dinner,” Gwen begs off.

  The islander resumes speaking with the guests in the water. The island sun has reduced his dark skin to the texture of parchment. He has the sunken cheeks and painfully sharp jawbones of a cancer victim. In a strange contrast to his cadaverous face, his body is all muscle and bone, as lean and strong as a high school athlete. Dread locks fall to his shoulders. A gold ring pierces his nostril. Another ring pierces one of his nipples and from it dangles a gold dolphin. At the request of one of the guests, the islander hops out of the steaming water and proceeds to contort his wiry body in freakish ways. Without any difficulty, he bends his legs over his shoulders, and walks on two hands in a way that reminds me instantly of a skittering crab. The small audience cheers and claps, and the islander accepts their attention with a leering grin.

  I am the only one not applauding.

  “This guy creeps me out,” I whisper to Gwen.

  “I won
der if he works here,” she replies.

  “Oh, no, he doesn’t work here,” a nearby Englishwoman interjects. “His name is Action. The resort doesn’t mind his presence because he entertains the guests.”

  “We haven’t seen you two before,” standing by the woman, a silver haired, ruddy-cheeked Englishman adds. “You must have arrived today.”

  I tell him he is correct.

  “You are going to love it here,” the woman raves. “By the way, I am Pamela and this is my husband, Bill.”

  We shake hands. Tall and thin, with a thick mass of blonde curls and a double strand of pearls, Pamela is vivacious and seems the more out going of the pair.

  “Are you two waiting to be seated for dinner?” Pamela asks to which we reply that we are. “Come, Bill, let’s see if our table is ready yet.”

  With the option of staying to watch Action’s one-man freak show or begin dining, I turn to Gwen, “Maybe our table is ready, too.”

  Unfortunately, neither of our tables is ready.

  “They will be ready in a moment more,” Jonas says. “If you would prefer to be seated immediately we do have a table for six available.”

  Pamela looks at me with a friendly nod. “I won’t complain about your company if you don’t complain about mine.”

  “But there’s only four of us,” Gwen says.

  “Excuse me, young folks, I could not help but overhear you need two additional people to complete your table,” a tall, elderly man leaning on a cane interjects. “My wife and I will join you for dinner.”

  Bill chuckles. “Young folks. Ha, I haven’t been called that in ages. Jonas, I believe the six of us will take that table, now, please.”

  We take our seats at a table overlooking the surf. The man with the cane introduces himself and his wife: Don and Amy, wealthy real estate developers from one of the Hamptons in Long Island. He speaks with a deep, rumbling baritone and a slight New York accent. His salt and pepper hair is thick and slicked back from a high, heavily lined forehead and deep-set eyes. Don is easily the tallest person at the table, with Amy not far behind. Thin with a no-nonsense chic, her silver hair has a simple but flattering cut. Looking at her, I cannot help but think that this is what becomes of yesteryears fashion model. Amy has the regal bearing of someone who worked the runway for Christian Dior, but she offsets this with an easy smile and hearty laughter.