Read Online A Trip to the Beach by Melinda Blanchard - Free Book Online

Harley-Davidson dealership with two stories—hence, an upstairs building) and turned to the right. That was easy because there was no left, but finding the bakery and a tree that was no longer there proved hopeless. Around and around, all roads led back to the motorcycles. Eventually we turned down a new street and triumphantly spotted PDG boldly marked on the side of a warehouse.
    Jon, the owner and a transplant from Holland, was knowledgeable about outfitting a kitchen, but his inventory was too casual for what we had in mind. We examined his dinnerware selection, looking at sturdy dishes like those you might see in a diner and thick-rimmed wineglasses not at all suitable for the Lafite Rothschild Bob intended to serve. We looked at plastic ashtrays, blenders, bus tubs, and poultry shears. Most of the things we liked were in catalogs and needed to be special-ordered from the States.
    â€œYou want to check the flights to Miami or should I?” Bob said back in the car.
    â€œI think that’s a good idea,” I said. “It’s risky to order everything from catalogs.”
    We had spotted a furniture store called La Casa near the Harley-Davidson dealership and on the way back stopped to look at beds. I hated to spend the $1,000 on a mattress and box spring with no brand name, but we needed to check out of the hotel.
    â€œHow can we get it to Anguilla?” I asked the stout saleswoman.
    â€œNo problem,” she said. “We’ll deliver it to the
Lady Odessa.
”
    â€œWhat’s the
Lady Odessa
?”Bob asked, curious.
    â€œIt’s the freight boat that go to Anguilla. We deliver things to it all the time. It come over to Marigot every morning and waits at the dock until ’round two o’clock. Anything you need from St. Martin can be delivered to them. You does pay the cap’n once he reach Anguilla—it probably twenty-five or thirty dollars for a bed.”
    â€œIs that the boat I’ve seen loaded with goats and cases of Heineken at the ferry dock?” Bob asked.
    â€œThat’s the one,” she said.
    We thanked her and drove back to Marigot, not looking forward to another ferry ride.
    The trip back was nothing like
Tabitha.
We sat outside on the top deck of the
Deluxe,
and the glorious day caressed us from all around. Transported from St. Martin’s lush, green mountains back to our own island paradise, we watched three Anguillian fishing boats race each other on either side of our ferry. The small, open boats were flying over the sea, each maneuvering from the top of one wave to the top of the next in an exhilarating splash of blue. The wind tore through our hair, and salt spray occasionally blew over the boat, sprinkling us and forming rainbows against the backdrop of St. Martin. As we approached Anguilla I could see the pristine white domes of Cap Juluca, the long white stretch of Rendezvous Bay, and the three West Indian cottage-style peaks of the ferry terminal. A thick grove of palm trees lined the beach to the right, and the water looked more green than blue as we neared the shore. I took in the beauty of the harbor and wondered why more people didn’t live here. Why would anyone choose to live surrounded by concrete and traffic rather than fishing boats, water, and palm trees?
    Back at the hotel, our island advisors were all behind the front desk. We reported the day’s events and Bernice, Joshua’s daughter, confirmed Miami as our next course of action.
    â€œDada brings in containers from there all the time,” she said. “Why you don’t go call and ask him how to do it?”
    While Bob made notes of Joshua’s instructions, I sat on the balcony and summarized our position. We were thousands of miles from home, investing our life savings into reconstructing a building on someone else’s land. We had not yet been granted our license and work permits from the government, and money would be tight. We were being