He gazed out the window again. The sea changed from opaque blue to translucent turquoise to transparent green. Then a round island went by and the sea colors passed under the wing in reverse order.
“You look like your brother,” Mrs. Packer said.
“People say that,” Eddie said, turning toward her. Face people when they talk to you: the job-hunting advice of Mrs. Botelho, guidance counselor.
Mrs. Packer took off her sunglasses for a better view. “Maybe not so … I don’t know what the word is. Hard?”
“Jack’s not hard.”
Mrs. Packer put her sunglasses back on.
The plane banked, descended on an island shaped like a banana, a green island outlined in white sand. “Saint Amour,” said Mrs. Packer. “You’re going to have a great summer, if you do something about that hair. My husband has a thing about long hair.”
The plane swooped down over treetops, so close Eddie saw a black bird, perhaps a buzzard or a vulture, on a branch, and touched ground, much too fast, Eddie thought, on a dirt strip. Only when the plane rolled to a stop did he glance at Mrs. Packer’s unconcerned face and realize it must have been a smooth landing.
A jeep was parked beside the plane. Jack and another man got out, rolled stairs up to the door. Eddie opened it, followedMrs. Packer out. The air hit him right away: hot, still, full of floral smells. The blue of the sky was so deep and saturated it looked unnatural. He was going to love it.
“Good news?” said the second man, helping Mrs. Packer off the last step. He was as tall as Jack but broader: thick necked, barrel chested, with wiry hairs curling up around the opening of his short-sleeved shirt.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” said Mrs. Packer.
The thick-necked man held onto her arm. “Tell me now.”
She didn’t speak until he let go. “If their coming for a look is good news, then it’s good news,” she said.
“It’s great news.” He tried to kiss her mouth, but she turned her face and he got her cheek instead.
Jack threw his arm around Eddie’s neck, gave him a hug. “Bro,” he said. Jack looked great: browned, barefoot, strong: saturated too, in some way. “Brad,” he said, “this is Eddie, I’ve been telling you about. Eddie—Brad Packer.”
They shook hands. Packer’s hand was huge, his grip powerful. He squeezed hard, in case there was any doubt. Then he noticed Eddie’s hair. The grip softened; the hand withdrew.
“You didn’t tell me he was a goddamn hippie.”
Jack laughed. “Hippie? He’s starting USC on full scholarship in the fall. He’s no hippie.”
“What about that mop?”
“Needs a haircut, that’s all. No objection to a haircut, is there, Eddie?”
Eddie liked his hair the way it was. On the other hand, he would have to cut it for swimming in a few months anyway. He nodded, barely.
From the frown on Packer’s face he could see that another antihair remark was forming, but Evelyn cut it off. “That’s settled, then,” she said. “Welcome to Galleon Beach.”
“Resort, development, dive club, and time share,” added her husband, sticking out his hand. Eddie found himself shaking hands with Packer once more. This time he was ready, or Packer’s grip had lost some of its power. “Dive club,” said Packer: “That’s your line, correct?”
“Correct,” said Eddie, smiling. He couldn’t help smiling, not with that air, that sky.
“Remember Muskets and Doubloons ?” he said to Jack as they got in the jeep.
“Huh?”
Galleon Beach, resort, development, dive club, and time share: six cottages on the water, one with a broken window; a central building with office, kitchen, dining room, and the Packers’ suite; a thatch-roofed bar; a floating dock; a fat folder of blueprints and architectural drawings. That afternoon, Jack opened it and showed Eddie the plans.
On paper, Galleon Beach had a two-hundred-room hotel, eight stories high; three restaurants—Fingers, the Blue Parrot, Le Soleil; two
“You look like your brother,” Mrs. Packer said.
“People say that,” Eddie said, turning toward her. Face people when they talk to you: the job-hunting advice of Mrs. Botelho, guidance counselor.
Mrs. Packer took off her sunglasses for a better view. “Maybe not so … I don’t know what the word is. Hard?”
“Jack’s not hard.”
Mrs. Packer put her sunglasses back on.
The plane banked, descended on an island shaped like a banana, a green island outlined in white sand. “Saint Amour,” said Mrs. Packer. “You’re going to have a great summer, if you do something about that hair. My husband has a thing about long hair.”
The plane swooped down over treetops, so close Eddie saw a black bird, perhaps a buzzard or a vulture, on a branch, and touched ground, much too fast, Eddie thought, on a dirt strip. Only when the plane rolled to a stop did he glance at Mrs. Packer’s unconcerned face and realize it must have been a smooth landing.
A jeep was parked beside the plane. Jack and another man got out, rolled stairs up to the door. Eddie opened it, followedMrs. Packer out. The air hit him right away: hot, still, full of floral smells. The blue of the sky was so deep and saturated it looked unnatural. He was going to love it.
“Good news?” said the second man, helping Mrs. Packer off the last step. He was as tall as Jack but broader: thick necked, barrel chested, with wiry hairs curling up around the opening of his short-sleeved shirt.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” said Mrs. Packer.
The thick-necked man held onto her arm. “Tell me now.”
She didn’t speak until he let go. “If their coming for a look is good news, then it’s good news,” she said.
“It’s great news.” He tried to kiss her mouth, but she turned her face and he got her cheek instead.
Jack threw his arm around Eddie’s neck, gave him a hug. “Bro,” he said. Jack looked great: browned, barefoot, strong: saturated too, in some way. “Brad,” he said, “this is Eddie, I’ve been telling you about. Eddie—Brad Packer.”
They shook hands. Packer’s hand was huge, his grip powerful. He squeezed hard, in case there was any doubt. Then he noticed Eddie’s hair. The grip softened; the hand withdrew.
“You didn’t tell me he was a goddamn hippie.”
Jack laughed. “Hippie? He’s starting USC on full scholarship in the fall. He’s no hippie.”
“What about that mop?”
“Needs a haircut, that’s all. No objection to a haircut, is there, Eddie?”
Eddie liked his hair the way it was. On the other hand, he would have to cut it for swimming in a few months anyway. He nodded, barely.
From the frown on Packer’s face he could see that another antihair remark was forming, but Evelyn cut it off. “That’s settled, then,” she said. “Welcome to Galleon Beach.”
“Resort, development, dive club, and time share,” added her husband, sticking out his hand. Eddie found himself shaking hands with Packer once more. This time he was ready, or Packer’s grip had lost some of its power. “Dive club,” said Packer: “That’s your line, correct?”
“Correct,” said Eddie, smiling. He couldn’t help smiling, not with that air, that sky.
“Remember Muskets and Doubloons ?” he said to Jack as they got in the jeep.
“Huh?”
Galleon Beach, resort, development, dive club, and time share: six cottages on the water, one with a broken window; a central building with office, kitchen, dining room, and the Packers’ suite; a thatch-roofed bar; a floating dock; a fat folder of blueprints and architectural drawings. That afternoon, Jack opened it and showed Eddie the plans.
On paper, Galleon Beach had a two-hundred-room hotel, eight stories high; three restaurants—Fingers, the Blue Parrot, Le Soleil; two
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