inland and surrounded by a jungle-worthy profusion of tropical foliage, a large two-story house had been built square on to the Atlantic. Its silvered wood walls supported a metal pyramid-shaped roof. A large covered deck ran the width of the first floor and supported a narrower, shorter deck on the second. The entire back of the house appeared to be composed of sliding glass doors that reflected the late afternoon sun.
Between the house and a long rectangular swimming pool sat a large square pavilion with wooden piers that supported a smaller pyramid-shaped metal roof. The interior of the pavilion was cast in shadow and open to the trade winds. There was no movement except that stirred by the breeze.
“Oh, my gosh, I feel like we’re about to be guests on Fantasy Island!” Maddie said.
“Right. All we need is Tattoo to ring the bell to announce our arrival.”
“I watched that show in reruns for years,” Avery said. “But this island looks uninhabited. Maybe Mr. Roarke is indisposed.”
“I’m pretty sure Mr. Roarke is dead,” Deirdre replied.
“And buried in a casket lined with fine Corinthian leather.” Nicole went for a Ricardo Montalbán accent.
Hudson pretended not to listen, but his lips twitched slightly. In the boat beside them Troy’s fingers moved on the camera lens and he panned from them to the island. They continued to joke about who or what might live on this island, but Maddie prickled with unease as they searched the small landmass for signs of life.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Avery said. “What if there is no homeowner? What if it’s just a ruse to strand us on a deserted island for some kind of
Survivor
thing? I wouldn’t put it past Lisa Hogan to force us to swim through shark-infested waters to escape.”
“Shark infested?” Maddie looked to Hudson.
“Well, it
is
the Atlantic Ocean,” he said almost apologetically. “But most species don’t mess with you if you don’t mess with them.”
“That’s
so
reassuring,” Nicole snapped.
“The barracuda now, well, that’s a different story,” he said with a straight face.
“You can vote me off first,” Nicole offered. “I’ll wait for the rest of you at the Cheeca Lodge. Or the Moorings Village. I think those are the closest five-star accommodations.”
They passed two Adirondack chairs planted on the sand and a hammock stretched between two palm trees on the southeastern edge of the island. There was a stretch of retaining wall, then the beach disappeared again, swallowed by massive mangroves that blotted out whatever lay behind them.
“Some pruning wouldn’t hurt,” Deirdre observed as they passed.
“Unlikely,” Hudson said.
“So no one ever trims a mangrove?” Nicole asked.
“Not when anybody’s looking,” he replied. “And definitely not in broad daylight. They’re protected.”
The retention wall continued along the southern side of the island and a long dock ran parallel to it. It broke for a simple wooden boathouse that jutted out from the island. Its back half stood firmly on land; its front supports were pilings driven into the ocean floor.
Two boats were cradled well above the waterline. A second floor spanned across the boathouse, its front porch suspended over the water.
The retaining wall and narrow dock stretched westward. “This is a man-made channel,” Hudson explained, pointing to the long strip of dark blue water. “It runs all the way to the bridge, cuts south, and then meets up with the main channel. You can’t cut straight north or south because it’s so shallow.”
Two ungainly houseboats tied farther down the dock bobbed in their wake as Hudson nosed the boat in and cut the engine. It had barely glided to a stop before he jumped out holding a line. Quickly and efficiently he secured the boat.
Troy and Anthony tied up nearby then planted themselves on the retaining wall so that they could shoot the rest of them disembarking and unloading.
The house
Between the house and a long rectangular swimming pool sat a large square pavilion with wooden piers that supported a smaller pyramid-shaped metal roof. The interior of the pavilion was cast in shadow and open to the trade winds. There was no movement except that stirred by the breeze.
“Oh, my gosh, I feel like we’re about to be guests on Fantasy Island!” Maddie said.
“Right. All we need is Tattoo to ring the bell to announce our arrival.”
“I watched that show in reruns for years,” Avery said. “But this island looks uninhabited. Maybe Mr. Roarke is indisposed.”
“I’m pretty sure Mr. Roarke is dead,” Deirdre replied.
“And buried in a casket lined with fine Corinthian leather.” Nicole went for a Ricardo Montalbán accent.
Hudson pretended not to listen, but his lips twitched slightly. In the boat beside them Troy’s fingers moved on the camera lens and he panned from them to the island. They continued to joke about who or what might live on this island, but Maddie prickled with unease as they searched the small landmass for signs of life.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Avery said. “What if there is no homeowner? What if it’s just a ruse to strand us on a deserted island for some kind of
Survivor
thing? I wouldn’t put it past Lisa Hogan to force us to swim through shark-infested waters to escape.”
“Shark infested?” Maddie looked to Hudson.
“Well, it
is
the Atlantic Ocean,” he said almost apologetically. “But most species don’t mess with you if you don’t mess with them.”
“That’s
so
reassuring,” Nicole snapped.
“The barracuda now, well, that’s a different story,” he said with a straight face.
“You can vote me off first,” Nicole offered. “I’ll wait for the rest of you at the Cheeca Lodge. Or the Moorings Village. I think those are the closest five-star accommodations.”
They passed two Adirondack chairs planted on the sand and a hammock stretched between two palm trees on the southeastern edge of the island. There was a stretch of retaining wall, then the beach disappeared again, swallowed by massive mangroves that blotted out whatever lay behind them.
“Some pruning wouldn’t hurt,” Deirdre observed as they passed.
“Unlikely,” Hudson said.
“So no one ever trims a mangrove?” Nicole asked.
“Not when anybody’s looking,” he replied. “And definitely not in broad daylight. They’re protected.”
The retention wall continued along the southern side of the island and a long dock ran parallel to it. It broke for a simple wooden boathouse that jutted out from the island. Its back half stood firmly on land; its front supports were pilings driven into the ocean floor.
Two boats were cradled well above the waterline. A second floor spanned across the boathouse, its front porch suspended over the water.
The retaining wall and narrow dock stretched westward. “This is a man-made channel,” Hudson explained, pointing to the long strip of dark blue water. “It runs all the way to the bridge, cuts south, and then meets up with the main channel. You can’t cut straight north or south because it’s so shallow.”
Two ungainly houseboats tied farther down the dock bobbed in their wake as Hudson nosed the boat in and cut the engine. It had barely glided to a stop before he jumped out holding a line. Quickly and efficiently he secured the boat.
Troy and Anthony tied up nearby then planted themselves on the retaining wall so that they could shoot the rest of them disembarking and unloading.
The house
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