The Rhythm of the August Rain by Gillian Royes Read Free Book Online Page B

back, her smile sad but hopeful. Off to the right, the young girl was looking through a living-room window, a frown on her farm-girl face.

CHAPTER FIVE
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    T he four young people arrived in their open-sided Wrangler with its canvas top rolled back—as if their tans could get any darker—and ordered Red Stripes.
    â€œFrom the mud on the car, looks like you’ve been doing a bit of driving,” Eric ventured after he’d served them. He never knew how to speak to this new breed of visitors with their sun-bleached hair and braided bracelets, not an inch of fat on their bodies.
    â€œYeah, we’ve just come down from the Blue Mountains,” one of the men said, tattoos from his shoulders to his wrists. “We were hoping to find some beaches where we could kitesurf, but we haven’t found any yet.”
    â€œKitesurf?”
    â€œYou know, the big wing things you surf over the water with?”
    â€œThat’s a new one on me.”
    â€œIt’s really great in Aruba,” one woman said. “They have those long, flat beaches.”
    Eric looked toward the parking lot. Shad was always better with these types. “Maybe you should try Negril.”
    â€œToo many tourists,” the other boy said with a grin that boasted a half-broken tooth in front, a badge of kitesurfing honor, perhaps. The four left twenty long minutes and a small tip later.
    Eric turned on the radio as he cleaned off the counter. A news reporter was talking about a shoot-out in Kingston’s torrid Mountain View neighborhood, two gunmen killed by police, and he switched off the radio. A man could hear only so much bad news when he had no money in the bank. He was piling beer bottles into the empties crate when Shad appeared, balancing a basket on his head.
    â€œIs that your new job, market woman?”
    â€œGood for my posture.” The bartender took down the basket. “It kept knocking me on my leg coming down from the Delgados’ house.”
    â€œWhat were you doing up there?”
    â€œSelling vegetables—I turn market woman now, like you say.” Shad went around the partition to the kitchen and returned without the basket. He started bustling around, preparing the bar for the Saturday-evening clientele.
    â€œYou know you’re late, right?”
    â€œSorry, boss, I started talking.” Shad flashed the Bugs Bunny grin he used to get himself out of trouble. “And you know who I was talking to?”
    â€œLet me guess.” Eric turned away. “Shannon.” She was finally here, not two thousand miles away anymore—but across the street and in full view of the blighted hotel. “Did you see Eve?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow was she?”
    â€œShe going to need time to get to know us.”
    â€œI better go up to Lambert’s.”
    Eric returned to his apartment and took a shower. As he shaved, he leaned in to the mirror, examining the new grooves around his eyes. He’d deteriorated since Shannon had last seen him. The Caribbean had a way of beating up white guys, turning their skin red and dry, but he cleaned up pretty good—even if his bar was just a shack with barstools.
    Minutes after he emerged from his apartment, he saw Jennifer, Casey, Shannon, and Eve (Sheba trotting behind) crossing the road. Shad scurried away to the kitchen, as if he couldn’t bear to watch.
    â€œHey, there,” Jennifer called as they walked up the conch-lined path. She was wearing shorts and sandals, Casey on her heels, a smaller, browner version of her mother.
    A step behind them, Shannon waved with a book in her hand. She looked . . . like a woman , Eric thought, no longer the gangly fawn he’d first met or the anxious mother he’d last seen. Her hair, which used to be short, now fell to her shoulders, a few gray strands sparkling among the brown, and she was wearing a flowing white skirt and blouse. Her long strides had a