The Sea Grape Tree by Gillian Royes Read Free Book Online Page A

nice wedding. Now get your rest, because Miss Livingston’s cock going to crow soon.” He felt for the lamp switch without looking, turned it off, and reached for her.
    â€œOne more thing,” she said, rolling away from him. “No sex before marriage, so Pastor say.”

CHAPTER FIVE
----

    R oper’s home was nothing as Sarah had imagined. Instead of a rustic cottage surrounded by palms, she’d found a very modern, wood-and-glass structure clinging to a mountain. The view too was a surprise, particularly the colors. The greens of the bamboo around the house and the blues of the ocean visible from its deck were more brilliant than any colors she’d ever seen in nature. She had the sensation of almost being pummeled by the stimuli coming at her.
    The Caribbean Sea—with at least six different blues she’d identified—filled everything with its presence. The smell of salt had assailed her from the minute she stepped out of Immigration, the trade winds wrinkling her hair into a frizzy mess within minutes. Most constant in subsequent days was the drumbeat of the waves, which seemed to pursue her all day.
    There was noise everywhere. The villagers spoke and laughed loudly. Passing taxis played their radios at top volume and blew their horns as they tore down the road. Even the night air was pierced by the bellowing of frogs—­mercifully segueing into the cooing of doves in the early morning. She’d lain awake the first couple of nights convinced that she’d never sleep with the racket of waves, wind, and frogs, but on her third morning Sarah awakened to find that she’d slept deeply, deeper than she had in months, maybe in years.
    She’d started setting up her traveling easel—not as portable as she’d hoped—on the beach across from Roper’s house. There was a clearing under the coconut trees that gave her a view of the ocean while providing shade. She was relieved to find that this eastern end of the beach was almost deserted, the fishing activity being concentrated on the opposite end, and there’d been few interruptions since she’d started working. On one occasion a gaggle of children had come and stared at her from ten feet away before running off, jabbering in patois.
    It had taken her a few jet-lagged days to settle into her new routine after being met at the airport by Sonja, Roper’s girlfriend. The woman had held up a handmade sign that said Sarah Davenport and smiled broadly when the new arrival nodded. She’d apologized for Roper’s absence (he was opening a show in Toronto, apparently) and for being sleepy, the result of working late the night before.
    â€œI’m a writer,” Sonja had mumbled as they started off toward the parking lot, “and my best time to work is when everyone else is sleeping.” Roper had apparently woken her that morning to remind her to meet the London flight.
    â€œTotally forgot, of course.” The writer’s hair stood in a spiky Afro, and Sarah wasn’t sure if she’d styled it that way or forgotten to brush it. “Anyway, if I fall asleep, just shake me and take over the wheel!”
    The driver had proven to be more awake than her guest. Having had only snatches of sleep on the flight, Sarah had fallen asleep for most of the four-hour drive back to Largo. When the SUV ascended the steep driveway to the house, she’d jerked awake. Together the women had lugged the bags and easel into the house and deposited them on the rug inside the door. The maid—called helpers on the island, Sonja had whispered—had met them at the door.
    â€œMy name Carthena,” she’d informed Sarah. She looked to be in her mid- to late-twenties and wore capri pants and a T-shirt with a gold design on the front. A shower of pink and white beads decorated the braids that cascaded to her shoulders.
    â€œHow long you planning to stay, miss?” the woman asked on the