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

way to Sarah’s room.
    â€œAs long—as it—takes, I suppose,” Sarah had answered, struggling with her suitcase down the stairs. She was already regretting refusing Carthena’s help with the bag because of her guilt about being served by anyone.
    â€œA real English lady,” the helper remarked. “I never meet one before.”
    The guest room on the lower level contained a sitting area and a bedroom with twin beds, a desk, and a ceiling made of bamboo woven in a herringbone pattern. Left alone, Sarah slid open the glass doors leading from the bedroom to the terrace, absorbing the reality of her surroundings. Somehow, she was in Jamaica—and without spending a penny, thanks to a kind and wonky artist. She’d collapsed onto one of the beds, smiling broadly and giving herself two full days before starting her painting routine.
    On this, her fourth morning, the light on the ocean was breaking into a mosaic of glitter and Sarah pulled out her sketch pad to capture it. She drew a square in the center, a rough four-by-four. Her goal was to spend a week or two painting the unfamiliar in the familiar way, sticking to her miniatures, followed by a gradual expansion to a thirty-six-by-twenty-four-inch sheet—Roper’s required size for a return ticket. The five large sheets she’d placed out of sight on a high shelf so they wouldn’t annoy her.
    A noise overhead made her look up, holding on to the crown of her straw hat. She was being inspected by a large black bird with a bald head and a red ring around its neck, a vulture of some kind, sitting on the stem of a coconut leaf.
    â€œHello? I’m not dead yet,” Sarah shouted, and the bird flew off to soar on an air current.
    Settling again on the kitchen stool loaned by Carthena, Sarah got back to her drawing of the waves. Water was not her strength, especially tossing, rolling, foaming water like that of Largo Bay. She’d done some work on the beaches of Kent, but that was a different ocean—heavy, dark, and certainly cold. The water of the Caribbean seemed lighter and friskier to her by comparison. Although she hadn’t stepped into the surf yet, she knew it must be warm, hot even, in line with everything she’d encountered so far.
    You’d never think Jamaica was once British, she’d written Penny in an arrived-safely email. It has a character all its own. It’s loud, crude, beautiful, and utterly unpredictable.
    The night before, Sonja had asked what she thought about the island. “It’s terribly alive, isn’t it?” Sarah had answered, frowning into her wineglass. “Everything is in motion.”
    â€œYou either love it or hate it. There’s no in-between about Jamaica.” Sonja leaned forward for a handful of almonds. “Most poor countries, the ones I’ve been to, anyway, never seem passive. Nothing is easy, nothing has soft corners. I guess that contributes to our strong instinct for survival.”
    â€œI had no idea, none whatsoever, that being here would make me feel so—different, might be the word. I’m a total bloody foreigner here. I can’t understand one word of the dialect, probably never will. And everything feels new, the night noises, the smells—from dead dogs to flowers, even the touch of the sea breeze. I never know what to expect next.”
    â€œIt takes a while.” Sonja nodded. “I was living in the States for fourteen years, and when I first came back I remember being in culture shock—in my own country. Took me a few weeks to settle in and start writing again.”
    â€œWhat kind of writing do you do?”
    â€œBusiness books, would you believe? I used to work in strategic planning with an insurance company, then I worked in training. After I got tired of the nine-to-five, I left and started writing training manuals for the insurance industry, then human-resource-type stuff.”
    â€œHow do you write