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Speaking of Summer. Kalisha Buckhanon
Читать онлайн.Название Speaking of Summer
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781640091924
Автор произведения Kalisha Buckhanon
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Ingram
“Those are my gift,” she said. “It’s our national flower, the bougainvillea.”
“I’ve never seen these before,” I told her. “The fragrance is so powerful.”
“It’s expensive to export,” she said. “But we get many orders for sure. I should leave you two to get settled. And Mr. Armstrong, I’ll have a solution for you soon.”
“Take your time,” Chase said.
It took me two minutes after Olivia walked out to shift the mood.
“I wonder how Mama’s doing?”
“I’m sure she’s happy you’re happy,” Chase said. “We’ll be back there in just five days. I’d take a lot of notes, do some interviews with locals if I were you. This could be part of a travel-writing package down the road. Those are trending now.”
“You’re right,” I nodded. “I came this far. I’m not gonna turn around and mope about home. Who knows when I’ll have another vacation again in life?”
I lay back on the bed, careful not to let my sundress come up high.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Chase told me. “You sound like frozen-over winter and not a colorful autumn. If you think like that, then things won’t be good.”
“I’ll try to do better, sir.”
I felt a pang of more closeness to Chase for this peek into his background. I could contextualize him deeper than the prep-wear pretense and coffee-date banter of men like him in New York. I was eager to meet his family, as I imagined them in the simplicity of the life I had assessed in less than thirty miles of the country. The contrast to largely Black regions of America was inexplicable. Back home, the city spaces of color bound me into feeling trapped in what I should not want to escape. Even Chase’s patience with Summer and gracious concern for Mama seemed rooted in a less harrowing cultural memory and much easier pride for it.
“Why don’t you shower first?” he asked me. “I need to find the photographer and see what he’s up to. He’s probably out chasing tail.”
I was sure he felt the need to be respectful, leave me privacy, create a clear line.
“You know how men are when they get to the Caribbean. I’m watching you . . .”
“Not necessary,” Chase said. “Watch yourself, babe.”
And we stared too long. I wondered what he was thinking, or what I thought for that matter. He broke our gaze first.
“Lemme get on to Johns,” Chase said. “I should change clothes at least.”
I noticed he held blue boxers in his hands along with his pants, fresh shirt, and Clarks sandals. I don’t know why I noticed his apparel. I just did.
People laughed and talked in the hallway on the way to their room. I wondered if I would meet them, what they would ask, and what I would tell them. I tried to cut it off: “My mom has stage IV lung cancer and we didn’t even find out until stage III. Imagine that. How can anything but a thief in the night be so sneaky?”
I’ll try to do better, I thought.
My mere appearance at the group dinner would be an intrusion. People don’t spend whole paychecks to go overseas to be forced to console strangers. It’s awkward to scoot back from tragic reveals just because you’re full at the dinner table or the wine bottles are empty or the closing lights signal you out of the club.
I heard streaming water and imagined what awaited. Real country hard water that scrubbed like no city water pressure could? A pedestal sink? A claw-foot tub?
I allowed Chase to text confirmation we arrived safely, to count for my promise to keep in touch, as I told Summer I would. I knew what she was up to. My grumpy distance served her right. I was in another part of the world, but my own world with all its cloggy dread and confusion and bittersweet snuck into my suitcase. I kept it shut. I was asleep by the time Chase finished in the bathroom. He left a note atop my suitcase, to tell me he wouldn’t be back with me until much later that night.
I ate my first Grenadian dinner alone with strangers I would ordinarily remember in detail: where specifically their version of English originated from, what brought them to Grenada, what hobbies I could make small talk about later. But the meal was a blur.
After dinner, the other tourists hung out in the gazebo with cigarettes, rum, and a radio I heard from down below. I was alone on the floor, so I soaked in complimentary lavender bath wash and a few drops of clary sage oil. I figured the downstairs was too dark to burrow in the office to peck at a keyboard, like just another day in America, fretting over what opportunity would bring my next check. I went to bed alone as well. Only travel exhaustion made my mind slow down to sleep.
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