As the plane levelled off and the seat belt sign blinked off, Savanna closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The journey was long, the task ahead challenging, but she was ready. She was prepared to face the wind, the rain, and the uncertainty. She was ready to search for Brett,
The salt spray kissed her face as she strolled along the beach, the last embers of the sunset painting the sky in hues of orange and violet. The rhythmic hush of the waves was a soothing balm after a long day. Then, a flicker of light, the distant thump of a drum, and the unmistakable aroma of grilling meat drew her forward.
She found it nestled amongst the dunes, the Seashell Hut, a ramshackle structure that looked like it had grown organically from the sand itself. Warm light spilled from its open windows, illuminating a scene of lively revelry. Tonight, it was more than just a bar; firelight danced on laughing faces as people circled a smoking grill, bongos pulsing beneath the rhythm of the waves.
The air was thick with the scent of the cookout – a symphony of spices and smoke. Tacos, piled high with meat and vibrant toppings, sat alongside platters of glistening marinated chicken. Bowls overflowed with homemade salsa, its fiery scent making her mouth water. And then there was the Trinidadian potato salad, creamy and tangy, its distinctive aroma a siren song to her empty stomach.
She hadn’t intended to stop, but the sight and smell of the feast were too tempting to resist. Hesitantly, she stepped inside the Seashell Hut. The bongo drums seemed to swell in welcome.
Behind the bar, a man with a warm smile and kind eyes said, “Welcome!” he boomed, his voice infused with the same easy-going vibe as the rest of the place. “I’m Camilo. What can I get for you?”
Her gaze swept over the spread, lingering on each dish with longing. “Everything looks incredible,” she admitted, her stomach growling in agreement. “Could I get the glazed pork and coleslaw, with a little potato salad on the side?”
Camilo’s smile widened. “You sure can!” He turned, already reaching for a plate. “Coming right up. Best glazed pork this side of the island, you know.”
While Camilo assembled her plate, she perched on a stool at the bar, soaking in the atmosphere. The music, the laughter, the shared enjoyment of good food – it was infectious. She watched as Brett, the owner of the Seashell Hut, she remembered, expertly flipped chicken on the grill, the flames licking at the marinade, and felt a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the fire.
Camilo slid a plate piled high with food in front of her. The glazed pork gleamed under the bar lights, the coleslaw was a crisp contrast, and a generous scoop of potato salad sat beside it.
“Enjoy,” Camilo said, winking. “First one’s on the house.”
She took a bite of the pork. The glaze was sweet and tangy, the meat tender and flavourful. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the taste. It was exactly what she needed.
As she ate, the bongo drums continued their rhythmic pulse, a primal beat that resonated with something deep inside her. She was no longer just a solitary figure on a beach walk. She was part of this vibrant, joyful scene, sharing in the simple pleasures of good food, good company, and the magic of a summer evening at the Seashell Hut. The waves whispered outside, and she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her soul, that she had found a place where she belonged.
The aroma of grilled snapper and plantains hung heavy in the air, a sweet, salty invitation that drew Amelia in like a siren’s song. She smiled, a genuine curve that reached her eyes, and went out to get her food. Every mouthwatering bit of the perfectly seasoned snapper disappeared quickly, the sweetness of the plantains a perfect counterpoint. She savoured each morsel, each texture, all washed down with an ice-cold lager that beaded with condensation in the tropical heat.
Camilo, a man with a smile as warm as the sun on her skin, came out to check on her. “Anything else I can get for you, senorita?” he asked, his voice laced with the melodic lilt of the islands.
She shook her head, contentment radiating from her. “No, thank you. This place is heaven.”
He laughed, a hearty sound that echoed in the open-air restaurant. “Yes, it is. We try to make it so.”
“I simply love it here,” she repeated, genuinely meaning it. The gentle breeze, the vibrant colours of the surrounding foliage, the unpretentious charm of the place – it was a world away from the sterile boardrooms and relentless deadlines she usually inhabited.
“Are you on vacation?” Camilo inquired, wiping his hands on his apron.
“No, I’m here on business,” she replied, a hint of regret colouring her tone. “But I’m making the most of it.”
“OK, well enjoy,” he said with a nod. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Unbeknownst to Savannah, she had come incredibly close to crossing paths with Brett. He and Kristie had only just left Camilo’s establishment moments before she arrived. It was Brett’s night off from his charter sailing business, and they had decided to treat themselves. They had popped into Camilo’s for a quick drink and a pre-dinner appetizer of conch fritters before heading over to the neighboring island of St. John. They had heard whispers about a cozy little restaurant nestled in Cruz
Bay, promising authentic Caribbean cuisine, and their adventurous spirits urged them to give it a try.
Standing by the ferry terminal waiting for their ride to St. John, Brett mused over his day. “You know,” he said to Kristie, gazing out at the turquoise water, “this is why I love living here. One minute I’m wrangling tourists on a sailboat, the next I’m heading to St. John for dinner. Paradise, I tell you, paradise.”
Kristie chuckled, nudging him playfully. “Don’t let it go to your head, Captain. Paradise still needs dishes washed and bills paid.”
Meanwhile, on the quiet patio of Camilo’s, Savannah was oblivious to the near miss. She was caught up in the simple joy of the moment, unaware that her business trip was about to take an unexpected turn, a turn that could potentially intertwine her fate with someone she had almost bumped into on a warm Caribbean night. The islands held secrets, whispered on the trade winds, and Amelia was about to discover one of her own.
The relentless Barbadian sun beat down on Savannah’s back as she walked, the humidity clinging to her skin like a second layer of clothes. She’d spent the previous day scouring the beaches and markets, asking anyone and everyone if they’d seen Brett. No luck. He’d vanished into thin air. Desperation gnawed at her.
The following day, hope flickered within her as she spotted the sign: Bambie’s Tours, a brightly painted shack nestled between a surf shop and a bakery. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.
Dalia, a woman with kind eyes and a warm smile, was behind the counter. “Good morning! Can I help you?”
Savannah, forcing a smile, replied, “Yes, please. I’m interested in a tour around St. Philip’s, but maybe another day. Right now, have you ever seen this guy around?” She held up the photograph of Brett, his easy grin a stark contrast to the anxiety churning in her stomach.
Dalia took the photo, her brow furrowing in concentration. She studied it carefully, her eyes scanning every detail of Brett’s face. Finally, she looked up at Savannah. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognise him. I haven’t seen him here.”
Savannah’s shoulders slumped. “Okay,” she said, disappointment coating her voice. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“That’s okay,” Dalia replied, her voice laced with genuine concern. “I hope you find him.”
Leaving Bambie’s Tours, Savannah felt the weight of her fruitless search pressing down on her. She decided to go back the Seashell Hut,
As she approached, she could hear the lilting rhythm of reggae music and the cheerful chatter of tourists. Camilo, a charismatic man with dreadlocks pulled back in a colourful bandana, was behind the bar, expertly mixing drinks and charming the holidaymakers alongside another man, Davao. When Camilo spotted Savannah, his eyes lit up.
He excused himself from his conversation and made his way over, his smile wide. “Hay, pretty lady!” he greeted her, his accent thick and melodic.
“Hi,” Savannah replied, managing a weak smile.
“What can I get for such a fine-looking woman like yourself?” he asked, leaning against the bar.
Savannah hesitated, then decided to give it a try. “Could I get a cool, refreshing drink, please?”
“Sure thing! What about a mango with a special twist?” Camilo winked.
“What is it?” she asked, intrigued despite her worries.
Whats the twist
“Nah, that I can’t tell you” He laughs
“Sounds good, go then”
When Camilo comes back with her drink, she shows him the photo of Brett “Have you seen this guy?”
“Hmm, no sorry”
“What about the other guy?”
“Dav, Camilo shouts
“Yō…”
“Have you ever seen this guy in here?”
Davao wiped down the already spotless counter with a practiced hand, then finally picked up the photo. A man stared back, average-looking with a forgettable smile. Davao squinted, trying to place him. “Nah,” he said, handing the photo back. He noticed the complex set of Sannah’s jaw, the way her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “What do ya want him for?”
Sannah took the photo, tucked it back into her worn leather jacket. “That’s my business. Just curious. And no, I’m not gonna tell you.”
Davao shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Later that evening, Brett sauntered in, his usual easy smile plastered on his face. And Davao had grown to appreciate his dedication and positive attitude.
Davao beckoned him to the small, cramped office in the back, the one that smelled perpetually of old paperwork and desperation. “Hey, Brett, got something I gotta tell you.”
Brett leaned against the desk, his smile fading a little at Davao’s serious expression. “What’s up? “Davao recounted the earlier encounter with Savanna,
A wave of confusion washed over Brett’s face. “Did she give a name?”
Davao hesitated. “Yeah. Said her name was… Savanna.”
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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