Irene wasn’t sure if Seven Mile Beach was, in truth, seven miles long. But it felt like it.
They drove north from the Hilton and Irene admired the line of fun-palaces crowding the sand, each competing with the next in opulence and grandeur. The sun was warm but the air cool and fresh and they drove with the windows down. Irene breathed deeply and began to unwind like she had just been released from a lifetime’s drudgery and was finally on a wonderful holiday.
“There’s a nice property,” Jack said and slowed the car to study a pink pyramid of glass and coral stone.
“It’s lovey,” Irene agreed and watched Jack hold a miniature camera up to his face. He seemed to have an eye for the unusual and she momentarily wondered if this same trait applied to his women. And with his looks, there must be women in his life and she couldn’t help but wonder how she might stack up. She was surprised by the sudden flush and turned away, scolding herself for being foolish.
Jack continued north, stopping at the side of the road occasionally to take a photo and make a note or two in the leather bound book he kept tucked beside the seat. At the north end of the beach he turned the car around and headed back, slowing several times to turn into a driveway where he’d hop from the driver’s seat to visit the reception desk and gather a business card or two. But Jack was very considerate and never left Irene waiting. Something she appreciated.
Heading south, they drove past the Governor’s mansion and into the offshore banking capital of George Town. The town only ran for several blocks, the paved street lined with stark, modern offices. Like a line of sugar cubes, the buildings were square, none over four stories and every major bank and investment firm world-wide was represented, housed behind the glass and steel. The town was meticulous, exuded wealth and prosperity, and was completely devoid of character.
“Pretty sterile,” Jack commented. “But the place is full of bankers and accountants; what can you expect?” And he grinned to himself.
Irene was gazing to her right, at the two massive cruise ships anchored on the opposite side of the reef. It was the only bit of festive color she could find and she watched the tourists being ferried to the government dock where a line of open-air buses parked; attractive attendants in navy blue skirts and white gloves were waiting to give the ten cent tour.
South of town, the tropical vegetation, growing wild and unkempt, overshadowed the roadway. They passed by the seaside village of Southwest Point. “Ah. Where the real people live,” Jack said commenting on the colorful clapboard cottages, all but invisible in a jungle of banana palms, benjamina, hibiscus and coconut trees. Over the sound of the breeze and rattle of palm fronds, Irene could hear the tropical birds singing their hearts out.
The road swung to the east and in nearby Bodden Town, Jack pointed out a quaint restaurant, built on stilts, hanging out over the water. It was called The Fisherman’s Net and the front of the weathered old building was draped in nets, sea floats and starfish. “That looks kinda nice, don’t you think? Have dinner with me later.”
“Almost magical, yes,” Irene agreed as Jack pulled over to take a look. She heard the buzz of his camera lens and when she turned she realized he was photographing her, not the restaurant. It gave her a queer feeling inside but she pushed it away.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said, flashing a disarming smile.
“No, of course not,” Irene replied, patting her hair and not believing her own hollow words. When he put the car in gear and his eyes were diverted, Irene checked the front of her skimpy sun dress. It was cut low in front and the material was gaping.
Was that what Jack had photographed? Her breast loose in the confines of her dress?
She discretely pulled the cotton across but the queer feeling came back as she tried to analyze her emotions. Did he have a photograph he could share with his buddies back in Lauderdale, or a memento of a pleasant afternoon with a lady pilot?
With an almost physical effort, Irene finally shrugged those thoughts aside. I’m being silly, she said to herself. I like the guy and what do I care if he took a saucy photograph of my breast.
The road turned north again and at the top of the island, at a place referred to as The Gap, they stopped at Rum Point, a low key resort, to enjoy freshly squeezed orange juice at a picnic table under the casurina pines.
“So how long do you plan to fly for the Casino?” Jack steered the conversation to a nonthreatening topic.
“Just a couple of years, hopefully. A diversion before finishing out my career with a major carrier.”
Jack looked into his hands. “Two years. I’m happy about that.”
“Why?” Irene was curious.
“Well I’ll get to see you from time to time,” he answered. Then collecting his thoughts, “And I guess I’m not comfortable with you flying around in a swimsuit. Forgive me, but I think you’re pretty classy and you deserve better.”
He lapsed into embarrassed silence.
Irene didn’t quite know how to answer him. When they first met at the airport she had thought of him as quite superficial: A lot of guys were struck by the notoriety of meeting a female pilot. Especially a woman who was ballsy enough to fly half-naked to keep the male passengers primed. These guys were strictly groupies, looking for the quick, easy fuck with no emotional ties, and a story to tell their buddies back home. And though Irene was always polite, with good reason, she steered clear of shallow men. But amazingly, over the past hour, her opinion of Jack Namath had changed. It was like they had performed some sort of instant evaluation and been immediately surprised by the intimacy they had found. Their relationship had suddenly deepened.
It wasn’t because he was a great looking guy, though he was, and it wasn’t because she felt that she needed a man in her life. Heaven forbid. She was fifty-two and had done pretty well for herself, until the crash, and even now was bouncing back. But something about Jack Namath touched her down deep. And as silly as it was, she couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to have him take her up into his arms, to feel his mouth on hers, to have him touch her about the breasts. And stroke the inside of her legs.
Irene shuddered as if an icy finger was caressing her spine. This is crazy, she thought, I’ve only known the man a few short hours. As she struggled to reestablish her thoughts she realized she wished the warm lazy afternoon would never end.
But abruptly Jack finished off his juice and set down his glass. He checked his watch. “If we’re going to squeeze dinner in before the airport, we best make tracks.”
Irene nodded. She had a schedule.
Back at The Fisherman’s Net they were seated by an elderly woman with a toothless smile. This early, the restaurant was empty and they were shown to a prime table by the glass where they could watch the surf tumble across the reef. Even though it was hardly five o’clock and with the sun still high, the old woman made a big display of lighting the candles on their table.
The chef came out from his kitchen to point to a chalk board where three dinner items were listed. “Da snapper be fresh,” he advised them.
Their chef was fortyish, built like a fifty-five gallon drum and had no neck. He was wrapped, twice around, in a white apron.
“Suits me,” Jack made his decision, “how ’bout you?”
Irene knew the value of fresh when it came to fish. “Sounds perfect.”
“Dat a good choice,” the dark man agreed. “It be me mama’s recipe.” And with a ballpoint pen, he wrote their order down on the palm of his left hand. Mama had disappeared into the kitchen and started singing. The musical chants were accompanied with the smell of baking bread.
“Wow. Isn’t this something,” Irene said happily. “If the food is as good as the atmosphere, I may move to the island; buy the house right next-door.”
“What? You don’t like the food at the Casino?”
“The dining room doesn’t hold fond memories for me, I’m afraid. Ditz and I do our own cooking,” Irene answered.
Jack lifted the goblet of white wine. “Ditz? That some kinda gas stove?”
Irene blinked. “Stove? Ditz is my roommate. We share a cabana on the beach,” she explained. “And she is ditsy and, I have it on good authority, she’s gay. But by God, can she cook!”
Jack’s eyes widened. “A lesbian? You live with a lesbian?”
Irene took in his expression and started to giggle. “Yes. And no, I’m not. But if I were, it would explain a few things for you, wouldn’t it?”
“And she’s never…?”
“Nope. Guess I’m not her type.” Irene poked fun. “But a girl can always hope.”
Jack was a little slow on the uptake and in a funny way, she found that perfectly endearing.
Mama led the way from the kitchen. She held two piping-hot plates covered with a layer of thinly sliced, buttery spring potatoes. Her portly son followed with a cast iron roasting pan held in puffy oven mitts. Mama set the plates down and both Jack and Irene leaned forward and as the lid was lifted from the roaster, their faces were engulfed in a cloud of fragrant steam.
“Oh my,” Irene exclaimed when she saw the two plump mutton snappers looking back at her. The fish lay head to tail in the chef’s blend of sizzling butter, oil and spices. She could see whole pepper corns dancing in the mix. The fish had been slashed on the diagonal to allow the flavors to penetrate and the skin was curled and crispy along the edges. “Oh Jack, just look…”
With a metal spatula, the chef deposited a fish on each of their plates. He spooned on extra sauce and dusted everything with fresh chopped herbs. “You enjoy dat, fer sure,” he added and bowed from the waist while backing from the table. He and mama disappeared into their kitchen.
Irene’s mouth watered up. “This is wonderful, Jack. Thank you.” She lifted back the skin and loaded a fork with the dense meat. “Mmm,” she exclaimed as she slipped it onto her tongue and thrilled to the savory flavors invading her mouth.
“Try the potatoes,” Jack encouraged, wiping butter from his lips with a napkin. “The flavor is incredible.”
What can you do to a potato Irene thought? Plenty! she found out.
“Heavens. That doesn’t taste like any potato I ever had,” she marveled at the burst of goodness.
“Mama must add spices to the water.” Jack took a forkful of fish and rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “Still want to move to the island? Maybe if we bought together, we’d get a deal.”
Somehow the thought warmed Irene’s heart. A little thatched cottage by the sea in Bodden Town. There must be real estate opportunities on the island for Jack to pursue, and maybe Cayman Air was hiring pilots, she fantasized while watching Jack eat. He held his knife and fork like a gentleman and ate slowly and thoughtfully; not shoveling.
Jack had wonderful manners, she decided. He had helped her with her chair and was quick to get the car door. They were little things, sure, but it pleased Irene to think he was a man of scruples; that he had been raised properly and still held those values. He appreciated women, but without being condescending and Irene found herself hoping that he appreciated her, above all others.
“You enjoying it?” he asked, motioning toward her plate.
“Better than sex,” she quipped and took another mouthful.