Cash feels offended by this statement, which is funny, seeing as how he has lived here only a couple of months. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. St. Lucia has these tapered volcanic spires called the Pitons, and Emerald Hill is positioned to display their fifty shades of green to maximum advantage. Now, you want to talk about an eco-resort? You won’t believe how committed to minimizing ecological impact this place is, but in the most aesthetically jaw-dropping way. Listen to this…”
Cash drifts in and out of Tilda’s monologue. Twenty species of tropical hardwood harvested in environmentally sustainable ways…bloodwood, locust, purpleheart, cabbage wood…walls of crushed coral plaster quarried in Barbados…and the food…mahi banh mi, conch tacos, guava pulled pork…
“It was so delicious, even Dunk ate.”
Cash snaps to attention. “He did?” Cash is dismayed to hear that Dunk loosened up enough to let food pass his lips and that he exhibited the behavior of a normal human being.
“He’s been eating three squares. I mean, I had to work on him for a few days but nobody could resist the breakfast buffet that Emerald Hill lays out. The fruit alone! They have a secret chilled drawer filled with champagne mangoes, but you have to know about it to request them.”
“I take it our resort will have a secret chilled-mango drawer?” Cash says. Our resort sounds a little too presumptuous, so he quickly says, “The Lovango resort.”
“You bet,” Tilda says. “But the best part of Emerald Hill is the spa. Dunk and I went for massages and before you enter the treatment room, they ask you to sit in this round shallow pool that’s inlaid with iridescent rainbow tiles. It’s like sitting inside a kaleidoscope.”
“Wait a minute,” Cash says. “Go back. You and Dunk had massages…together?”
Tilda pauses. “We each had a massage, yes.”
“Together? Were you naked under a sheet side by side while you got massages?”
“Technically, it was a couples massage, but that’s not what I requested. I requested two massages at the same time so that our schedules were aligned and I wasn’t sitting around waiting for him to go to dinner. But the woman in the spa misunderstood and booked it as a couples massage and once I figured that out, I’m sorry, it was too awkward to fix, so I rolled with it.” Tilda pauses. “I kept my bikini on.”
“Did Dunk keep his shorts on?”
“I have no idea, Cash. I didn’t check to see what Dunk was doing. I promise you, the massage wasn’t a big deal.”
“But me in a selfie with Gretchen Gingerman was?” Cash says. “Why don’t you explain what the dynamic between you and Dunk has been?”
“It’s been…better than I expected, I guess. At first, he was a little over the top with his hokey Australian shtick—Crikey! Good on ya! Bob’s your uncle!—but he’s toned that down and I have to admit, I’m impressed by how informed he is. He did his research on these islands before we got down here—the history, the culture, the industry, the hidden treasures. So, for example, today we had the resort pack us a picnic and we hiked into the rain forest to see this fifty-foot waterfall in the middle of a natural garden. It was like something out of a fairy tale.”
Cash clears his throat. Does she realize what she sounds like? She “worked on” Dunk and got him eating the chilled champagne mangoes and the conch tacos; he adjusted Tilda’s chaise; they had a couples massage (no big deal!); they hiked with a picnic to the fairy-tale waterfall. Cash can, maybe, accept all that (no, not the massages, sorry), but what about the things Tilda isn’t telling him? Has Dunk touched her? Reached for her hand? Kissed her good night? Rubbed sunscreen into her back? Held her in the water? Played footsie under the table? Has Dunk told Tilda he had a dream about her? Have they had heart-to-heart conversations? Has Tilda talked about Cash, and, if so, what has she said?
“They have live music at all meals,” Tilda says. “A classical piano player at breakfast, a jazz combo at lunch, a guitar player who sounds exactly like Zac Brown at dinner. The Zac Brown guy is named Ezra, we sort of befriended him and he took us to this local bar in Gros Islet tonight where they had real reggae music, not just warmed-over Bob Marley, and we danced. That’s why I’m home so late. I told Dunk I wanted our resort to have live music at every meal but I didn’t think we could afford it and Dunk said we have carte blanche and everything is possible.” She sighs. “Tomorrow we go to Eden by private seaplane.”
“Private seaplane?” Cash says. “I thought it was commercial to St. Vincent and then a prop plane.”
“Dunk arranged for a private seaplane,” Tilda says. “We save half a day that way.”
Cash has heard enough. The signs are all right in front of him: Tilda and Dunk are a “we” now. If they haven’t slept together yet, they will on Eden when they’re sharing a villa. This thought—that it hasn’t happened yet but will imminently—is gut-wrenching.
“You haven’t asked about me or things here, but you should know that I won’t be living at your parents’ when you get back.”
“Wait,” she says. “How come? Did you find a place, or—”
“No.”
“Did…oh, jeez, did Granger say something about you going into his study?”
Cash feels a hot flush creep up his neck. Granger knows Cash was in his study? He told Tilda? Cash is being monitored, his every move watched and questioned, while Tilda is free to do as she damn well pleases! Couples massage! It was a misunderstanding! Too awkward to fix!
“Listen, Tilda,” Cash says. “Staying here isn’t working out for me. Enjoy the rest of your trip. I’ll see you around.”
He hangs up and feels extremely proud of himself—for approximately sixty seconds.
His phone pings with a text from Tilda: Are you breaking up
