FOUR

 

I Never Liked That Song Anyway…

 

Harrison

 

 

Easy come, easy go. That's what I’ve been telling myself all day about selling Waltzing Matilda, my yacht — well, Stew Milner's yacht now, I guess. He's been wanting to get his hands on her longer than Harvey Weinstein has been wanting to get his hands on young actresses. Matilda, who used to reside in Australia, is a 90-foot classic schooner that they never should've stopped making. Reliable, sleek, with clean lines and polished wood, it's the type of yacht people take photos of when it's sitting at the harbour.

I don’t even want to think about how pissed Will and Emma are going to be when they find out. We spent half our childhood on Matilda. Uncle Oscar would be rolling over in his grave if he knew she was about to be boarded by Stogie Stew. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure Oscar would much rather I sell the boat than sell out Paradise Bay’s staff to some evil corporation. There was an article in The Post a while back about some study that showed how one in five corporate CEOs fit the clinical definition of a psychopath. So if me letting go of Matilda is the one thing stopping my friends from ending up in the clutches of Tony Soprano, it’s kind of a no-brainer.

I stand on pier 15 at the San Filipe Yacht Club, waiting for Stew to bring me the cheque that's going to solve my current financial crisis. I let out a long, slow breath, wishing there were some other way than sacrificing Matilda. I stare at her and strongly consider getting back on and sailing away where nobody needs anything from me ever again.

I shouldn’t have let my mind go there. That thought is far too tempting.

My mobile buzzes. It’s an email from that irritating Libby Dewitt person from Avonia. I sigh and open it.

 

Dear Mr. Harrison,

I’m on my way to my wedding and had a slight traffic delay so I thought I’d touch base. I’ll be arriving tomorrow in the early part of the afternoon and plan to spend the first two days of my trip honeymooning. As I haven’t heard from you, I’ve booked a time for us to meet Tuesday morning through a woman in your office. I look forward to seeing you then to discuss how we can be of help to each other.

All the best,

Libby Dewitt

 

What kind of nut is sending work emails a few minutes before her wedding? A future CEO who’ll gain easy entry into the 1-in-5 Psychopath Club, that’s who. When she shows up at my office next week, I’m going to give her a hard no on the takeover, ask her to pass along my apologies to her new husband, then show her the door.

That settles it. No sailing off into the sunset with Matilda. I really do have to hand her over to Stew.

My mobile phone buzzes again, and I swipe to ignore another call from Rosy. She’s been trying to find me all day about the loan, but I’m purposely avoiding her until the sale is final.

I force my feet to remain planted on the wide slab of concrete. I smell Stew before I hear him walking up behind me — the stench of the Kristoff Maduro cigars that precedes him everywhere he goes. I turn, trying not to think about the fact that Matilda will soon smell like a manure-filled barnyard.

Stew holds a cheque in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. He’s walking much faster than he usually does, probably to get the deal finalized before I can think better of it. A transplant from northern Scotland, Stew loves the heat more than the heat loves him. He runs the handkerchief over the top of his grey hair and pats at his forehead and ruddy cheeks while he beams at Matilda. Shoving the handkerchief in the back pocket of his Bermuda shorts, he takes the cigar out of his mouth and flicks some ash into the water next to the pier. Arse. “Glad you finally came around, Banks. A beauty like that needs a real man to handle her.”

Gross, isn't he?

Stew hands me the cheque, and I take a moment to look it over, making sure it's dated and signed — I wouldn't put it past him to ‘accidentally forget’ so he’ll have a few more days with his money. I fold it in half and tuck it into the pocket of my shorts. “Enjoy, Stew. May you captain her in good health.”

“I will, I will. Do you need a ride back to the resort?” Pinching the cigar back in between his lips, Stew chews on it, allowing a little bit of yellow juice to dribble down his chin.

“Thanks, but I haven't had a chance to get a run in yet today, so I figure I’ll make my way back along the beach.”

“You’re going to run all that way? In this heat?” He shakes his head at me, looking bewildered.

“I have to find some way to stay in shape for the ladies. It's either run or give up fried food and beer.”

“Well, I suppose at your age, you might as well enjoy the women. I'll just settle for enjoying my money and my new boat.” He laughs, which turns into a wheezy cough that makes me wonder how many months he'll have to defile Matilda. “Oh, and when you’re ready to sell that little hotel of yours, let me know. I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” No, I won’t. No fucking way is he getting his hands on the resort.

I slide my mobile phone in my arm band, put my earbuds in and set off, walking to the end of the dock. With one quick look back at Matilda, I pick up my pace, telling myself I’ve done the right thing.

Go with the flow, even when it hurts.

 

***

 

Forty-five minutes later, the resort is coming into view along the beach. The late day sun is making the ocean look awfully inviting. I consider diving in for a long swim when I hear my name being called.

Squinting, I’m just able to make out Rosy standing on the steps that lead to the beach from the resort. She’s dressed in her usual uniform — a bright button-up shirt (today’s is lime green) and a long colourful skirt with one pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck and her other pair sitting on top of her head. Her black hair is pulled back into what she calls her ‘facelift bun.’

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. I should have answered that last call from her. I knew I was pushing it.

If Rosy’s outside, it means I’m in trouble. She hates the sun, the sand, and pretty much anything else that has to do with nature, which is exactly what makes her the perfect manager. There's nothing she likes more than being in the air-conditioned office bossing people around.

Even though Rosy’s just about to turn sixty, she’s not going to retire anytime soon. It would be the end of her forty-year marriage to Darnell, who retired from the fire department a couple of years ago, because as calm as Darnell is, there’s no way he’ll put up with being ordered around twenty-four seven. He says doing what Rosy wants is more of a weekends and evenings pastime.

When I get closer, I can hear her foot angrily tapping away. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to phone you all day.”

Giving her an easy smile, I come to a stop. “Good afternoon, Rosy. Nice to see you outside getting some sun for a change.” Oh, I should not have said that. She’s literally snorting mad now.

“Don't screw with me, Harrison Theodore Banks. I swear to God, I will leave you.”

“All right, sorry. I’ll straighten up.” I’m not and I won’t, by the way. It’s far too fun for both of us, even though she’d never admit it. “I don’t know where I’d find another tiny dictator to keep me in line.”

She purses her lips together and rolls her eyes before letting out a long sigh of irritation. This means I've got room for maybe one more joke before she really loses it. As much as I like to wind her up, Rosy can be a little scary when you push her too far. But I’m an adrenaline junkie, so… “You look stressed, Rosy. Maybe you and Darnell should take a vacation. I know a nice resort with some empty rooms. I know the owner, so I could probably get you a deal.”

“I've had it! You're off doing God-knows-what all day while I'm trying to figure out how the damn loan is going to get paid.” She spins on her heel and starts up the steps, miming washing her hands of me. “I'm going home. I don't need this shit.”

“Wait!” I jog up the steps, following her as she heads down the path toward the main building. “Don't you even want to know where I've been?”

She turns and glares at me. “This better be good.”

“It is.” I glance to my right and see that we've stopped right next to the beach bar. “I just need to grab a water first. I'm really parched from my run.” I go around to the back of the bar, ducking under the counter and making a beeline for the refrigerator. Calling over my shoulder, I ask, “You want anything? A mojito or a margarita, maybe?”

“No, I do not want a damn drink! I want to get back inside.”

I grab a bottle of water, then jog over to her. “Yeah, I suppose you don't have time for a drink anyway. Not when you need to take this over to the bank.” I pull the cheque out of my pocket and hand it to her.

She wrinkles up her nose as she unfolds the now slightly damp piece of paper. Her eyes light up when she sees all the zeros. “How did you—”

“The how is top secret. All you need to know is that it’ll buy us a few more months while we turn things around.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a middle-aged couple on the path. One of them is feeding a wild opossum an ice cream cone while the other one videos. Bloody brilliant.

At the same time, Rosy and I say, “Sir, please don’t feed the opossums.” I add, “They’re wild animals,” while Rosy says, “They carry rabies and definitely bite.”

The man drops the ice cream cone, straightens up and backs away slowly. The opossum grabs the cone and scurries into the brush along the path.

Instead of saying ‘seriously, moron?!’ like I want to do, I smile and say, “Thank you for your cooperation in keeping the wildlife wild.” God, I hate myself sometimes.

Rosy and I continue toward the offices, Rosy moving very quickly for someone of her short stature. She holds up the cheque again, then something in her demeanour changes and she slows down a little. When she looks up at me, her eyes are soft. “You sold Matilda, didn't you?”

I take a long swig of the cold water, then shrug. “She was getting old anyway.”

Rosy stops and turns to me. “Harrison, first the cottage, now the boat? Why would you do this? If you'd at least have kept one of them, you would've had somewhere to live when this place goes into receivership.”

I grin and waggle my eyebrows a little. “Actually, I was hoping to move in with you and Darnell. Finally give you a chance to mother me properly.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.” She shakes her head and starts walking again.

I match her pace, not wanting to let her leave angry.

Looking up at me, she says, “This isn't a permanent solution, you know. You're still going to have to look at the overspending — particularly when it comes to the staff bonuses. Unless you make some major changes, all of this” —she gestures around in the air— “is going to belong to the bank very soon. You've got nothing left to sell.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that…” I gesture up and down my body.

A loud growling sound comes from deep within Rosy’s chest, and I know I've hit the limit with her.

“Look, I’ll find a way to get things back on track. As long as we don't have another hurricane for a while, we’ll be back in the black very soon.”

“Reef!” one of the bartenders, Fidel, calls from across the courtyard. Rosy and I both turn and watch as he jogs toward us, looking very excited. “Winnie just went into labour.”

I slap Fidel on the shoulder. “Congratulations, man. You better get out of here then.”

A look of relief crosses his face and he grins at me. “Thanks, boss.”

He hurries off in the direction of the parking lot and I call after him, “Good luck! And don't worry about your shift tomorrow. I'll make sure you're covered.”

He turns, now jogging backwards. “Thanks, but I can't afford to take another night off. I'm going to be a father!”

“Don't worry about it. You'll still get paid.” I smile as I watch him make a fist pump in the air and let out a little whooping noise.

He disappears around the side of the main lobby, shouting, “I’m going to be a father!”

When I look back at Rosy, she's glaring up at me from under her drawn-on eyebrows.

“What?” I ask.

“That,” she barks, pointing to where Fidel was standing a few seconds ago. “That is why this resort is in trouble.”

“That is the whole point of having a resort. To give people a great place to work so they can have a good life.”

“No, Harrison, that's not what having a resort is about. It's a business. To make money.” She pokes me on the chest to emphasize her point. “You run around this damn island like you have a cape and a big “S” on your chest, but you can't be everybody's hero, not if you’re going to survive.”

“Hey, I thought we agreed not to talk about my secret identity?” I lower my voice and gesture with both hands in a downward direction. “Speaking of which, if you tell anyone why I sold Matilda, I’ll tell Darnell you have a thing for the FedEx guy.”

“You don’t scare me. Darnell and I have an agreement. I can look as long as I don’t touch.” A flicker of a smile crosses her lips, and I know she’s thinking about the delivery guy’s tight shorts. Then her smile fades, allowing her scowl to return. “Don’t think you can distract me, young man. We’re still talking about your money problems.”

“Damn. That usually works,” I mutter.

“Well, not today. This is serious, Harrison,” she says. “You know what you should do is—“

“—Tell my lazy, good-for-nothing brother to come home and help out at the resort so I can stop financing his reckless lifestyle.” I quote her word-for-word.

Her mouth snaps shut, then she says, “Yes. That.”

“No can do, Rosy,” I say. “He’s living his dream. Besides, now that he’s got the show, he’s not going to need to borrow from me anymore.”

“Just you wait. He’ll spend it all on women and be back begging in a few months.”

“Or…it’ll turn into a regular gig and he can start paying me back.”

“Doubt it.” Patting me on the cheek a little too hard, she says, “You’re not Superman, Harrison. At best, you’re Clark Kent.”

“But a guy can try, can’t he?” I give her a wink.

She purses her lips together. “I don’t know what I'm going to do with you.”

“For now, if you could get that cheque to the bank, I’d really appreciate it.” Cupping one hand next to my mouth, I lower my voice conspiratorially. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but money’s a little tight right now.”

She tries to smack me, but I’m too quick and step out of her reach.

I take a couple more steps backward while I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder. “Okay, I better run. I need to shower and go work a bar shift. Some idiot gave Fidel the night off.”