Free The Sea Grape Tree by Gillian Royes Page A

making mischief with Zeb.”
    Guiding the woman back to the main road, Shad had told her he worked at the bar. “You want to come and have a nice drink, a coconut water or something?”
    â€œI better be getting back,” she said. “I was taking a walk on the beach—”
    â€œBetter you walk with somebody else,” Shad had advised, smiling so she wouldn’t be too afraid, “or walk on the road. Not that anybody going to hurt you, but some people might see you as a stranger and want to take advantage of you. They think you have a lot of money.”
    The woman had thanked him again and they’d gone in opposite directions. Shad had walked back to the bar in a trance, realizing for the first time that Largo might not be ready for the inflow of tourists that would come with a hotel because, in the eight years since the boss’s hotel had closed, the young people had gotten more desperate, their options fewer by the year. A new hotel would attract every lazy, good-for-nothing youth for miles around, every one of them looking to make easy money off the guests. If they didn’t get work, they’d be all over the tourists with offers of weed and sex and hair-braiding.
    Shad looked at Beth, shaking his head. “Next thing, people in America hear that they going to be harassed in Largo—”
    â€œAnd the tourists stop coming.”
    â€œInnocent or guilty, a woman can mash up everything the same way, yes.” Shad stood up, stretching his arms overhead. “Nothing simple, eh?”

CHAPTER EIGHT
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    T he wide silver bangle on Sonja’s wrist reflected the candlelight, making the flame appear fatter, brighter. Everything about the writer sparkled with her delight at Roper’s return, her full lips and cheeks glowing.
    â€œWhere’ve you been playing lately, Ford?” she asked. All heads turned to the end of the dining table where the newest guest was sitting.
    â€œNew York, right?” Roper said. He wore a scarlet mandarin shirt that matched the wine he was sipping.
    Fordham Monroe looked up from his roast beef. He was tall enough to have to bend over the dinner plate, his slim fingers extending almost the lengths of the knife and fork in his hands. The furrow between his eyes seemed to be debating his answer.
    â€œDidn’t you tell me on the phone you were taking a gig in the Village?” Roper prompted, stroking the deep grooves beside his mouth that brought carved furniture to mind.
    Ford dropped his hands to his lap. “I’ve been giving the trumpet a rest since London, man.”
    â€œA rest?” Roper asked. “What do you mean?” Probing ever deeper was always his pattern, it seemed, and Sarah winced inwardly in sympathy, remembering how it felt to be the subject of Roper’s scrutiny only two days before on his return to Largo. Strolling around the studio, he’d pointed out that the dimensions of his life-size canvases ­allowed the onlooker to connect with his subjects, and he’d lectured her about her own work as if she were a wayward student.
    â€œWhat I love about your work,” he’d said in an agonized voice, “is the perfectionof it. Your symbolism is strong, your intricate composition is wonderful, your strokes clean and precise. But, why, in God’s name, do you have to contract life to a few inches ? It’s as if you create these masterpieces and don’t want anyone to see them.”
    â€œI believe,” Sarah had said after only a second’s hesitation, “that my work is a microcosm of life. Whatever my subject matter is, I like to scale it down to force the viewers to look inside my frame in a totally focused way.”
    â€œYou want to frustrate them, you mean.” Roper ran his hand through his wiry gray hair while he said it. She hadn’t made up her mind if she liked him or hated him. The experience of living in the home—a beautiful home, to