Free A Trip to the Beach by Melinda Blanchard Page B

sunburn.
    â€œYou got lobster for dinner tonight,” Shabby said, holding up Bob’s catch.
    â€œI’m not sure I have the energy to cook it.” Bob struggled to his feet.
    On the way back Bob told Shabby about the restaurant.
    â€œMy brothers and me, we does construction work if you need help,” Shabby offered.
    â€œWe definitely need help,” Bob replied.
    â€œJus’ leave me know and we be down there when you ready.”
    The next morning, Cable & Wireless, a British version of AT&T, came to the house to hook up our phone. Anguilla, Bob learned from the installers, has only had telephones since 1971. They had obviously come a long way. Before leaving, they reviewed the available services: call waiting, call forwarding, three-way conference calling, speed dialing, ring back when free, calling name delivery, automatic busy callback, and instant recall. As soon as they drove away, Bob left a message at my hotel saying we might have to attend night school to learn how to run the phones.
    My first day in Miami was a fiasco. I wasted five hours in traffic, witnessed a shooting, saw three accidents on I-95, and was rear-ended in a parking lot. Cranes and jackhammers made it impossible to maneuver the city streets, and that night I moved to Boca Raton. It was more civilized, and I quickly learned my way around.
    My schedule became routine. I arrived at Home Depot by six-thirty each morning, and after spending several hours with the men in orange aprons, I zoomed up and down the highway, systematically checking off everything on my list: a day designing menu covers, three days working with a plant broker who gave me a crash course in tropical gardening, almost a week scrounging through acres of restaurant equipment (which included the search for Cora Lee’s stove), and repeated visits to Crate & Barrel and Williams-Sonoma.
    Dining chairs were the biggest challenge. Finding fifty chairs in stock was difficult. Most required a special order, which would take twelve weeks, but I needed them immediately; on a tight budget, this appeared impossible. I covered every inch of South Florida and finally lucked out with forty-eight chairs someone had ordered and never picked up. They were a very tropical-looking white rattan, sturdy enough to take abuse, and best of all, 30 percent off.
    Each night around eight I’d call Bob, who always had changes to make to the list, and then go to the local bookstore until midnight for study time. I spent hundreds of dollars on cookbooks for menu ideas.
    Days turned into weeks, and at long last our permits were approved. Bob left a message on my voice mail at the hotel saying we were officially licensed aliens. Our furniture from Vermont had passed through Miami and was on its way to Anguilla. There was no turning back now.
    Shabby and his three brothers began demolition with Bob. They arrived daily with sledgehammers and crowbars, gutting the bathrooms and ripping out walls. The old boat that had previously been the bar was removed easily, thanks to the termites and Shabby’s bulk and strength. One kick with his size-fourteen shoe, and it was reduced to a pile of sawdust and rotten boards.
    Clinton, the youngest of the brothers, had music in his blood—everything from reggae to gospel. He couldn’t stop humming and singing, and his body had a way of swiveling as if made of rubber. Always eager to jump into any task, he would pay close attention to Bob’s instructions and then dance his way through the project.
    At four o’clock each day Clinton prepared his dilapidated minibus for the drive home. He inspected all four bald tires, adding air to at least one with a bicycle pump. His thirsty radiator usually needed some water, and a gentle push started the engine, since the battery often wouldn’t. The little bus appeared to be an extension of Clinton and was blessed with a similar sense of rhythm as it danced and wobbled down the road.
    Our