as customers looked on.
Interspersed among the row of stalls serving cooked food were several stands selling fresh fish. The constant calls of “fresh fish, fresh fish,” were heeded by car after car of customers who pulled up next to the street-side stall for plastic bags filled with fresh snapper.
Vince stepped up to a fresh fish vendor and said, “I’d like a pound of snapper, please.”
“Some fresh conch salad too, sir?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed and gave the brown Bahamian woman a warm smile. “I love it.”
“What about you, my lady?” The woman smiled at Sasha. “Fresh conch salad or a conch fritter?”
“No, thank you.”
“What? You have to have one or the other,” said Vince.
“I don’t...I don’t eat that.”
“I’ll have conch salad,” said Vince, “and one for the lady too.”
“I said I didn’t want any,” Sasha said, but Vince wasn’t listening.
The Bahamian woman handed each Vince and Sasha a bowl of the native fare. Sasha reluctantly took hers, wondering who Vince thought he was—ordering for her like that and insisting that she taste something she wasn’t accustomed to eating. He was presumptuous and arrogant, she thought. But she tasted it, and it was delightful against her tongue. She’d never tried it before; the name conch just didn’t appeal to her. She’d always wondered how something with such an ugly name could possibly taste good.
Not wanting Vince to know that she was enjoying her salad, she toyed with the fork a bit, picking over the food. They moved down the sidewalk to a fresh produce stand, where Vince purchased tomatoes, bell peppers and onions. He seemed to know his way around the island and carried himself as a native. If it weren’t for the crisp slacks, polo shirt and shined shoes that he wore, he could’ve easily been mistaken for an islander. The precision haircut and carefully manicured nails were a dead giveaway also. She immediately admired his confidence, although she hated to admit it.
“So, obviously you cook,” Sasha stated.
“I do,” Vince said. “What about you?”
“I dabble a little. I always said that if I didn’t make it as a lawyer, I’d become a chef.”
“What’s your specialty?” he asked.
“Deep-dish pizza,” she boasted, “and I make my own crust.”
“Really? That’s impressive,” he said. “Are you part Italian?”
“No,” she answered with a laugh. “What’s your specialty?”
“Fried chicken, fried fish, fried pork chops...”
“Don’t you know that fried foods are bad for your health? That’s why everyone in the black community suffers with high blood pressure.”
“I know, but it’s so darn good,” he admitted. “My arteries are probably already clogged with fried fish grease.”
“You should try baking your chicken, fish and pork chops,” Sasha said. “It’s much healthier.”
“I’ll consider that,” he said. “Maybe you can show me how it’s done.”
Sasha realized that she’d let her guard down and needed to put her wall of resistance back up. She said, “I doubt it.”
* * *
“Velcome to da Bahamas,” said the chocolate-brown man as he swung her door open and held it for her while she climbed out of the car. He wore a red concierge uniform, with a name tag that read Robert. Robert’s graying hair and beard seemed to be a little matted, but his eyes were a pair of the friendliest ones that Sasha had ever seen. “Right this way, please.”
He escorted her through the massive lobby, with its buffed floors and modern furniture. Women in short skirts moved their hips to the sounds of Caribbean music being played by a live band. As the music filled the air, a young woman greeted her with a tray filled with beverages.
“Rum punch, my lady?” the woman asked in a soft voice.
Sasha checked her watch. It was nine-thirty in the morning, a bit early for something harder than orange juice.
“Sure. What the heck?” said Sasha as she grabbed a glass and headed for the counter to check in.
A group of women dressed in bikinis and giggling like teenagers headed in her direction.
“Sasha! You made it.” Bridget was wearing a white bikini with a blue sarong draped across her hips. She gave Sasha a tight squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here. Your mother is really working my nerves—between her and Aunt Frances, I don’t know who’s worse. But you’re here now. You can run some interference for me. Give them someone else to drive crazy.”
“Hey, Sasha.” Their cousin Vanessa popped up from among the crowd and hugged her. “Girl, we have to do something with this hair of yours.” She brushed Sasha’s bangs from her face.
“Our hair appointment is at eleven. Will you be checked in and ready to go in an hour?” Bridget asked.
“I’ll do my best.” Sasha managed a smile and then caught a glimpse of Vince.
He was engaged in a conversation with the concierge, and she couldn’t help but stare. Her eyes traced his hairline and then made their way down to the curve of his strong cheekbone.
“Did you hear me, Sash?” Bridget was asking.
“No, I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Was Vince the perfect gentleman? I warned him to be nice.”
“Oh, yeah. He was just...fine,” Sasha said, “but next time, I can get a cab. It wasn’t necessary for him to come.”
“He insisted,” Bridget explained. “Besides, he rented that stupid car and thinks he knows his way around the island.”
“He can pick me up anytime, anywhere with his fine self,” said Deja, Bridget’s friend since elementary school. Even with a full figure, she still managed to squeeze an oversized set of caramel-colored breasts into a yellow bikini top. “He doesn’t even know how fine he is.”
“Don’t be so brazen, Deja,” said Kim, Bridget’s tall, slender friend wearing a one-piece bathing suit. She pulled her long sandy-colored hair into a ponytail. “Less is definitely more.”
“Sasha, we’ll meet you here in an hour. We’re taking a water taxi to the salon,” said Meka, Bridget’s other maid of honor. She was carrying a notepad and following along on Bridget’s heels.
“Fine, I’m gonna get a shower and relax for a minute. I’ll see you all later.” Sasha smiled and then took a long sip of rum punch.
Chapter 2
The
