That’s it. I'm done. I'm just going to pack up my things, get back on the speedboat, and tell Harrison I'm sorry but I can't do this. There isno wayI am going to subject myself to another day and night from hell, complete with devious, evil houseboat neighbours. Okay, maybe they’re not evil. It’s not like they’ve tried to axe me in my sleep, but still. Trick knee, Alfred? Really? And I’d like to see those bunions, Phyllis.
On second thought, maybe not. I’ve never seen a bunion before.
I clomp through the rubber trees, the rain and my makeup stinging my eyes as I pass by the useless umbrella I tossed under a fern on my way up the mountain. The first gust of wind turned it inside-out and snapped one of those metal thingies that holds the fabric to the frame, which at the moment feels like some sort of metaphor for my life.
Gripping the nearest tree, I start down the steepest part of the path, my feet slipping out from under me. “Not again, muddy path. Not again,” I say, trying to right myself.
Oops!
Shit. Again.
I fall, landing on my bum directly on a spot which I've certainly already bruised. The cooler slips out of my hands and slides down the rest of the way while I manage to dig my heels into the mud and stop myself. I struggle for a moment, trying to stand without putting my palms down in the thick mud, but it’s no use.
Giving up, I let go and just allow myself to slide the rest of the way down to the beach, my pant legs filling with mud. By the time I reach the beach, I’m sobbing, which I haven't done since I was a small child.
I can’t. I just can’t stay here another minute. I sit, my shoulders shaking as I let it all go. After a few minutes, I feel like someone is watching me. I turn and look over my shoulder, seeing a large green iguana staring from inside a hollow log. He blinks slowly as though fascinated by the crazy, crying lady sitting near his house.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling suddenly sheepish. “I’m not a crier normally. I’m actually very tough. It’s just that I’m having a very bad week. I thought I was starting a glamourous new life as a head chef but really I’ve been sent out here to be a servant.” I wipe the hair off my face, leaving a healthy dose of mud on my cheek. “I was going to invent Caribbean fusion food, write a cookbook, and possibly get my own show, but now I’m going to die alone on this stupid island, having never accomplished anything. Possibly sooner than later if my neighbours do turn out to be killers.”
He stretches his head and sniffs the air, probably in search of food, then backs into the log a couple of steps. I don’t blame him. I’d think I’m crazy, too.
Standing, I grab the cooler and start back for the houseboat from hell. I’m almost there when I’m struck by the greatest idea I’ve ever had: I'll offer to take overtwoof the restaurants and have two chefs work half-time out on Opposite of Eden Island.
That ought to work beautifully. Everyone will be happy. Me, because I won't have to deal with Mr. Snooty Pants or Mr. and Mrs. Lazy Jerks anymore, and the chefs that replace me because they’ll only be working half-time. I caneasilymanage two restaurants at a time. As long as I don't have to sleep on a musty, cramped houseboat that sloshes and rocks all night, I can handle anything. Even if I worked sixteen hours a day back at the resort, I could still get a decent night’s sleep in a proper cabin—somewhere with enough hot water to thoroughly washandcondition my hair like a civilized human being.
I pivot, and head directly to the speedboat, walking through the water instead of on the dock to clean my muddy pants a bit. I don’t bother to pull the soft-top up to protect me from the rain. The boat is soaked and I'm soaked, so there really isn't any point. I forgo packing my things, telling myself I can always return later for them. I just have to get away from this godforsaken place before I completely lose it.
As I jam the key in the ignition, I glance at Phyllis and Alfred’s houseboat and see them through the window. They’re sitting at the table, looking completely cozy and dry. They’re laughing at something, probably me.
Bunions, my arse!
Stellar hiring job there, Libby. You couldn't have maybe picked a couple of single hotties to be out here with me? Seriously?
The engine sputters just long enough for me to consider swimming home, then finally fires up. As I pull away from the dock, I hit full throttle, flipping the bird over my left shoulder.
Goodbye Mr. Snooty Pants. I hope your next book is a huge flop. See ya around, Mr. and Mrs. Downton Abbey Wannabes! I’ll be sure to tell my replacements about your fake bunions and trick knees!
10
Canned Food and Spearguns
Emma
“Emma! What happened to you?” Rosy says, rushing from behind the reception desk in the lobby.
I blink back tears as she comes rushing toward me. “Oh Rosy, it’s awful out there. Just awful.”
She wraps me in a big warm hug in spite of the fact that I’m now soaking her bright orange blouse. Kissing me on the forehead, she says, “Did someone hurt you, Baby Bear? Because if so, somebody on that island is about to get an old lady ass-kicking. Is it that weird British couple? Iknewthere was something shifty about those two.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. They are a little creepy though.” I nod my head, then sniff. “I just don’t think this is going to work out.”
“Come on with Rosy. I’ll get you some dry clothes and a tea, then you tell me all about it.”
“I’d like that,” I say, nodding.
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the couch in the staff room, dressed in a clean, dry uniform of a white golf shirt and tan shorts with a towel wrapped around my shoulders.
