But why would the son of the owner of one of Jamaica’s largest rum distilleries type up a rum recipe? What if someone finds it, like a maid or a labor union activist, and assumes it belongs to his family? It could end up in the handsof a union-friendly newspaper or one of his competitors, and overnight destroy his family business. Did he forget it was here? Did he want me to find it?
“Damn.” The rum industry is ruthless. Forget the newspapers. That recipe could be sold to the highest bidder and finance a revolution—or a labor union movement.
I carefully return the paper to the typewriter and hurry out of his suite, locking the door behind me.
When I reach the hotel lobby, I’m out of breath, but I feel like myself again. I search for Byron, wanting to get the key into his hands and out of mine, but the place is packed with too many people and too many vases of gardenias.
I finally spot him, partially hidden behind a tall potted palm. He’s not alone either. The other man bears a striking resemblance to him, though he is taller and a bit heavier. Judging by the width of his shoulders and the girth of his middle, he has occupied his body a few more decades than Byron. They aren’t having a friendly conversation. The older man’s jaw snaps like gunfire, and the pith helmet he holds looks on the verge of being torn in two. I take a deep breath and approach them.
“Hello, Byron.” I extend my hand—not for a handshake, but to show the room key. “Thanks for letting me take a moment to freshen up.”
Byron’s expression shifts rapidly from anger to surprise. I almost giggle and nearly miss the subtle smile on his lips.
He takes the key with a steady hand. “Thank you, Zinzi.” He turns to the older man. “I’d like to introduce you to my father, Bernard Christian Tynesdale.”
It takes every fiber of my being not to spit in his face, but I know better than to follow my instincts. Notwithstanding, Bernard Christian Tynesdale—with that ridiculousmiddle name—has the audacity to glare at me as if he is superior.
“Zinzi?” The old man raises an eyebrow. “Byron didn’t mention your last name.”
“Green, sir. My name is Zinzi Green.”
“May I ask how you two young people know each other?”
Byron steps in as I struggle to find a response that doesn’t overflow with profanity.
“Honestly, Father, no, you can’t,” Byron replies. “Or rather, you can, but I won’t respond. It’s up to Miss Green to tell you if she wants to.”
Both men look at me. “I met Byron at a labor union meeting earlier tonight.”
Bernard Christian Tynesdale’s expression is blank, as if I hadn’t said a word. “So, Byron, you won’t be coming home with me tonight?”
“I’m surprised you came all this way so late, Father, knowing that I have no intention of returning home tonight or anytime soon.”
The flush of red creeping up the elder Tynesdale’s neck above his collar makes him look like he’s on fire. He puts on his hat and tips the brim in my direction. “If we meet again, Miss Green, it will be my pleasure.” He scowls at Byron, pivots on his back leg, turns sharply like a soldier, and marches out of the lobby.
“Thank you for your discretion,” Byron says with a playful tone.
“Should I have lied about where we met?”
“No, not at all. You have no obligation to play cat and mouse on my behalf with my father.”
“You’re right, unless it was your father’s idea to send you to a labor union meeting.”
“So, are you calling me a spy?” Byron chuckles. “I’d bethe last person on earth my father would choose to attend a labor union meeting.”
“You’re an ideal candidate for the job.”
“He has many more dependable people on his payroll who are far better at deceit than I am.” He glances around the lobby as if he suddenly remembers where he is. “Would you like to join me for dinner? If you feel better, and if you’re hungry. I’m starving. The restaurant here is fantastic. After dinner, I’ll arrange a car to take you home.”
His name is still Tynesdale, but I’ve never been invited to have a meal in the dining room of a fine hotel—not that I’ve particularly longed for it. “Okay, I’ll join you. But only because I noticed the rum recipe on your typewriter—and I’d like to ask you about it.”
He smirks at me. “I’d love to answer any of your questions.”
The restaurant on the veranda offers a view of the beach and the ocean, with palm trees swaying in a warm breeze and soft moonlight.
A rushed waiter leads us to our seats, places the menus on the table, and stands by as we look them over. I order Jamaican rice and peas with grilled snapper, while Byron chooses a steak, a potato, and a whiskey neat. I nearly ask him why he didn’t pick rum, but I’ll hold my questions until after we’ve eaten.
Dinner with Byron begins with a flurry of polite, nearly inconsequential conversation. We talk about the summer heat, beaches, whether I prefer fish or beef, and if I’ve ever visited England. He rambles about his extensive travels, having been educated in British boarding schools and attended Oxford University. He spent summers in Paris, winter holidays in Germany, and a semester in New York City, where he took anthropology classes at Columbia University.
