Chapter 19
Good Hands
The fishing villagesprawled out below Emma like something from a postcard—except postcards never captured the aroma of sun-dried fish or the chorus of chickens arguing over scraps. She picked her way down the sandy path, her operational brain already sorting details by use and priority.
Old wooden skiffs rested half-buried in sand; some still seaworthy, others were clearly retired. Nets hung from weathered poles, their shadows making lace patterns on the ground.
Where might the daycare fit... perhaps on the eastern edge, where a banyan tree’s shade would keep children cool.
Her mind was mid-calculation when she heard Ana-Luz’s voice.
The older woman sat in a carved wood chair beneath a massive banyan, its aerial roots creating a natural amphitheater. A dozen children ringed her feet, ranging from toddlers to ten or eleven. Their faces tilted upward with the rapt attention Emma usually saw only when someone handed out candy.
“...the Red Veil. Fierce as a hurricane; sharp as a shark’s smile,” Ana-Luz said, her hands weaving shapes in the air. “…she carried a stone, gifted by the island itself. Not a weapon. A promise.”
Emma slowed, not wanting to interrupt. One little girl leaned so far forward she was practically in Ana-Luz’s lap. A boy clutched his knees, eyes wide. Behind them, bright laundry snapped and billowed in the wind—yellows, pinks, and oranges that seemed to absorb the island’s vitality and throw it back doubled.
Emma’s attention drifted back to the village. Twelve visible homes, most with corrugated metal roofs that would drum beautifully in rain but probably turned the interiors into ovens by midday. The buildings appeared to be in decent shape overall, though two needed obvious roof repairs.
Did running water reach this far, or did they rely on wells? She must remember to ask about that. Infrastructure questions weren’t glamorous, but they mattered when you were trying to build something that worked.
She was sure the men would help the village if need be. Legally, they owned the entire island, including the land the village stood on. The village had never claimed homestead ownership rights from the government—no one knew it existed until Nick had the island surveyed. Of course, Nick being Nick, he had them map out an area twice the size of their current plot and designated it for them. His lawyers were working on creating a trust for the village's ownership.
The story ended with a flourish. Ana-Luz clapped her hands once, and the children scattered like startled birds, laughing and shouting fragments of the tale back to each other.
Ana-Luz looked over at Emma, her weathered face creasing into a smile that suggested she’d known Emma was there the entire time.
“Ah.” She rose with surprising grace for someone who’d been seated on a hard wooden chair. “The island sends you when it is ready.”
Emma laughed, descending the last few steps onto level sand. “Pretty sure I got hungry and remembered that you invited me for lunch.”
“Mm.” Ana-Luz’s eyes glittered with something that might be humor or might be secrets. “Same thing.”
Emma blinked, unsure how to respond.
A commotion erupted near the water. A fisherman—sixty-something, skin like leather—was half-dragging, half-carrying a younger man up from the beach. The younger one’s face twisted in pain as he clutched his foot with one hand.
Emma’s body moved before her brain caught up—the same instinct that kicked in whenever someone collapsed during a hiring event or there was a kitchen fire. She was rushing toward them, running through mental protocols: assess, stabilize, call for help.
“Lionfish.” The older fisherman spoke through gritted teeth, easing the young man—nephew or son, maybe—onto a weathered bench. “Mi sobrinostepped right on it.”
His foot was swelling, and angry red lines spread from a cluster of puncture wounds. He was breathing fast, shallow. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the ocean breeze.
“I’ll get a first aid kit,” Emma turned back. To where? The resort was a twenty-minute walk. The village must have something.
“No.” Ana-Luz stopped her with a firm hand on her elbow. “You'll help me.”
Emma blinked. “I don’t know?—”
“You will.” Ana-Luz strode toward one of the nearby houses, gesturing for her to follow.
Everything in Emma wanted to take charge, to fix this the way she’d fix anything else—fast, efficient, by-the-book. However, something in Ana-Luz’s tone made her swallow the impulse.
Inside the house—one room, spotless, herbs hanging from rafters—Ana-Luz gathered items with practiced efficiency. A clay bowl. Several bundles of plants Emma couldn’t identify. A small pot.
“First,” Ana-Luz was already moving back outside. “Hot water, very hot. It breaks the venom sting.” She handed Emma the pot and pointed toward a fire pit where embers glowed. “Not boiling. Just before.”
Emma filled the pot from a rain barrel and set it over the fire. Her hands were steady, but her mind was racing, cataloging every step. The young man groaned as his uncle murmured reassurances in Spanish.
