Thanks to my mom’s career in the movie industry (and I use the term career loosely), I lived in no fewer than nine different cities growing up. We moved dozens of times, following the work from set to set. When Mom couldn’t or didn’t want to bring me with her, she would dump me with Uncle Red. This tiny island, only a few miles long and a scant mile wide, is the closest thing to a home I’ve ever known.
The thought that it might be swept away in the coming tropical storm scares the shit out of me. Everything I’ve worked for my entire life, everything I’ve ever wanted, is right here on this island.
True, according to all the important sources, Tropical Storm Sylvia is unlikely to become a hurricane strong enough to do significant damage. After all, a Category 5 hurricane hasn’t made landfall in Belize in over a decade. Compared to many places in the Caribbean, we’re relatively protected.
But statistics and predications aren’t guarantees. So with the storm building out in the gulf, I’m following the government-issued suggestion and evacuating until the storm passes.
The Blue Crown only had a handful of guests this week. They’ve all been moved to a partner hotel far enough inland that they will be safe and well entertained for the week with hikes in the rainforest and tours of Mayan ruins. The staff and I have spent the last twenty-four hours securing the buildings as much as we can. We’ve literally battened down the hatches. Or the shutters, in this case.
This resort, which is the physical embodiment of my heart and soul, was first built in the early nineties. Very little of it is state-of-the art. It isn’t hurricane proof. Or even hurricane resistant. Not because those weren’t priorities, but because so much of the technology that helps make buildings weather ready simply didn’t exist when Uncle Red built it. In short, I’m going to be doing a lot of praying over the next few days.
And, yes, the people will be safe. I know that’s the important bit. Still, standing here on the beach for what will hopefully not be the last time, I bend down and scoop some of the sand into a small glass jar. Just in case.
The air is oddly still as I make my way down the beach to the dock, where the Blue Crown’s two boats are moored.
We specialize in dive and snorkel vacations, so neither of our boats are fancy. The larger of the two,The Rogue, is packed with luggage and whatever computer equipment we could pack up and that would be expensive to replace, as well as most of the staff and their belongings. I’m going to helm the smaller boat,The Gambit—and, yes, Uncle Red was a big fan of the X-Men—which is loaded with my luggage and Taco, the resort’s resident parrot. Uncle Red rescued Taco decades ago and the ornery yellow-headed guy has lived on Creciente Caye ever since. It took three people and four hours to lure him into his travel cage so we could bring him with us.
Eli, our skipper, is waiting for me onThe Gambit, but I stop off atThe Rogueto make sure they’re loaded up first.
“We’ve got everything?” I ask Marcus.
He nods. “Yep.”
“And you made sure all the utilities are off?”
He gives me a wry huff.
“Okay, okay. I know you did. I just feel like I’m forgetting something.” After all, this is the first time since I took over that we’ve had to evacuate. It’s the first big storm, so it feels like the first test of my abilities as owner. If I fail at this, maybe I’m not as competent as I think. Maybe I’m not worthy of this.
Thankfully, Marcus tolerates me running through the to-do list one more time, nodding as I mentally tick off each item. I get to the end and then tack on, as an afterthought, “By the way, did anyone check on Libélula Caye?”
I don’t mention Jonah by name, because…well, reasons.
It’s hard to pretend to be a loving spouse when the people around you regularly hear you cuss under your breath about your husband.
And since I can’t even say his name without shooting anger-lasers out of my eyes, I try to avoid it. The Blue Crown has enough to worry about without me burning the dock to ash with my anger-laser eyes.
It takes me a minute to realize no one has answered me.
I look up to see Marcus running a hand over the back of his head, not meeting my gaze.
“Marcus?”
“Huh?” He’s all doe-eyed innocence.
“You checked on Libélula, right?”
“Yep.”
“And they’ve left already?”
“Raul left this morning. There were two clutches of eggs they’ve been monitoring on the beach. They dug them up, and he’s bringing them to the facility down by Punta Gorda that should be able to incubate them until after the storm passes.”
I pin Marcus with a look. He avoids it. I try to catch the gaze of anyone else on the boat. No one will even look at me. Summoning vast reservoirs of patience, I ask, “But not Jonah?”
A throat clears behind me. Eli has leftThe Gambitand come over to rescue his son from my anger-laser eyes.
“Mr. Landrine decided to stay on Libélula.”
