The Sea Grape Tree by Gillian Royes Page A

for some reason. Maybe that comes from living a pretty monotonous life.”
    Ford had lots of memories. He talked of watching the night sky in the summer. He would sit on his aunt’s dock in South Carolina in the evening with his cousins, and they would see how many stars they could count. “When we gave up, we’d count the shooting stars.”
    Listening to Ford, seeing one half of his face dimly lit by the living room lights, Sarah guessed that he was anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five. There were no wrinkles on his face, despite the late nights he kept, so he might have been younger rather than older. There was something likable about his mouth with its raised outer edges, something refined about his nose. And while he spoke nostalgically, she began to suspect they’d been left alone on purpose by Sonja and Roper.
    Her companion now talked about playing the trumpet in the South, and how much he enjoyed jamming with musicians from New Orleans since Hurricane Katrina, and she noticed for the first time a diamond on one side of his long nose that glimmered when he turned toward her. And while he spoke, she wondered how it would feel to run her hand over his close-cropped head, if it would feel coarse or smooth, although there was no chance of them becoming lovers even if she wanted to—which she didn’t. His wounds were too fresh.
    It was only later, while she was changing into her pajamas, that she knew that the real reason she wouldn’t sleep with Ford, or even flirt with him, was more about the fact that she’d never found a black man appealing. She’d had a few high school and art school classmates who were first-generation West Indians or Africans, but no close friends who were anything other than white. Penny, of course, had all kinds of friends, including Zoey, a Barbadian TV producer who dropped in at least once a month, and her roommate’s circle often included a black boyfriend.
    â€œI was telling my mother,” Penny had commented after starting an affair with a Nigerian engineer, “that it’s a different time and place. People are just people, for God’s sake.”
    Sarah had nodded but hadn’t been sure how she felt about it herself. She had nothing against black men per se, but they didn’t start the adrenaline rushing for her. At the bottom of it, she thought, was the awkwardness of cultural differences, even if it was a new day. It was enough of a nuisance meshing with any boyfriend, much less one who ate strange food and had a mother you couldn’t understand.
    Somewhere between pounding her pillow and laying her head on it, Sarah decided that part of the reason she’d accepted Roper’s invitation was that Naomi had confirmed that he had a lovely home and a live-in girlfriend. He was middle class and she was safe. No, she was not having a relationship with anyone in Jamaica. It was definitely not in the cards.

CHAPTER NINE
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    I t was no secret that Daniel Caines had become a tourist, had gone to see the lagoon at Blue Hole, had shopped in the Ocho Rios craft market and gone into the underground caves in St. Ann, according to his reports to Eric. It was also no secret that he was having a nightly romp with Janet. By way of announcing it, the seamstress was now hanging on to his arm wherever he went, and Eric had more than once imagined the woman’s rounded buttocks pounding up and down on Caines.
    When the investor and his girlfriend had come into the bar one night, the man almost luminescent, like he’d just had a monstrous orgasm followed by a hot shower, Eric had decided that he better move things along at a faster clip, since Caines clearly had too much free time. The next morning he’d called Horace MacKenzie to set up their meeting.
    The meeting with Lambert Delgado the week before had gone well. Eric and Caines had walked up the Delgados’ driveway to that meeting, between the mango and grapefruit