The Sea Grape Tree by Gillian Royes Page B

trees, with Eric again describing his swim across when the eye of the hurricane was passing over and dragging himself up onto Lambert’s verandah, “naked as a baby,” and pounding on the door. Caines had only murmured, “Hmm,” his eyes roaming over the modern, plantation-style house before them.
    They’d finally arrived, with a fair amount of panting on Eric’s part, at two minutes after eleven, the appointed time. Lambert, large and beige, had come through the elegant living room with arms extended to his visitors, welcoming them. He apologized for not making it to the party. He’d been in Kingston buying lumber, he said.
    The middle-aged contractor was Eric’s best friend. Apart from sheltering the homeless hotel owner during the hurricane, Lambert had given him a room to live in for a year after, before the bar and apartment were built. He’d let Eric’s son, Joseph, use an office in the house when he came to write the business proposal. And now he was giving his services as contractor for the new hotel at a major discount—as a gift to Largo, he said.
    After the introductions, Eric, Lambert, and Danny had moved to the long verandah and its white rocking chairs and were served Red Stripe beers by Miss Bertha, the chunky housekeeper whose hips just fit into her plaid uniform.
    â€œYou don’t come up here for a long time,” she’d teased Eric. “Now that your son is gone, you scarce as good gold.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Miss Bertha, you going to have plenty chance to see me,” Eric had answered in his American patois. “When we start building, you see me every day.”
    An easy icebreaker came up at the start of the meeting: the city of New York. All three men had lived there at some point. And although Lambert and Danny had lived there in different decades, they acted like they shared something that Eric didn’t, and he knew it was that they had both been Caribbean men struggling through college in a big white city. Eric had joined in the discussion about living in Manhattan in the seventies and eighties, referring to the Village as if he’d gone there often, careful not to mention that he’d never attended university and had lived a very different life from theirs.
    Having warmed up to the matter at hand, Lambert had run his fingers across his handlebar mustache. “How long are you planning to be here?” he’d said, nodding to Caines.
    â€œIt’s kind of a working holiday, so I’d say another couple weeks. I want to get to know Jamaica better if I’m going to make an investment here, you know. I’ve been visiting places, reading up about stuff—about the economy, the recent election.”
    â€œAnd you know we have political confusion, right?” Lambert joked, winking at Eric. “But I bet you never read about the time it takes to get government approvals—”
    â€œI heard about that.”
    â€œThen you’d better plan to stay another month, my friend, because we need to get permits from the Parish Council here, and we have to attend several meetings to justify the construction. I really think you should be here for that. The Council will want to ask you about your businesses overseas.”
    â€œI don’t know—it’s been difficult connecting with my business, what with poor cell phone coverage here and Miss Mac not being on the Internet. My mother is handling everything back home, but I like to stay in touch. I may have to come and go.”
    â€œI’m telling you,” Lambert had assured him, “it takes the patience of Job to do business here, just bear that in mind.” By the time the meeting ended, Caines and Lambert were calling each other my man, had made a date to go out on the golf course, and were sounding more and more like black Americans.
    In contrast to the visit with Lambert, the meeting with Horace went poorly from the beginning.