Chapter One
Queen of the Caribbees
Thursday morning…
For twenty-six-year-old Soleil Stancliffe, a flight out of JFK usually meant another whirlwind fashion week in Tokyo or Milan, a luxury brand launch in Paris, or a fitting in L.A. Today, however, she was destined for Nevis, a Caribbean island that had, until now, lived only in her imagination.
As the jet sliced through a bright blue sky streaked with wispy clouds, Soleil slipped her headphones from her ears to her neck, stretched her legs out in front of her, raised her arms above her head, and arched her back in a slow, languid curve.
She reached for her phone on the polished table in front of her and checked her reflection in the camera.
Her shoulder-length brown curls were behaving, neatly framing her impeccable oval face, her gold hoops caught the morning sunlight streaming into the cabin, and her large, brown, almond-shaped eyes were surprisingly clear and alert for someone who’d had less than three hours sleep last night.
She set her phone back on the table and glanced around the cabin.
Plush, beige leather seats gleamed under recessed lights, mahogany accents lined the walls, a dark blue carpet covered the floor, and all around her, the melodic Nevisian accent rose and fell like gentle waves between the hushed conversations of her fellow travelers.
It may have been Soleil’s first time visiting Nevis, but the rest of the private jet’s passenger manifest included seventeen distinguished and renowned native Nevisians, all flying chartered, compliments of the Nevis government.
When Soleil had boarded the sleek Bombardier Global Express this morning, excitement about visiting her grandfather’s homeland had been overwhelming.
As Nevis’ recently appointed Tourism Ambassador, she was nervous about how she would be received in the sister-island nation––especially having never been there before.
Yet, as soon as the cabin pressure equalized and the twin engines settled into their powerful drone over the Eastern Seaboard, the litany of tasks in the back of her mind rushed to the forefront, and her workaholic nature took center stage.
After slipping on her noise-canceling headphones, she’d spent the better part of four hours writing emails, editing last week’s video for her fashion and lifestyle vlog, and negotiating the terms of her next brand collaboration––a potential two-year deal with Sable, a luxury clothing company by Harlem native, Claudia Davenport.
She owed that amazing opportunity to a chance meeting with Lena Harrington, an Oscar-winning actress, Hollywood’s It girl, and now a close friend.
When they were introduced at a party in Pacific Palisades last summer, Lena had been more star-struck than Soleil––having watched Soleil’s cringe-worthy vlogs when she was just a naive sixteen-year-old with too much time on her hands.
Those early outfit-of-the-day and makeup tutorials she’d filmed in her bedroom for her ten subscribers––six of whom were family––had been the beginning of a journey that had since taken Soleil around the world, and into rooms she’d never even known existed.
Today, her award-winning weekly vlog had just shy of two million subscribers, with a combined five-million followers across her social media platforms. She had been an ambassador for major luxury brands, collaborated on two clothing lines with Alexa Arlington, a young Black designer from Houston who had a flair for the dramatic and a love of color, and spent a season consulting with Dutch-American designer Janneke Delacruz, who used dye from plants found in her Dutch grandmother’s garden.
Her monthly podcast featured the hottest movers and makers in the fashion and entertainment industries, and now, thanks to Lena, Soleil could add ‘celebrity stylist’ to her list of achievements.
As Soleil looked around the cabin at the other passengers, she realized that even this flight was a real pinch-me moment––to be in the company of Nevis’ best and brightest. There was seventy-four-year-old Melvina Brown, a revered Emmy and Tony-Award-winning actress, and The Honorable Charles Mottley, the distinguished Consul General stationed at the consulate in New York, his wife, and their two children.
Wrapped in a cashmere blanket––her long legs stretched into the center aisle as she slept––was international track and field superstar and two-time Olympic medalist Janelle Hanley, and calming sketching various parts of the human anatomy in a pink, leather-bound notebook was Dr. Mathilda France, a renowned cardiovascular surgeon at Mount Sinai Hospital.
Ten years of sweat and tears, and never taking ‘no’ for an answer, had brought her to this moment––an all-expenses paid trip to her grandad’s homeland.
Satisfied with the dent she’d made in her workload for the day, and with her email inbox mostly cleared, and her DMs answered––for now––Soleil pulled her headphones from around her neck, snapped her laptop shut, and tucked them both into her tote.
She glanced at Zuri Johnson––her best friend and personal assistant––stirring in the seat beside her––her shoulder length box braids framing her smooth round face and small brown eyes.
Soon after take-off, Zuri, mom to an eight-month-old baby girl, had fallen––almost immediately––into a deep, much-needed sleep, and was just now coming back to life.
“Oh my gosh, I don’t think I’ve slept that good in months.” Zuri stretched her arms and back, and let out a long yawn.
“Zarina still keeping you up all night?”
Zuri sat up straight. “Girl, it’s her little baby teeth that are keeping both of us up. All of this drama just for them to fall out in a few years… And of course, most nights Kyree just sleeps right through it all.”
“That’s just because he knows you’ll get up, so he doesn’t.”
“Well, for the next twelve days he’s on his own. I bet she’s going to act like a perfect little angel while I’m gone.”
“Hey, watch how you talk about my goddaughter. She is always the perfect little angel.”
“Uh-huh. So the next time she’s screaming at three a.m., I’ll just bring her over to your place?”
Soleil tapped her chin with her perfectly manicured index finger. “Oh gosh. Sorry, I’d love to, but I think I’ll have plans that night.”
Zuri chuckled lazily, her full breasts looking taut and heavy against the hooded top of her thin, ivory sweatsuit. “Oo.” She grasped one gently, wincing.
“Ouch… You need to pump?”
Zuri checked the time on her gold watch.
“Right on schedule, too. It’s like I can still hear her crying all the way from Queens.
” Zuri reached for her bag on the seat opposite them.
“At least this trip is the perfect excuse to get Z off the boob for good ‘cuz this mommy is done with being a milk maid.” Zuri pulled her tote onto her lap and rummaged through it for her breast pump.
She eventually found it, and looked up just as Melissa, one of the two flight attendants passed by with an empty tray.
“Excuse me,” Zuri asked sweetly. “How long until we land?”
“Roughly twenty minutes, Ms. Johnson. Is there anything I can get you before arrival?”
“Just point me to the bathroom,” she said, holding up her Teat Treat case.
Melissa smiled with understanding. “Oh honey, you don’t want to do that in the bathroom. Why don’t you go up front? Deirdre and I have a seat just before the cockpit on the left. You can get comfortable and pull the curtain closed for some privacy.”
“That’s so sweet, but are you sure? I don’t mind using the bathroom. I’m sure I’ve pumped in worse places.”
“Of course I’m sure.” Melissa winked. “Us moms have to help each other whenever we can.”
“My thoughts exactly!” Zuri stood and side-stepped into the aisle. “Thanks so much,” she said, touching Melissa on the shoulder, then heading to the front of the aircraft.
Melissa leaned gracefully over the table for Soleil’s empty glass. “Would you like another sparkling water, Ms. Stancliffe?”
Soleil nudged her chin toward Dr. France and her husband, Gary, seated across the aisle, and the bottles on their tables whose labels she didn’t recognize. “What are they drinking?”
“Oh, those are some local Caribbean sodas. The Mottley’s had them brought on board as a welcome gift.
Would you like one? The Ting is like a grapefruit soda, the Peardrella is a little sweeter and––well, it tastes like pears, of course.
And we also have Vita Malt––it’s… Well, I don’t really know how to describe it.
It’s very dark, and thick…like the Guinness of soft drinks. ”
The Guinness of beers had never appealed to Soleil much, and she’d never had much of a sweet tooth, especially not this early in the day. “I think I’ll try the Ting.”
A minute later, Melissa returned with her drink. A wave of tropical citrus aroma hit Soleil as she poured it into an ice-filled glass, and placed it on the table.
Soleil took a sip––the effervescence tickling her tongue, and sending a small, unexpected thrill running through her. Her first taste of Nevis, and it was full of promise.
With the cold glass in her hand, Soleil looked out the window.
They were passing through a cloud, its ethereal mist momentarily obscuring the view, then parting to reveal a vast, cerulean landscape dotted with emerald jewels.
Islands. Probably Anguilla, St. Martin, or St. Barths, she surmised, having explored various maps of the Caribbean countless times since she was a child.
For years, Soleil had yearned to understand more about the island.
Her grandad, Harold Stancliffe, was the enigma at the heart of her interest. Born in Nevis in 1949, he had left the island for Harlem when he was just twenty-one years old.
It was there, seven years later, amidst the vibrant pulse of Black artistry and culture, that he’d met Soleil’s grandmother, Alice, a fierce and loving native New Yorker.