9
Nina
I fell backward andlanded with a heavy thud onto the damp sand. The scent of seaweed, of sea life, of salt, floated on the soft morning wind blowing off the surface of the blue waters.
“Give up swimming, Adrian the fourth?” I asked, straining the words out with my heavy breathing.
“I will beat you, soon,” he said, muffled as he lay on the sand trying to settle his breathing too.
I laughed aloud and looked at Adrian, his morning shadow beard like short pins on his handsome jawline. His soft lips beckoned me as I remembered our kiss in the library. I turned away to watch the white frothy waves running up the soft powdery sand, leaving it golden and wet as the waves retreated to rejoin the blue ocean.
That morning the air smelled fresher than normal. I could see a tangle of seaweed out in the darker blue waters. We’d been plagued by masses of it sailing in and taking over the waters and the beaches up and down the Caribbean region—probably due to climate change. To erase this morbid thought I returned to the present and to the handsome man I’d just beaten in another swim meet.
“What shall we do today, Adrian? Since you’ve declared it a vacation day.”
“I want to spend the day with you. Every minute of it.” His voice was so low I had to strain my ears against the sound of the wind and the waves to hear him.
“Would you like to know the Nassau I know?” I asked, sober and quiet, veiling the excitement bubbling inside because I couldn’t wait to show off my island. There was more to Nassau than Skyford Cay and I would be the one to show him.
“Sure, if it allows me to spend time with you. I’m game.”
“What are we waiting for, then?” I jumped to my feet. “Let’s get ready. I am driving today. No driver. No Bentley. You are at my mercy, Adrian,” I warned, my body buzzing with excitement. I reached to grab his hand and helped him up off the sand.
“Okay, Ms. Bossy Pants,” he replied with an equal amount of farce. “Your way. Just for today.”
“Thank you for the spontaneous day off. Thank you for handling Chef Dominique with aplomb.”
“He certainly wasn’t a happy customer at the end.”
“You may have to take me to New York when you leave. Please don”t leave me out here with Chef Dominique,” I said.
“He’ll calm down.”
“Come,” he said, and pulled me by the hand to lead me onto the grounds and the path leading to my apartment.
This was beginning to feel too familiar.
Too good.
I walked with a spring in my step and a satisfied smile, ready to burst out into a joyful song.
Yes. I wanted to spend all of today with him. And every day after it.
But I don’t do forever. I don’t allow myself to fall in love.
****
I took him to all myfavorite places in Nassau. And the last place was for my favorite delicacy of all time.
“This is the place where the magic happens.”
The look which crossed Adrian”s face prompted me to take out my phone to snap a photo.
“Magic,” he murmured.
“Adrian, meet the conch salad bar,” I said laughing at the look he gave me. “Why the look? Are you not the new Marco Polo?” I laughed, teasing.
“You misinterpret my look. Because I have seen worse, and I have eaten worse.”
“What was your worse?”
“Crunchy cockroaches,” he said, wavering between serious and joking. In the end, his joking won and he rewarded me with a smooth sugar smile, and I quivered inside with warm gooey feelings.
“For real. Mudda sick!” I said, easily slipping into my favorite Bahamian expression most appropriate for this mess he’d described. “Sounds like a clip out of an Andrew Zimmerman show.”
“True, we could do a similar show in search of cockroaches and other delicacies.”
“No, sir. Pastry is my heartbeat. My love. My passion.”
“Can I not inspire you to travel? To try everything once.”
“I can. But cockroaches—I will pass.”
I walked up to the window to place our order. “Two conch salads to go, medium.”
Someone shuffled up to me, to my left. So close I pressed myself against the counter to get away from him. “If it isn’t Ms. High and Mighty,” he rasped. His words slurred. The stench of rum in his sweat was overpowering. I didn’t have to turn around. It was him. My grandmother’s stepbrother. Once upon a time, he lived with us. Then he had gone to prison.
“How is my beloved sister and the holier-than-God Bishop Nicodemus. Who names their child Nicodemus? And my sister thought she got herself the biggest catch in the sea,” he said, his slurring increased with each word he uttered.
I felt Adrian come up behind me. His presence became reassuring. I couldn’t bring myself to turn to address that poor excuse of a man standing next to me.
“Leave the girl alone,” the owner of the shack said.
“Who’s this white boy? You with her?” he asked Adrian. “You from around here? You look rich. Just like your father. Like father, like daughter. Going white. An island full of black men and you have to find a white boy.”
“Leave the girl alone. It’s her choice,” the shack owner hissed, coming to my defense again. This was island living at its best. Where my brother’s keeper is a real experience.
I wanted the earth to open and swallow me whole. But then I got angry. This man was behaving like I was responsible for his failure. His evil deeds had landed him in prison.
“Do you know she’s spoilt goods?” he shouted, foam and spittle flying from his lips onto my face. Before I could respond, Adrian’s hand connected with his jaw and he staggered back.
“Learn how to talk to a woman,” Adrian hissed to the drunk crumpled on the ground.
“I will sue you for every cent you have,” he shouted.
By then a small crowd had gathered, and they laughed at him.
“What trouble are you causing here, mister? I am calling Bishop Rolle right now to tell him you are harassing his granddaughter and her friend out here.” It was Sam, a deacon at my grandfather’s church, to our rescue. And it did the trick. He got up and scrambled away from the shack.
“Thank you, Sam,” I said, nodding my gratitude to him.
“That was a mean right hook, white boy,” Sam said.
Why was everyone calling him a white boy?
That annoyed me. That all they saw was his skin, his race. Our order arrived and I was relieved to be done. I took both containers—ready to cut and run. I was so ready to get back to Skyford Cay. As we crossed the parking lot, I replayed the scene in the shack and spun to face Adrian.
“Why did you hit him?” I demanded.
“What do you mean? Why? He was in your face, with his drunk fumes.”
“I could handle him,” I snapped, my anger bubbling like hot lava.
“Nina, you were frozen. Glued to the ground,” he said, his voice sharp and concerned.
“And you had to come to my rescue. And draw attention to yourself,” I said, unable to control the irrational anger I felt.
“Why are you upset?” he asked, with a calmness that did nothing to quell my out-of-control anger. I got angrier. “I could handle him,” I cried out.
“No, you couldn’t. I am bigger, stronger.”
“Yes, white boy,” I said, now as cold as ice.
“Why are you in a snitch over my being called a white boy and defending you? I am lost on the ocean here, Nina. Bring me back to shore.”
“Let’s just get back to Skyford Cay,” I said, too weary to carry on. We were outside my car. “Here, hold on to the salad with your life.” I got into the car, slammed my door, and waited for him to enter.
“Why are you angry, Nina?”
“Next time you are with me out in the streets, stay quiet. Say nothing. Do nothing.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I don’t want to defend myself and then defend you.”
“Defend me? How?” he said, and laughed.
“Didn’t you hear them? They were calling you white boy.”
“I heard.”
“It’s not an endearment. Two more seconds and I would have had to turn on all of them. I would’ve screamed if I’d heard the term ‘white boy’ one more time,” I screeched. I revved the car for our return drive to Skyford Cay.
I’d had enough Nassau reality to last me for a long time. My step-uncle dearest. The nerve of that man. Approaching me after what he did to me, my cousins, and several of the girls from church.
“This is more than me being called a white man. Isn’t it?” “That man upset you and I would like to know why.”
“The only thing I am doing now is driving us back to the mansion, behind the walls.”
“Nina,” he said, exasperated.
“In the islands, we don’t talk about things, we bury them.”
How am I going to deal with his tell-all American ways? Can I change? Can I embrace my American heritage more?
“Rule number one for us: we will talk about everything that concerns us. Our emotions. Our thoughts. Our needs. Our wants.”
“Us? I don’t see how there can be an us.”
Liar. He already owns your heart.
I looked at his face.
“I’m sorry Adrian. I promise just this once we will do it your wealthy white American way, when we get back to the house.”
He smiled, wide and brimming with indulgence, warmth, and concern, and my heart flipped over into a hundred somersaults. My vision blurred and I gripped the steering wheel with slippery hands to drive us back home. Yes. Home with Adrian.
Just maybe this trust fund boy and I were off to a great new beginning. One talk at a time.
****
Twenty minutes later, we made our way to Adrian’s private oceanfront terrace off his bedroom. Each of the six bedrooms had a private terrace; some oceanfront, the others overlooking the garden. His room opened to the pool and the panoramic view of the ocean. The ocean looked like a flat blue canvas with a border of splashed oranges and reds.
The perfect time to enjoy our conch salad with tall crystal glasses of Ting over crushed ice. I opened my container and smelled the seasoning: pepper, onions, chives and garlic.
“Aren’t you going to smell yours?” I said to Adrian with a small chuckle.
He took off his lid and proceeded to inhale the aromatic spices. “Smells good but don’t ask me to name what I smell.”
“I won”t,” I said, smiling while I watched him study his food. “But you spent a year in the Caribbean so you should have some idea.”
“I know Ting is a grapefruit drink from Jamaica.”
“Correct. You get full marks for your answer.”
He laughed one of his belly laughs. His laugh I love the most.
“Dig into your salad. No holding back.”
His fork went in and a piece of raw conch salad made it between his full lips.
“Hmmm, I like this Nina. I like the balance of flavors. I could eat this often.”
“So why haven’t you tried it before?”
“Lack of opportunity.”
“Nice answer, smart guy,” I said cheekily and leaned closer to him. He looked at me then, and my heart jumped at the sweetness in his eyes. At that moment I felt like forever wasn’t long enough to be with Adrian the fourth.
Once my salad was done, I walked to the ledge of the terrace to gaze at the gardens, the pool, and the ocean. The sun sank lower; the salty wind blew off the ocean, rustling branches of the tall coconut trees and palm trees.
Then I felt Adrian next to me.
“This island is so beautiful. But not as beautiful as you,” he said, sounding winded. His words and his proximity to me made my breath struggle for passage.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low and warm.
“Let me hold you. Let me hug you.” He drew me to him and he wrapped his arms around me.
“I want to hug you like this at least once every day for the rest of our lives. Just the two of us. No words. No talking. Just touching and feeling. Just letting our love seep into each other’s psyche. Love is a verb. It demands and invites practices. I vow to practice this with you, Nina, for all our days.”
“All our days, you said.”
Did this crazy rich white man know what he was saying? Was this where we progressed the relationship with another real talk. Relationship. What was I thinking? I didn’t do committed long term. Even though deep down I wanted all the bells and whistles and messes.
But we did need to have this conversation.
I stepped closer to Adrian. I touched his face and felt his light stubble of growth. Then I ruffled his dark wavy hair. He smiled at me and I smiled back. I took a deep breath to calm the swarming bees of anxiousness at the bottom of my belly. I shouldn’t have because I became acutely aware of the musk and spices of his own branded scent. It caressed my sensitive nostrils. I would never forget it. I wanted to smell this unique fragrance every day. But I cleared my throat, forcing my train of thought to get to the questions I’d been meaning to ask.
“Are you prepared for us?” I asked, forcing hardness into the question though I only wanted to melt into him and forget the world and our obligations.
“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled.
“Are you prepared for your children to have no real identity? Are you prepared for your children to straddle two worlds and never belong to any? For your children to be called exotic names, food names, colored names?”
“I see where you’re heading,” he murmured, his voice soft with concern.
I brushed off the concern I heard in his words and continued, “I have been called bright, fair skin, yellow, browning, mixed breed, interracial, mulatto, creole. I identify as black, as African American, as Bahamian. I know how hard it can be to fit in. How hard it can be to gain acceptance.”
I turned from the ledge and sat on the khaki-colored wicker chair with white cushions. He followed me, drawing the other chair right next to mine. He took my right hand into his. A light caress on the top of my hand caused a strip of heat on the back of my neck.
“I know what you are trying to do, Nina. You want to scare me off. But it won’t work. I won’t allow myself to fail this time around. I am hooked on you. For better and for worse.”
“You say that now. But I have to let you know exactly what it means to be me. Nina, the offspring of a black man and a white woman.”
I continued, “Even here in the Bahamas, I had to fight for acceptance. My long hair. My facial features. The color of my skin. I was ridiculed, judged, classified, categorized before I said a word. Because my grandparents are well known, I was further scrutinized for morals. Any wrong, perceived or actual, and I got the Aren’t you Bishop Rolle’s granddaughter?
“My cousins, Nicole and Nellie, also got the Bishop Rolle treatment. But they didn’t have to go through the identity wringer. Do you want your children to go through this their entire lives, Adrian? It’s a hard, complex question. I know love covers a multitude of sins. But for some sins, love’s effect can be no more than a band aid. It touches the surface but does not go to the root issues.
“Do you think you have the capacity to love my complex parts? They are complex, but they shaped me. They shaped my perspective of life. I know it is possible to love through all the complexity.”
He continued holding my hands. Then he brought both to his mouth and kissed the top of each, sending tremors through me. “I have the full capacity to love, Nina. Most of all I want to love all of you. I want to see all of you. To experience all of your complexities,” he said, his shoulders tense, his eyes sad and exhausted.
“Let me share more of my journey. I saw my father and mother model their love. They met at university. Two brilliant minds. From different races. From different nationalities. They told me numerous stories. My father said very early on he laid down one rule, there would be no dogs in the house. That was a deal-breaker for him. And my mother agreed.
“In the end, we stayed mostly in apartments so we never got pets. But my grandparents had guard dogs whose place was in the yard, which I didn’t mind. That is how I was raised, and I intend to follow the same. Would you concede to my no dog in the house rule,” I asked, my voice muted, my smile weak and watery.
“I would agree to anything to be with you.” He laughed, short and sharp.
“Adrian, have you heard anything?” I said. “These are serious matters.”
“I know this is serious. I had similar conversations with Aimee.” He continued to caress my hand, more to reassure himself than to reassure me. “I accept it would be difficult for us and our future children. Isn’t life built on difficulties? Isn’t life built on hard issues?”
“Are you a philosopher Adrian?”
He smiled and looked at me. His handsome face, soft, open, welcoming. I wanted to gaze into his eyes. Lose myself, my soul in the smooth blue pools.
“I have notebooks and journals with my jottings—my musings.”
“I knew it. I knew you were a writer.”
“Are you the same?”
I looked away to hide the smile spreading from my forehead to my chin.
“You are even more beautiful when you are trying to hide your smile.”
I chuckled—a little girl giggle. “I am guilty as charged,” I said and turned to reward him with my full-on smile.
“I love your smile, Nina. Your dimples come alive. Your eyes twinkle with the joy you are feeling. Your mouth softens. Your cheeks swell into very faint pink globes. At those moments all I want to do is to claim your joy with my lips fastened to yours. I know how soft they are.”
“Adrian, your words have power,” I said, husky and breathless. I walked to him and fastened my lips to his sweet, sweet, sweet lips.
Breathless minutes later. I trailed a lazy finger along his full bottom lip. “Are you sure you are pure? You have very full lips for a white man.” He threw back his head and laughed. Maybe I am not pure. My ancestors on both sides were slave owners. Anything is possible. And he kissed me again with his full lips against my fuller lips. I gave in to the sweet feelings, the racing heart, the tingling skin, the swelling parts.
Jesus. Please help me.
Were we getting hooked on each other?
Was he hooked on me, the baker?