Chapter 19 Good Hands
Good Hands
The fishing village sprawled out below Emma like something from a postcard—except postcards never captured the aroma of sun-dried fish or the chorus of chickens arguing over scraps. She picked her way down the sandy path, her operational brain already sorting details by use and priority.
Old wooden skiffs rested half-buried in sand; some still seaworthy, others were clearly retired. Nets hung from weathered poles, their shadows making lace patterns on the ground.
Where might the daycare fit... perhaps on the eastern edge, where a banyan tree’s shade would keep children cool.
Her mind was mid-calculation when she heard Ana-Luz’s voice.
The older woman sat in a carved wood chair beneath a massive banyan, its aerial roots creating a natural amphitheater. A dozen children ringed her feet, ranging from toddlers to ten or eleven. Their faces tilted upward with the rapt attention Emma usually saw only when someone handed out candy.
“...the Red Veil. Fierce as a hurricane; sharp as a shark’s smile,” Ana-Luz said, her hands weaving shapes in the air. “…she carried a stone, gifted by the island itself. Not a weapon. A promise.”
Emma slowed, not wanting to interrupt. One little girl leaned so far forward she was practically in Ana-Luz’s lap.
A boy clutched his knees, eyes wide. Behind them, bright laundry snapped and billowed in the wind—yellows, pinks, and oranges that seemed to absorb the island’s vitality and throw it back doubled.
Emma’s attention drifted back to the village. Twelve visible homes, most with corrugated metal roofs that would drum beautifully in rain but probably turned the interiors into ovens by midday. The buildings appeared to be in decent shape overall, though two needed obvious roof repairs.
Did running water reach this far, or did they rely on wells? She must remember to ask about that. Infrastructure questions weren’t glamorous, but they mattered when you were trying to build something that worked.
She was sure the men would help the village if need be.
Legally, they owned the entire island, including the land the village stood on.
The village had never claimed homestead ownership rights from the government—no one knew it existed until Nick had the island surveyed.
Of course, Nick being Nick, he had them map out an area twice the size of their current plot and designated it for them.
His lawyers were working on creating a trust for the village's ownership.
The story ended with a flourish. Ana-Luz clapped her hands once, and the children scattered like startled birds, laughing and shouting fragments of the tale back to each other.
Ana-Luz looked over at Emma, her weathered face creasing into a smile that suggested she’d known Emma was there the entire time.
“Ah.” She rose with surprising grace for someone who’d been seated on a hard wooden chair. “The island sends you when it is ready.”
Emma laughed, descending the last few steps onto level sand. “Pretty sure I got hungry and remembered that you invited me for lunch.”
“Mm.” Ana-Luz’s eyes glittered with something that might be humor or might be secrets. “Same thing.”
Emma blinked, unsure how to respond.
A commotion erupted near the water. A fisherman—sixty-something, skin like leather—was half-dragging, half-carrying a younger man up from the beach. The younger one’s face twisted in pain as he clutched his foot with one hand.
Emma’s body moved before her brain caught up—the same instinct that kicked in whenever someone collapsed during a hiring event or there was a kitchen fire. She was rushing toward them, running through mental protocols: assess, stabilize, call for help.
“Lionfish.” The older fisherman spoke through gritted teeth, easing the young man—nephew or son, maybe—onto a weathered bench. “Mi sobrino stepped right on it.”
His foot was swelling, and angry red lines spread from a cluster of puncture wounds. He was breathing fast, shallow. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the ocean breeze.
“I’ll get a first aid kit,” Emma turned back. To where? The resort was a twenty-minute walk. The village must have something.
“No.” Ana-Luz stopped her with a firm hand on her elbow. “You'll help me.”
Emma blinked. “I don’t know—”
“You will.” Ana-Luz strode toward one of the nearby houses, gesturing for her to follow.
Everything in Emma wanted to take charge, to fix this the way she’d fix anything else—fast, efficient, by-the-book. However, something in Ana-Luz’s tone made her swallow the impulse.
Inside the house—one room, spotless, herbs hanging from rafters—Ana-Luz gathered items with practiced efficiency. A clay bowl. Several bundles of plants Emma couldn’t identify. A small pot.
“First,” Ana-Luz was already moving back outside. “Hot water, very hot. It breaks the venom sting.” She handed Emma the pot and pointed toward a fire pit where embers glowed. “Not boiling. Just before.”
Emma filled the pot from a rain barrel and set it over the fire. Her hands were steady, but her mind was racing, cataloging every step. The young man groaned as his uncle murmured reassurances in Spanish.
“Good. Now you soak the cloth.” Ana-Luz said when the water steamed.
Ana-Luz gave her a clean rag. Emma dipped it in the hot water—testing the temperature first—just shy of boiling—and wrung it out. Steam rose from her hands.
“Apply it. Hold it there until he stops shaking.”
Emma pressed the cloth to the young man’s foot. He hissed through his teeth, but didn’t pull away. She kept her hand steady, maintaining gentle pressure.
“While we wait, we make the medicine.” Ana-Luz said.
She crushed herbs between her palms—the scent sharp and green, like rosemary but earthier. Mixed them with something darker, mashed berries, almost black. Added a few drops of oil that had a medicinal bite. Her movements were precise, economical. No wasted motion.
“This,” Ana-Luz indicated the dark berries, “pulls the venom toward the surface. This,” the green one, “stops the swelling. Both grow here on the island. The oil—it helps bind the mixture. Not necessary, but good to have. You understand?”
Emma nodded, watching closely. She’d done a wilderness first aid course once, but lionfish hadn’t been covered.
The young man’s shaking eased after a minute or two.
“Good,” Ana-Luz said. “Now the poultice. Spread it thick. All the punctures.”
Emma scooped the herb paste onto her fingers. It was warm and gritty. She worked it over each puncture, covering them completely. His breathing was already slowing, the panic leaving his eyes.
“Wrap it.” Ana-Luz handed her a length of clean cotton. “Not too tight. It must breathe.”
Emma wound the bandage around his foot, keeping it snug but not constricting. She tied it off with a knot she learned at summer camp a lifetime ago, when her biggest concern had been friendship bracelets and winning at Capture the Flag.
When she sat back, Ana-Luz was watching her with an expression Emma couldn’t quite read.
“Good hands,” the older woman said. “You listen.”
Something warm and unexpected bloomed in Emma’s chest. It felt like approval, but deeper than that. Like being seen.
Emma rinsed her hands in a basin of cool water, scrubbing away the last traces of crushed herbs. Her mind was already shifting forward, slotting what she’d learned into a broader framework—resort safety, training protocols, contingencies.
She glanced out toward the water, where the horizon stretched calm and endless. “The storm that's coming,” she said, drying her hands on a clean cloth. “The hurricane—how bad does it get here in the village?”
Ana-Luz followed her gaze, expression unreadable. “Sometimes it passes like a loud argument. Sometimes it lingers and breaks things.”
Emma nodded, filing that away. “If it strengthens,” she continued, tone practical, not alarmist, “does everyone evacuate? Or shelter in place?”
A flicker of interest crossed Ana-Luz’s face—approval, maybe. “We have our ways,” the older woman said. “Some go inland. Some stay. Depends on the storm, depends on the sea.”
Emma considered the structures again—the roofs, the elevation, the distance from the shoreline.
“If you need anything,” she met Ana-Luz’s eyes now, steady and sincere, “transport, supplies, assistance—I can coordinate support from the resort. Quietly, if you prefer.”
Ana-Luz studied her for a long moment, something deeper moving behind her eyes. “You think ahead,” she said finally.
“I plan,” Emma corrected with a smile.
“Mm.” The hint of approval returned. “The island likes those who plan. They are easier to keep alive.”
The young man’s uncle clapped Emma on the shoulder hard enough to make her stumble. “Gracias, senorita. Muchas gracias.”
“It was Ana-Luz—”
“T’was both,” Ana-Luz interrupted. “Come. We eat now.”
Lunch was simple: grilled red snapper that flaked apart at the touch of a fork, mashed cassava with coconut milk, sweet plantains blackened at the edges. They ate at a rough wooden table under the banyan tree, and Emma couldn’t remember the last time anything tasted this fresh.
“This is incredible,” she said, swallowing a mouthful of fish.
Ana-Luz waved the praise away like it was nothing. “The ocean and the land give what is needed when one is respectful.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a while.
Emma watched the village move around them—children playing some game that involved a lot of running and shrieking, women hanging laundry, men repairing a fishing net.
The resort was beautiful, state-of-the-art, and impressive, but the village had a heartbeat.
“The coin I gave you,” Ana-Luz said suddenly, her voice casual in a way that made Emma’s instincts prick up, “do you still have it?”
Emma hesitated. The question sounded loaded somehow, though she couldn’t say why. She reached into her bag and pulled out the small drawstring pouch where she kept it. The metal was warm against her palm as she handed it across.
Ana-Luz studied it in silence. Her thumb traced the spiral pattern. The elder closed her eyes for a moment, and her expression shifted into something thoughtful, almost grave.
She passed it back. “Keep it close. Keep it with you.”
Emma turned the coin over in her fingers, feeling the weight. “Is there a story about this one? Like the one you were telling the children?”
“Many stories,” Ana-Luz’s smile was cryptic. “But stories are only useful when you are ready to understand them.”
Ana-Luz rose and disappeared into her house before Emma could push—and she wanted to push, wanted to dig beneath the surface the way she always did.
She returned carrying a glass bottle sealed with a cork. The liquid inside was deep amber, almost glowing in the afternoon light. Citrus slices floated, suspended, perfect as specimens.
“For you,” Ana-Luz pressed the bottle into Emma’s hands. “My own rum punch.”
Emma laughed. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“It is for sharing.” Ana-Luz’s eyes sparkled. A sly smile that was pure mischief appeared. “Perhaps with your tall warrior.”
Emma choked on air. When had Ana-Luz seen her with Zach? “He’s not—he’s not mine. Zach is just—we’re colleagues. We work together. That’s all.”
“Mm-hmm.” Ana-Luz looked unconcerned by her denial.
“I’m serious. He barely tolerates me.”
“The man who watches you like you might disappear?” Ana-Luz shook her head, eyes dancing with mirth. “Yes, very barely.”
Heat flooded Emma’s cheeks. “That’s not—you don’t understand, he’s protective of the resort and I’m part of—”
Oh, shit. She hadn't told anyone she was coming here. Zach was going to kill her when he found out she'd come alone.
“You tell yourself what you need to.” Ana-Luz patted her arm, eyes twinkling. “But the island knows.”
Emma left with her cheeks burning, the bottle of rum punch warm in her bag, and a smile tugging at her lips despite her trepidation over Zach's reaction.
The walk back to the resort took her along a maintenance path that skirted the property’s eastern edge. Palms rustled overhead, their fronds casting shifting shadows on the packed earth.
Emma’s mind was still half in the village, reviewing what she’d learned: the lionfish treatment might be useful for the resort’s safety protocols.
Perhaps Ana-Luz would be willing to teach the lifeguards.
And the boat captains. Of course, most of them were from surrounding islands, so they might already know.
A man in a green maintenance shirt trimmed vegetation beside the trail. Her stride didn’t falter. He was about forty feet ahead, bent over a wheelbarrow, clippers in hand. She gave him a polite nod as she passed. He nodded back.
She kept walking. Five steps. Ten.
Something nagged at the back of her mind. A splinter of wrong. Emma slowed. She knew her staff. Every one of them. He hadn’t looked familiar.
A subcontractor? They contracted with several local companies for specialized work. But the maintenance contracts were all finalized. She approved them herself.
Maybe new. Maybe temporary—except she reviewed hiring paperwork just yesterday. No new groundskeepers.
The certainty settled in her gut like a stone.
No, she didn’t recognize him. Emma turned around. The path stretched empty behind her. No man. No wheelbarrow. No clippers. Only rustling palms and dappled sunlight, and the distant sound of waves.
She stood perfectly still for a long moment; her pulse ticking up despite her best efforts to stay calm.
He went into the trees. Or stepped out of sight.
Maybe.
Emma’s instincts—the same ones that helped her excel at hiring, helped her read people and catch inconsistencies in backgrounds—said otherwise.
She started walking again, faster now, her hand finding the coin in her pocket.
As the resort’s buildings came into view, she made her decision. She’d tell Zach. Not panic. Not overreact. Just inform him professionally that something felt off. That was his job, after all. Security.
And if Ana-Luz’s words kept echoing in her head—‘the island protects those who care for it’—well, Emma was practical enough to take protection wherever she could get it.
Even if she didn’t entirely believe in folklore.
Yet.