SEBASTIAN
As I’m not sure how early to head over to Lana at the shop, I load my tool kit into my truck, and decide to grab some coffee and pastries for breakfast first.
I know Lana loves traditional Bahamian pineapple tarts -- her grandmother used to make them as a special treat when we were younger -- but they’re not something sold in the local coffee shop. Still, I ask the owner, Deborah, if there's anything similar, she can make.
“I have tarts ready to be finished with fruit. If you can get me some pineapple, I can whip something up.”
“Sure, I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” I say, then leave the coffee shop in a hurry. There’s a grocery store on the next corner, and I’m hopeful they’ll have something for me.
Thankfully, there’s plenty of canned pineapple, so I buy a couple tins and race back to Deborah at the coffee shop.
She smiles as I give her the canned pineapple. “Who are you trying to impress then, Sebastian Braddock?” she asks, as she strains the juice, then mixes the pineapple with sugar and spices.
I laugh at being caught out so easily. “They’re for Lana Cooper. I’m helping her with renovations this morning.”
“I heard she is back in town. It’s such a shame about dear old Delia, she was a lovely woman. Please give Lana my best wishes,” Deborah says as she finishes the tarts and slides two into a paper bag.
Along with the tarts, I buy two coffees, and then make my way across town to what used to be the gift shop but will soon be an art gallery and studio.
When I arrive at the shop, it’s about ten in the morning, and I can see all the doors and windows are open, as Lana works. She has music blasting, and is once again wearing paint-stained overalls, and her hair covered with a scarf.
This is the Lana I remember from our late teens -- completely absorbed in what she’s doing, and oblivious to the world around her. All that’s missing is a paintbrush in her hands. Instead, she has an electric wall sander, and is removing the peeling paint from the walls.
“Lana!” I call out, but she doesn’t hear me over the sound of the music and the sander. I try again, only louder, but I still don’t get her attention.
Finally, I move closer and tap her shoulder.
Lana screams and drops the sander. Her eyes are wide, and I can see from the movements of her chest that she’s breathing heavily.
“God Sebastian, don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, adopting a soft tone.
I take a few steps back and place the coffee and pastries on a nearby table.
Lana never used to be this skittish. There were so many times when we were younger that she’d be so absorbed in what she’s doing that I’d have to tap her shoulder or something.
This different response makes me wonder what’s happened in the five years we’ve been apart that’s made her so jumpy.
Lana lets out a long breath. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bitten your head off like that. I bet you’d been calling my name for ages … I know I get lost in what I’m doing, but for future reference, can you make your presence known in a different way than tapping me, please?”
“Of course. I’m sorry if I scared you.” I want to ask more, but I sense from Lana’s body language not to press the issue, so instead, to lighten the mood I say, “I bought coffee and pastries.”
Lana glances to where I've left the offerings on the table, a smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t suppose there’s a pineapple tart in there?”
“Actually, yes. I asked Deborah at the coffee shop to make some especially for you.”
Lana’s smile morphs into a full-on grin, and she reaches for the paper bag. She takes out the pineapple tart and takes a bite, savoring it slowly.
“How is it?” I ask after she’s swallowed her first bite.
“Hmm … not as good as Nana’s, but for a non-Caribbean shop, pretty good. It needs some more brown sugar and allspice, and I’m pretty sure this is canned pineapple.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her analysis. “Well, Deborah at the coffee shop did have to whip it up on the spur of the moment.”
Lana takes another bite, then says, “I know, and I appreciate her effort. And yours for thinking to ask her to make it especially.”
“Anything to see you smile like you are,” I say, helping myself to the other tart.
It really is quite good. Like Lana said, not as good as her grandmother’s, but for something made on short notice, it’s delicious.
Deborah knows her stuff when it comes to baking, so the tart crust is cooked perfectly, with the right amount of crunch, and the custard filling is rich and creamy.
The pineapple is nice, but Lana is right, it’s lacking brown sugar and allspice.
Still, as I gaze over at Lana, who licks her fingers and picks up one of the coffees, I know the mad-dash I made to the grocery store to buy canned pineapple was all worth it.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” I ask, as I pick up the other coffee, and take a sip.
“I’m sanding the walls to prepare for painting. I was wondering If you could dismantle the old counter, and take it to the waste disposal and recycling center, please? Then we should be ready to paint.”
“Can do. I’ll just grab my tools,” I say, throwing my empty coffee cup in the trash bag Lana has on hand.
When I get back from my truck, Lana has the music on again, and is once again sanding the walls, so I get to work.
For as long as I’ve known Lana, and the shop, there’s been a large, wooden counter in the middle of the back wall, just by the door leading to the storeroom.
When Delia was alive, this is where she’d serve all the customers from, and she had a till, and chair set up.
Those things have been removed now, and all that remains is the walnut counter.
It’s old, and dark, and has seen better days.
I understand why Lana wants to get rid of it, especially if she plans for a fresh, modern look in the gallery.
It takes longer than I imagined to remove the walnut counter.
Not only was it well made and affixed to the floor over thirty years ago when it was installed, but it has had years of grime added to it, fixing it in place.
Eventually I manage to pry it apart, and remove it from the wall and floor, leaving untouched, stark white space where it used to be.
With everything removed, I start loading the old wood into my truck, and then, when it’s done, I try to get Lana’s attention.
Not wanting to startle her again like I did earlier, I switch off the music, and then cut the power to the sander.
That’s enough for her to know what’s going on, and she turns to me with a small smile.
“Thanks for not scaring me half to death this time,” she says with a wry chuckle.
The way her eyes darken lets me know something happened in the last five years, but again, I don’t push.
Lana will tell me when she’s ready. She turns around to see I’ve finished removing the counter, and smiles.
“Wow. You did a great job with that. Thank you.”
“No problem. I’m going to take the old wood to the waste disposal and recycling center. Do you want me to grab some lunch on the way back?”
“Oh, yes please. Do you think you can persuade Deborah to make another pineapple tart?”
We both laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. What else do you want?”
“You know me, I’ll eat pretty much anything. Just whatever Deborah has ready. I’ll clean the area where the counter was while you’re out, and then after lunch, we can start painting.”
“Sounds good.”
I leave Lana in the shop, who turns the music back on, but instead of reaching for the sander, gets a mop and bucket to clean the area where I removed the counter from.
After I take the old wood to the local waste disposal and recycling center, I head to the coffee shop.
“Back again?” Deborah asks with a smile as I enter.
“Yeah, I’ve come by to grab some lunch. Lana wants to know if you can make her other pineapple tart, too, please?”
Deborah laughs. “Yeah, we have some pineapple left, and some tarts have just come out of the oven.”
As Deborah finishes off the tarts, I browse the sandwiches. As it’s almost the end of the lunch period, there are only a few offerings left, but I grab a tuna salad baguette, and Piri Piri chicken wrap, figuring I’ll let Lana pick which of the two she wants.
When the tarts are ready, Deborah rings them up, along with the sandwiches, as well as two coffees and two bottles of soda.
When I return to the shop, I see Lana has cleaned the area where the counter used to be, as well as laying down a drop cloth on the floor, so we can begin painting after we’ve eaten.
I join her in the center of the room, where she’s set up a makeshift table.
“I asked Deborah to make some more pineapple tarts,” I say, placing the lunch things down on the table. “There’s also a tuna salad baguette, or a Peri Peri chicken wrap. The choice is yours.”
“I’ll take the tuna, thanks,” Lana replies, reaching for it.
I settle on an upturned crate and take the wrap out of its package.
“What’s the plan for here then?” I ask as we eat.
“I want to paint all the walls white, and all the trim black,” Lana replies, gesturing to the cans of paint nearby. “I have some rollers for the high spots.”
“Do you want me to do those, as I’m taller, and you can do the trim and stuff?”
“Sounds good to me. We should be able to get the first coat done before I have to go out, then it can dry overnight, ready for tomorrow.”
“All right. I won’t be able to help out tomorrow, though, I’m afraid. I have a booking -- it’s some girl's birthday, and she wants to go horse riding. Then I think she and her family are having a special lunch at the resort after.”
“Sounds like fun. I’d love to go for a ride with you sometime,” Lana says.
I bite down the obvious innuendo, and instead say, “I’m free this weekend, if you want? We could take a picnic and--”
Lana shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t do weekends. I have something I need to do.”
A tension forms between us, and I’m not quite sure what I've said or done wrong. Trying to defuse the situation, I say, “It’s fine. Just let me know when you’re free.”
“Sure,” Lana replies, standing from the stool she’s been sitting on to collect the rubbish from lunch. “Let’s get back to it.”
I quickly eat my pineapple tart, and wash it down with a mouthful of soda, and then help Lana as she loads up the paint trays.
We start on opposite walls, so we won’t get in each other’s way as we paint. Lana turns the music back on, and we both get lost in our own thoughts as we paint.
When we cross paths at the point where the counter used to be, I accidentally step in the tray of black paint, sending it splattering across Lana’s chest.
“Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” she teases, mischief shimmering in her eyes, and she flicks her brush at me, covering my abdomen in paint.