31. Scarlett
Scarlett
By the time the landing gear kicks out of the Bale private jet, I am ready to kiss the ground below us. I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t eating ashwagandha gummies like fruit snacks because, thanks to a freak storm, the flight to the Bahamas was rough. And I mean rough.
“Maybe we should have checked the weather before choosing The Sea Pearl as our next stop,” Donovan says as we exit the plane. There is an Escalade ready to go, and Seb helps us into it before hopping into the driver’s seat.
“Cheese and rice, it is really coming down out there,” I say. I’m relieved that we are finally on solid ground, but considering the Bahamas is just a pretty speck in the middle of the ocean, I’m also still a little fearful that we may wash away.
“Saw the forecast,” Morgan says, slicking back his soaked hair and pulling his tablet out of his bag. “And that’s part of the reason I didn’t reschedule. The Pearl is in rough shape.”
“I’m seeing it,” Donovan says, also on his tablet. “Rolling blackouts, issues with the waterlines. It’s looking like a real shit show.”
“Yep,” Morgan sighs as Seb begins to drive away from the tarmac. “It’s probably a full-blown shelter in place.”
“So we’re walking into the storm…” I nod, preparing myself for what that looks like.
Honestly, it’s not my first time in a scary situation like this.
A couple of years ago I was in Southport, North Carolina for their famous Fourth of July festival, and it got rained out by a hurricane that swung up around the southeast. It was bad enough that it nearly wiped out the entire town, damaging several dockside businesses and restaurants and sweeping a few beach homes into the ocean too.
It’s part of travel, obviously. Visiting other places, you’re going to see the good and the bad.
But I always felt like it was worth the risk, terrifying as it may be.
An hour or so later, after braving the flooding roads in the dark, we pull up to the Sea Pearl Resort.
I’m sure in the daytime, when the weather is calm and the sun is shining, it’s probably a pretty gorgeous place to behold.
But right now, in the dark and the wind, with sheets of rain slapping against the white walls and palm trees thrashing around, it looks more like a haunted castle in a scary movie.
“Alright,” Morgan says. Seb hands each of us an umbrella. “Out of the frying pan–”
“And into the fire,” Donovan finishes the sentence.
And a fire it is. As soon as we enter the lobby, it’s swarming like a beehive with guests everywhere.
Most of them are on their phones, probably trying to figure out what to do, considering the power is out.
Front desk clerks and managers are doing crowd control, and housekeeping is working to provide people with towels and blankets.
“Where are we at?” Morgan asks as a man who I presume is the manager falls into step with us.
“No power, obviously. Limited water. It works in half the hotel, but not the rest. Water from the storm is flooding into the kitchen, and as you can see, through the main entrances. The doors won’t seal so we are–”
“Using towels to jam the doors,” Morgan answers.
“Yeah,” the man says. Then he turns to me. “I’m Anton.”
“Nice to meet you, Anton.” I smile at him. “I’m–”
“Scarlett Moore. MooreToExplore.” He smiles back, and despite the current crisis, it’s a real smile. “Yes, I know who you are. We follow you on Instagram. My wife and I love seeing your adventures.”
“Thank you.” I smile again.
“So people are swarming the lobby because…” Morgan cuts back in.
“Elevators are down, obviously,” Anton says.
“Anyone trapped in them?” he asks.
“Not that we know so far, though there is one caught between floors eleven and twelve on the east side. We have a mechanics crew and medics on it.”
Morgan nods once as his eyes sweep the room again. He’s deep in thought, evaluating the situation as a whole. And he’s surprisingly calm as he comes up with a game plan.
“Alright. I want housekeeping to provide everyone here with more blankets. Tend to the ones with children first, and anyone who looks to be over the age of sixty. Don’t cater to diamond members.
Cater to those who are in the greatest need.
I want the kitchen staff working on emergency packages, anything in the fridges and pantries that can be spared that doesn’t need to be cooked.
If the gas lines are safely running, cook it up.
The storm is projected to sweep through and then hook back up north east but there’s no telling right now how long it will hang out, so assume the worst. Every guest needs water, and I want the on sight medics making rounds here in the lobby as well as checking rooms. People could be trapped in the dark, afraid, and so on.
I am going to check on the elevator situation and talk to security.
Fear equals panic. Donovan, work with the front door security on keeping people away from the exits. ”
“What would you like me to do?” I ask, and for a moment, Morgan softens a little and places his hands on my arms with a squeeze. “Do what you do best. Talk to people. Keep them calm. Reassure them. The structure is sound, and it’s just a storm, not a hurricane. But people need to be calm.”
I nod, and he kisses me before walking towards the stairs.
“He’s a remarkable man when he wants to be,” Donovan says, and I nod. “Very much like his dad.”
Tears sting my eyes at that, and I’m momentarily curious about the full story.
But that’s going on the back burner for now.
I find a family of four, huddled in a corner.
It’s a couple around my age with a little girl who looks to be about four and an infant girl as well.
Both girls are fussing. The mom looks worried and tired.
Very, very tired, and the dad is trying to figure out what to do.
“Hello,” I approach them with an easy smile in the hopes of calming their stress. “I’m Scarlett. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Blankets would be amazing,” the man says.
“Housekeeping is handing them out down the hall,” I tell him. “Tell him you have two babies and you need towels as well.”
The man nods and heads in that direction. I proceed to sit with the mother.
“Here, baby,” she says to the toddler. “You have one more fruit pouch and then we don’t have anymore.”
“I think the kitchen has applesauce,” I tell her. “I’ll grab some for you.”
“That would be amazing,” the mom says, trying to smile though I can tell she’s on the verge of tears. “So much for our tropical family vacation.”
“The storm will pass,” I tell her. “You’ll be on the beach before you know it.”
“Pool?” The toddler asks. “Swim?”
“When it stops raining,” the mom tells her.
I head into the kitchen and find a couple packages of applesauce, some crackers, and charcuterie meat that the cooks are portioning out.
“Hey,” one of the guys says, pointing at me from the gas stove as he grills up several types of meat and fish. “Aren’t you that girl?”
“Easy, Donnie, she’s with the boss. The big boss,” another guy says.
“No, I mean from the travel blog,” he says, waving tongs in the air. “You post some amazing food.”
“I do,” I tell him. “I’m lucky.”
“Not so much right now,” he says. “I think the Bahamas is the last place anyone wants to be.”
I smile at that and grab a few more things for the family. “I can help distribute this after I help this family,” I say. “People need to eat.”
“They do,” the second guy agrees before handing me a sandwich.
“Oh no, guests first,” I tell him, but he just holds it out again.
“You are a guest, Miss Scarlettt. And people gotta eat.”
I smile again and take it from him. “Thank you.”
I take a bite and shove the rest in my messenger bag before meeting up with the woman and her babies again.
“You are a godsend,” she tells me.
“I’m happy to help,” I say. “Anything else you need?”
“I need to make a bottle,” she says, juggling the now wailing infant.
“Can you…?” She holds the baby out to me, and I take her, rocking her and shushing her in my arms as her mom mixes formula and bottled water into a bottle.
“Sorry she’s screaming at you. She’s going to be even more pissed when she realizes this isn’t warm. ”
“Crackers?” the toddler asks, and I hand her a couple from the package.
“You’re really good with her,” the woman says, and it takes me a moment to realize what she’s talking about. But then I see her eyes pointing at the still crying baby in my arms.
“Am I?” I chuckle nervously. “She doesn’t seem very happy.”
“She’s hungry. And a little spicy, to be honest. It’s the red hair. But you’re good at handling her. You hold her very naturally. Do you have kids?”
My heart slams against my chest at the question. “I, no, I don’t. Not yet…” I say, and she just smiles as she shakes up the bottle. Her eyes study me softly, but she’s studying me, nonetheless.
“When are you due?” she asks.
“I’m sorry?” I blurt out.
“I can tell. Even if you’re not showing, which you aren’t. I can just tell.”
“I don’t know,” I tell her, sitting back down closely enough that we can talk without anyone hearing.
“Mommy, I want more fruit pouch,” the toddler says, tugging on her shirt.
“Okay, baby, one second,” she sighs. Then she hands the bottle to me and grabs an applesauce.
“Is it really that obvious?” I ask, cradling the baby and running the nipple of the bottle along her bottom lip. She takes it, frowns, fusses a little (probably at the temperature of it, like her mom said) and then gives in, sucking hungrily.
“Intuition, I think. But also, yes. You’ve touched your stomach multiple times since I met you, a telltale usually,” she says as she sets up snacks for the toddler.
“I have?” I ask with obvious shock. “I didn’t even realize.”
She just smiles and sits back, visibly appreciative of the help.
And honestly, I don’t mind feeding the baby at all.
In fact, the way it gives me a job with purpose, it’s a nice slowdown from the things going on around me.
It’s soothing. “It’s a subconscious thing,” she goes on to say.
“Almost like even if you don’t feel pregnant yet, your body knows you are. Your heart knows you are.”
I blink back the tears that have apparently formed in my eyes. “Sorry,” I say, shaking my head.
“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s a wonderful, overwhelming, life-changing thing,” she says.
“It’s just…” I bite my lip and lower my voice, my eyes meeting hers. “He doesn’t know.”
“Oh.” She nods empathetically. “And I don’t know when to tell him because it wasn’t planned, and I don’t even know what he’s going to say or think.”
“But you love each other,” she says. “That much is obvious. I’m sure he’ll be a little shocked. Then he’ll come around. The good ones always do. And watching Morgan Bale recently, he’s definitely one of the good ones.”
On cue, I hear his voice behind me. He’s helping the medics with an older couple that are clearly struggling. While they work, he’s on his knees working with them.
I swallow hard. Because she’s right. Despite what I assumed in the beginning, Morgan Bale is very much one of the good ones. And honestly, that scares me even more.
“Alright, who wants a blanket?” the dad asks as he approaches again. I pass the baby and the bottle off to the mom before standing up.
“Scarlett brought us dinner,” she says with a smile.
“That’s amazing,” the man says.
“Oh, it’s hardly dinner,” I say modestly of the fruit, crackers, meat, cheese, and, of course–
“Applesozzzz,” the toddler says with half of it dripping down her chin.
“It’s more than enough. Thank you,” the man says, and I smile before making my way back towards the kitchen.
“Alright, what else can I do?” I ask as the door swings shut behind me. “Give me something to do.”
“Did you eat your sandwich?” Tongs man asks.
“I took a bite,” I tell him.
“Eat your sandwich,” he says. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
I open my mouth to say something in return, something just as salty.
But honestly, he’s right. I’ve been traveling all day, stressed about the storm and hardly eaten anything.
So I do as I am told, sitting on an apple crate in the corner (something I seem to be making a habit of, it seems).
While I munch on the sandwich, the woman’s words replay in my mind, as well as the cook’s words too.
One of the good ones.
Like his dad.
I know a little about the Bale story. A husband and wife who created an empire. But I don’t know the full story. And I can’t help but want to know, all things considered. So I pull my phone out and look it up.
Article after article appears, and I weed through the ones that are just gossip and speculation until I get to the root of the story.
Most of what I thought was true.
Jeff and Tammy Bale were young and in love.
Came into money and, as lovers of adventure and travel, they invested in a hotel.
San Diego. Then they turned it into a resort.
Then another. And another. And it snowballed.
They traveled the world, even when the boys were born and Bale Resorts became the most popular resorts in the world.
Until July 23rd, 2006.
Morgan walks into the kitchen to check on things, unaware that I am sitting in the corner, mouth agape as I read the next line of the article.
Private plane caught in a freak storm crashes into the Pacific Ocean, killing Jeffry and Tamera Bale on impact.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. I mean, I assumed they had passed. But I never thought to look up when or how. And now that I know, so many things make sense. So, so many things.
I set my phone down and watch Morgan as he insists that the kitchen staff eat too, even going as far as to eat with them so they will agree to take a second for themselves. And it’s in that moment that I realize two things.
I am heartbroken for him and the devastation that rocked the Bale family so many years ago.
And at the same time, I’m undoubtedly in love with him and have no idea what that means for either of us.