Green Gold in Jamaica

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© 2006 Theana Kastens. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/9/2006

ISBN: 1-4259-2346-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-6981-8 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Forward

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Sixty-three

Sixty-four

Sixty-five

Sixty-six

Sixty-seven

Sixty-eight

Sixty-nine

Seventy

Seventy-one

Seventy-two

Seventy-three

Seventy-four

Seventy-five

Seventy-six

Seventy-seven

Seventy-eight

Seventy-nine

Eighty

Eighty-one

Eighty-two

Eighty-three

Eighty-four

Eighty-five

Eighty-six

About the Author

Dedication

To Royal, Konstantine, Douglass and Theana… through whom my late father’s spirit still lives…

Acknowledgements

It is a gift in itself to find a story worth writing. Accomplishing this, however, is possible only with the steady encouragement and intellectual contributions from those whose support and friendship I treasure.

My late father Gus Yatron, who served 24 years in the U.S. Congress, was an extraordinary navigator of people and political terrain. He could recall details from people’s lives that connected them to the present and indicated the future. It was with his perceptive skills that I strove to tightly knit my plot.

My mother Millie, a writer, maintains an ever-ready eye for the right word, and was my tireless copy editor, often working long into the night with suggestions ready at day break. I thank her for her lifelong demonstration of language used to its best advantage, and for the literary skills she summoned when a last-minute review of my manuscript was required.

My husband Royal, who has worked many years for the United Nations, offered critical input to plot development and international perspective. He also worked closely with the man on whom I based my lead character.

The late economist G. Arthur Brown, with whom Royal worked at the United Nations, served as the first Jamaican-born governor of Bank of Jamaica, the country’s central bank. An enormously popular public official, many expected he would someday be Jamaica’s prime minister. Illness claimed his life in 1993, leaving in his wake the persona of X. Charles Landiford, my lead character.

James and Barbara Lee of Bronxville, New York offered early literary advice and encouragement. Nancy Pane Fortwengler of Burke, Virginia, was my source for the artistry that is featured in the story. Althea Downie of New York City introduced me to the soft, lilting sound of Jamaican patois. Wilhelm Tenner of Vienna, Austria, furnished insights into the character flaws that make all people human.

My writers’ group in Vienna, Austria, led by the late writer Billie Ann Lopez, was wonderful, as we discussed my characters and plot development during countless sessions. Evelyn Petros Gumpel proofread my manuscript with a unique feel for the word and flow of the story. Foreign language translation writer Vinal Binner knew just how to adjust her ear to the inflections of Jamaican patois. This group of professionals was a treasure for me.

My colleagues at Vienna’s English-language newspaper Austria Today showed me by example, day in and day out, how to write on deadline. I felt privileged to work amongst this group of journalists. Special mention must be made of publishers Elfi Mayer and Thomas Brey, and of Michael Leidig, managing editor. Elfi was particularly helpful by introducing me to the inspiring concept of "Frauenpower." All are true professionals whom I thank for encouraging me to finish my Jamaican story when I was not busy covering the newspaper’s diplomatic terrain.

To my close friends in New York, Washington and Vienna, many from international financial and governmental sectors who read the manuscript while it was a work-in-progress, and who offered their reactions and constructive criticisms, I remain ever grateful for their rich contributions and friendships.

Lastly, I owe my most personal debt to my four children – Royal, Konstantine, Douglass and Theana – who gave me the time and space to write the story, reaffirming that it was a story worth writing and worth reading.

Forward

In the early 1990s, I was working as a New York currency exchange broker, specializing in the field of restricted foreign currencies. Transaction settlement for one of my clients, a major multinational corporation, was delayed due to a bank error in Jamaica. In the swift business of foreign exchange, settlement delays are unacceptable.

The late Bank of Jamaica Governor G. Arthur Brown was at the helm of his country’s central bank, and I felt particularly fortunate to know him well from his days at the United Nations in New York. His guidance was instrumental.

After spending a considerable amount of time eliminating the delay, the transaction was ultimately successful. The unexpected complications, however, gave rise to possible hidden scenarios that form the basis of this story.

The "what ifs" became ripe ingredients to an imaginative stew my mind began to simmer. Instead of the real transaction’s timely resolution, I wrote the plot line down to the abyss. Twists came to me with the same sensory kick one experiences when tasting Jamaican jerk spice. Almost with a rhythmic reggae, the plot took sway as I hammered out the words over time. It was a joy to write.

Theana Kastens

March 13, 2006

One

Westchester County, New York

Theodore Hays brought the icy shot-glass of vodka to his lips, while listening reflectively to a recording of Puccini’s La Bohème, when he noticed the light blinking on his message machine. Sensing trouble, he rose slowly from his comfortable chair on the deck of his New York estate overlooking Long Island Sound, and pressed the play button.

Our bank account’s frozen. My telephone lines are tapped. Don’t call me. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Hays stared at the answering machine, his stomach muscles tightening. Pressing the rewind button, he listened to the message a few more times, searching for clues, and tried to quell the ominous feeling rising within him.

The voice belonged to Alistair Finch, an employee of Hays’ in Jamaica.

The warning had nothing to do with Hays’ corporate empire, Global Communications Systems, and everything to do with it.

A powerful aria echoed off the turgid waters of the sound below, but Hays no longer heard it. His mind was far from New York, far from the multinational giant he ruled in the concrete canyons of Manhattan. His mind was in Kingston, Jamaica, land of reggae and ganja, where he knew nothing was ever as it seemed.

Playing the message back one last time, Hays tossed his drink over the banister. He would remain painfully alert this night, awaiting the next word.

Two

Kingston, Jamaica

Jack Callahan stroked back his wavy brown hair and laughed heartily as he approached the eighteenth hole at the Caymanas Golf Club. As manager of Global Communications Systems (Jamaica), Ltd., he enjoyed the company of Jamaica’s higher social echelon and took full advantage of the deference island society extended to its upper class.

The cushioned fairway buoyed Jack’s steps, as he thought with pride how far he had come from his hardscrabble neighborhood in Newark, New Jersey. Born John Patrick Callahan to an Irish Catholic working class family, he was determined to fulfill the destiny of his forbearers by being the first in his family to go to college, and the first to break out of the blue-collar work force.

Jack assessed the par five hole and pulled out his driver. Preparing to tee off, he thought about his father, who had introduced him to golf but had never had the time to enjoy it. He often told others that his father, a union electrician, was an electrical engineer. Or, if it suited his purposes to be provocative in GlobalCom’s corporate environment, he would identify his father as a high union official. It somehow seemed more consistent with his own newly attained station in life.

You graduated from my alma mater, Yale, didn’t you? asked Peter Saxon, outside legal counsel for GlobalCom, who was among the competition this early Friday morning.

I was never a Yalie, Jack said, shrugging. I’m a New Jersey boy.

Princeton?

No, Jack chuckled, Rutgers.

Armed with an MBA from Rutgers University, Jack had been recruited by GlobalCom, the once upstart telecommunications firm that stood poised to dominate the industry worldwide. He was quickly offered a position on the strength of a single screening interview when he speculated, without a great deal of forethought, that the future of global communications was personal rather than corporate – a conclusion GlobalCom had only recently reached after a ten-month market analysis costing several million dollars. Jack had reached that conclusion earlier on the day of his interview following a five-minute conversation he had with the driver of his New York City taxi.

I started out as a junior manager in GlobalCom’s New York office, and then worked my way up, Jack said, slamming the ball out of a sandpit. A series of rear-guard actions involving the inhospitable acquisition of a dawdling Midwest cellular telephone company had launched him onto the corporate fast track reserved for those most adept at turning a situation to their advantage. Yes! he shouted, watching the ball roll onto the green.

Time and again, Jack had proven himself a person with a keen ability to wiggle out of difficult situations, always landing on his feet on firm ground. Some said his ambition exceeded his intelligence, but most argued that his corporate judgment seldom faltered. Now, as head of his company’s Jamaica office, Jack had autonomy and power. Jamaica would be his stepping-stone to the pinnacle of GlobalCom.

As Jack concentrated on his last putt, Saxon deliberately tried to distract him with some social one-upmanship. Will you be at the governor’s reception tonight?

Ah, yes, Kay and I will be there, Jack said, distracted, as the ball wobbled and rimmed the

hole. Damn! I should have had it!

That’s not the way to do it, Saxon taunted. Watch this! Saxon stroked the ball masterfully, sinking his birdie putt decisively on the eighteenth green, and won the game by one point.

We should play more often, Saxon said, smiling.

Jack projected an easy personality, but didn’t take losing easily, especially when a loss was close. With him everything was personal. He competed over everything –- conversation, social contacts, sports, and most of all, business deals. Yes, he’d be at the reception, for sure. What time does it start tonight?

Seven, so expect to see us around eight. Have you already met Governor Landiford? Saxon asked, referring to the head of Bank of Jamaica, the country’s central bank.

No. Will I be impressed? Jack asked with a hint of arrogance.

Probably. Word on the street is that Landiford could be the next prime minister, but then life would have its limitations. As governor, he controls all finances and economic policy. He enjoys life and does it all on his own terms.

Sounds like a lucky guy, Jack smirked, unimpressed.

Three

Jack drove the long way home, enjoying perfect Jamaican weather – sunny, breezy and colorful. The trade winds lifted the island’s oppressive humidity, carrying the scent of fragrant wildflowers through the air. Jack could not suppress his feelings of superiority. His Jaguar hugged the coastline; the deep blue sea glistened below. He had arrived.

Glancing at his image in the rear view mirror, there was no end to his self-appreciation. He had inherited his lean good looks and ruddy Irish complexion from his father, and when he had a few too many ales, he could affect an Irish brogue that was most convincing. In college, he routinely listened to ancestral bagpipe music, and enjoyed telling new female acquaintances that he was an Irish national studying abroad. It was always worth a good laugh.

With a flick of his wrist he turned on the radio. Sounds of reggae punctuated each curve in the road. No Woman No Cry. Years after his death, Bob Marley’s soulful voice still reflected the spirit of the island, though Jack wondered what Marley’s lyrics meant. Stupid words, he thought, for stupid people, missing Marley’s social message.

Jack could only appreciate the music’s rhythmic syncopation for its international success. He wondered if his wife Kay feigned her interest in reggae just to impress the local Rastafarian artists, who had recently become her partners in art. But then she was always attracted to the unusual in people, as it seemed to reflect her own artistic nature.

Over the years, she had fostered her natural talent in art by painting seascapes and portraits on commission. And with a little business help from Jack, she had made some respectable profits, buying and selling the works of other artists, primarily from the American Southwest. But now, Jamaica, with its vivid colors and rugged beauty, had become an irresistible and ever-present studio. She was painting again.

Jack grabbed his cell phone to dial home. Marva, he said to his housekeeper, Where’s Kay?

I’ll find her for you, sir, Marva replied, her lilting accent pleasant to Jack’s ear.

Holding the line, Jack smoothly navigated his car around a goat that had strayed onto the road. Damn beast, he muttered, thinking about the damage it could have caused to his chassis.

Hi, Kay responded, her voice cheerful. She was always in good spirits, in sharp contrast to his moody disposition. How’d it go this morning?

Wasn’t my best game. Wasn’t my worst.

Are you on your way home?

I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Do we need anything while I’m out?

Can’t think of anything, Kay said, fumbling through the day’s mail. Tomorrow, we’re not busy, are we? I’ve volunteered my services at the crafts market. I’ll be covering for someone who’s sick.

Tomorrow’s fine. But tonight we’ve got that reception at the residence of the governor of the central bank. We’re meeting Peter Saxon and his wife at eight. Peter’s our outside counsel, a smart guy, although you wouldn’t know it from the way he dresses. His ties and collars seem trapped in a twenty-year time warp. But he’s friendly enough. Went to Yale. He’s lived in Kingston for the past seventeen years.

Practically a native, Kay said, looking over a leaflet advertising tomorrow’s arts craft market. Maybe he can help me export some Jamaican wood cravings I’ve found. They’re very elaborate, and I think they’d sell well in New York.

Peter can advise you. He knows his way around. But I think you should concentrate on your own work. Are you planning to sell either of the two paintings you just finished?

I thought I would, she answered, glancing at her canvases. Is there one you want to keep?

Yeah, I like the market scene. Great colors. It would look wonderful in my office. Would be good exposure for your career, too.

Let’s talk about it later, Kay said, not sure she was ready to turn it over to a wall in Jack’s GlobalCom office.

Four

The cars were queued up for blocks along the main approach to the estate of Governor X. Charles Landiford, popularly favored to be the next prime minister.

The governor’s estate spanned several acres of land secured behind iron gates in Stony Hill, an exclusive colony situated high above Kingston’s business center. His veranda offered a panoramic view of the countryside’s dense foliage, the mountain peaks high above, and the city and sea below. At dusk the setting sun shone brilliantly over the glittering waters, accentuating the hues of blue and green. The property, so grand, had recently been featured in Architectural Digest.

A parking attendant received the Callahan’s car and directed them toward the receiving line in the main foyer of the residence.

Mr. and Mrs. John Callahan, the doorman announced to Governor and Mrs. Landiford.

Thank you for joining us this evening, Landiford said, his voice deep with a commanding resonance, his manner an easy formality. Imposingly tall, he moved with a graceful, proud bearing. His skin was a smooth mocha hue; he had a strong face, a straight nose, and full, but taut lips that revealed a wide, expressive smile. When he spoke, he turned his dark brown eyes on his audience, penetrating beyond the superficial dialogue. His charcoal gray suit hugged his hips, and accentuated the breadth of his broad shoulders. Kay liked him instantly, finding him handsome and distinguished.

Thank you for inviting us, Kay said. Your home is very beautiful. Your whole island is beautiful! She was eager to say the right thing and was acutely aware of Landiford’s presence.

We’re pleased you could join us, Landiford said, reaching for Kay’s hand and holding it in his a second or two longer than she expected. So you’re the new man at GlobalCom, Landiford said, turning to Jack. How do you like living here on our lovely island?"

Oh, it’s great. Noisy little island you’ve got here, though.

Landiford caught his flinch before it grew to a fully burrowed brow. Noisy?

Well, there’s no need for an alarm clock here. You’ve got all those blasted early-morning birds that wake me up just before dawn everyday, Jack said, laughing to give his statement levity.

Kay quickly jumped in to assuage Jack’s social awkwardness. They’re all part of Jamaica’s natural beauty. I love listening to them.

You must mean our little kling-kling birds. They like to breakfast with company, Landiford said with a chuckle, ready to forgive Jack’s lack of social grace. How long have you been in Kingston?

Two months, but I’ve traveled here many times before on short business trips. This is Kay’s first time in Jamaica. It’s a great assignment for us both. Kay’s an artist, so there’s a lot here for her to paint, as you might expect. Reconsidering the bluntness of his opening comment about the birds, Jack tried to recover slightly, Jamaica’s a very important market for GlobaICom.

GIobaICom certainly is the world leader in telecommunications, Landiford said. It’s our island’s largest foreign corporation and your growth largely reflects our own steps forward.

Landiford’s assessment was Jack’s cue to arch his back, proudly thrust his chest forward self-importantly and announce, Just this morning GlobalCom reached an agreement to purchase Biddleton Cellular Phone Systems.

As Jack reported the details of the agreement, Landiford discreetly appraised Kay, judging her to be in her mid-thirties, with an interesting face that suggested a sensitive and delicate nature. Her thick, shoulder-length, honey brown hair radiated blonde highlights that framed her chiseled features and haunting hazel eyes. She had a deep, pensive look in her eyes that made her beauty appear remote. Wearing a form-fitting pale green evening gown that draped elegantly off her shoulders, Landiford liked her style, finding a spirited willingness for adventure in her eyes.

So, your name is Kay? he asked warmly. He could feel her energy. She was full of life.

Actually, Mary Kay, but everyone calls me Kay. Nervous energy surged through her. His attention delighted her.

The next couple in the receiving line was patiently waiting their turn, but Landiford was in no hurry to move away from the Callahans. While Landiford’s wife made further small talk with Jack about the weather, Landiford concentrated a bit longer on Kay. And you are a ‘famous’ artist, now giving our modest island its due recognition, he said, unabashedly patronizing, wanting to know her better.

I wish! Kay said, blushing.

Always ready to promote, especially when it reflected on himself, Jack interjected, Don’t be so modest, Kay! Then turning to Landiford and his wife, he added, She has her own booth at tomorrow’s arts crafts market—

No, well, actually, I’m helping someone else out with theirs— Kay’s statement was lost, as the receiving line moved gently forward.

Well, Kay, I hope we’ll have an opportunity to chat further this evening, Landiford said, as they parted. For now, please enjoy a glass of champagne, Landiford gestured to a server, who, on cue, presented a sterling silver tray bearing champagne flutes brimming with Veuve Clicquot.

Jack and Kay Callahan helped themselves, and then walked farther out on the veranda to admire the view, and Landiford fought the urge to glance in her direction again. On quick assessment, he found them to be a mismatch. Kay seemed unpretentious, more genuine than her husband. Landiford liked the way she moved. He would talk with her again.

Hello, Jack! Over here! Peter Saxon called out warmly, his soft, round midriff wobbling as he waved.

While Saxon introduced his wife Frances to the Callahans and perfunctory conversation about children was made, Kay could not ignore Landiford’s attention. How old would you say he is? Kay asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Who cares? Jack asked dismissively.

I do! And why did you call this island ‘noisy’? That wasn’t very diplomatic.

What can I say? Jack said with outstretched arms. I’m not a diplomat. I’m a businessman. The governor calls those noisemakers little kling-kling birds. They ought to be called big squawk-squawk birds. They look like ugly crows.

Ah, yes, the kling-klings, Peter responded. They wake you up early, do they?

"They steal at least an hour of my sleep in the morning, and then those goddam flutes pipe

all night long, keeping me wide awake."

Oh, you mean our crickets. Peter thought about how much he had always enjoyed their sounds.

They don’t sound like any crickets I’ve ever heard, Jack responded rather loudly. Sure they’re not frogs?

Crickets, I’m sure, Peter said.

Kay gave Jack a look of exasperation. I’d have never called this island ‘noisy.’ Filled with the sounds of nature, yes, she said, pleased with her own description, but never ‘noisy!’

I’m sure Landiford survived Jack’s comment, Saxon assured her. Not much puts him off his pace, really.

He’s obviously well liked, Kay said, observing the many guests who were vying to have a personal word with him.

Very popular, Saxon agreed. Highly respected.

Then leaning closer to the Callahans, he continued in a more confidential tone, His mother was dark, father white. His mother was a house servant, what they called a ‘helper.’ His parents never married, but his father saw to it that Landiford and his older brother bore his name. He also gave them both excellent educations at the London School of Economics. The Landiford brothers grew up to be just like Dad.

Jack rolled his eyes. Landiford’s dad meant nothing to him.

Does he have any children? Kay asked.

He and Mrs. Landiford have three daughters, all approaching college age. Saxon spoke on about Landiford with a noticeable degree of admiration, while Kay cast a furtive glance in the direction of Mrs. Landiford. Taller, thinner and more light complexioned than most Jamaican women, she had a patrician bearing, a firm handshake, a steady gaze and a plastic smile. Something about her seemed artificial, too practiced.

The printed invitation says he’s governor of Jamaica’s Reserve Bank, Kay said. Is that a politically appointed position?

Yes, Saxon confirmed. It’s also known as Bank of Jamaica.

Hey, what a view! Jack interrupted, gesturing at the panoramic seascape below. Landiford’s property, nestled in thick vegetation and situated high on a verdant hill, offered an aerial view of the beach-lined coast. An abundance of hibiscus punctuated the hillside with scattered dashes of red. The scent of fragrant jasmine permeated the air.

Nodding towards a staircase, Peter suggested they go to a higher level to take in another view. Awesome landscape! Jack exclaimed.

Kay, however, scouted the landscape for Landiford, searching for his elegant profile amidst the guests and the tropical foliage. Spotting his virile figure, she followed him with her eyes, weaving in and out of the clusters of guests. His laugh was easy, his body language comfortable. She enjoyed this view of him from high up on the balcony. Jack motioned towards a buffet table laden with fruit and cheese, but Kay didn’t budge. She was willfully calling Landiford’s eyes to meet hers. When the moment came, she held his gaze. Where, if anywhere, she thought, would this lead?

Suddenly, with a smirk, Jack’s voice interrupted her transfixed gaze, Ole Landiford cuts quite an image with his Italian-made suit, movie-star looks and megawatt smile. Jack grabbed a handful of grapes, popping them one by one into his mouth, and continued, speaking smugly and within earshot of the governor’s guests, but then it wouldn’t take much to outdo Marley’s style!

Kay looked away, no longer trying to correct Jack’s social missteps.

Peter Saxon also found Jack’s comment embarrassing. He wondered how Jack Callahan had ever come to be selected GlobalCom’s new chief executive in Jamaica.

Five

The afternoon sun was so hot, even the flies and other insects were too languid to fly. The Jamaican Crafts Market teemed with men sporting ragged mops of hair, who worked as though they were immune to the day’s heat. Rastafarians, worshipers of the late Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie, arranged their artful displays of lignum vitae wood carvings, alabaster, jippi jappa straw goods, beads and more beads, goatskin products, bamboo, embroideries, leather goods and batik silks. Paintings were everywhere – watercolors, oils, etchings, sketches, aquatints, some crude, but many skillfully executed.

The market was a bouquet of colors and activity. The sounds of constant customer higgling rose like a cloud over the marketplace. Customers and artists were negotiating the best going prices.

So you’re an artist— Landiford’s voice startled Kay. She turned quickly, thrilled to see him so soon again. This was no coincidence, she thought. Meeting his eyes through his dark aviator-style sunglasses, she gave him an inviting smile. I like to be creative. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I’m glad you decided to stop by, Governor Landiford.

Please, call me Charles, he said, easing closer to her. So, Kay, did you say art’s your vocation, or just a favorite pastime? Charles was close enough to catch the scent of her perfume and wondered which fragrance was her favorite.

I paint, and I also buy and sell the works of others. When I find something interesting, I supply it to a small gallery in New York. I’m now in the market for Jamaican watercolors and wood carvings.

Searching for clues to her personality, Charles asked, Is your personal work on view here today?

Kay stepped back casually and pointed to a painting of a colorful Jamaican market scene, Jack’s favorite, hoping it expressed her best effort. This is one of my pieces—

"Aaaahhhh, this is nice. This is lovely. Very lovely," Charles said, appraising the piece carefully, and then turning his attention to her, he studied the sensitive expression in Kay’s eyes and the delicate curve of her lips. She was a work of art herself, he thought, a fertile spirit reflected in the robust market scene.

You like it, she said, smiling proudly, delighted by his admiration.

"Ohhhh, very much," he said, studying it more closely.

Jamaica inspires me to paint, Kay began to explain. The entire island is a palette of color. Just look at the countryside, she gestured broadly. I’ve never in my life seen such a concentration of colors. A true artist, anyone gifted with an inner eye, could spend a lifetime capturing this island’s character. Kay’s voice trailed off as she wondered if she would ever succeed in accomplishing this goal.

You’re very talented, Landiford said, impressed by the technical command revealed in her watercolors. Perhaps you would paint something for me someday— on commission, of course.

Gladly, she said quickly. What kind of painting would you like? A portrait, perhaps? I’d like to hear your ideas. She wanted to know more about his interests, more about him as a man. Always an artist who took careful study of the uniqueness of skin tones in her portraits, she examined his smooth café-au-lait complexion. She found him an interesting and captivating subject. Asserting her prerogative as an artist, she reached towards his face and gently removed his sunglasses. Charles didn’t resist. You have an interesting face, she said, studying his facial lines. Now I can see you better, she added softly.

That’s good, he said, smiling. The sunglasses are my camouflage for moving through big crowds. But I wouldn’t want to go unnoticed by you. Charles was feeling very sure of her. He was laughing, happy to be in her presence. Like a dancer leading his partner in a slow dance step, he moved their conversation first in one direction and then back again. Do you ever come across any Inuit art?

She considered his question about the art of the American Northwest, and then replied, Well, I do have an excellent source for turn-of-the-century scrimshaw.

What about soapstone carvings? Charles asked. I was in Nome once and always regretted not buying a piece that represented fertility—

I’ve never associated fertility with all that snow! Kay teased.

How do you think they keep warm? Charles asked, his words melodious, his laughter rich and full.

Of course, she said, laughing, her slender figure revealing a girlish excitement. He made her feel like a schoolgirl again, eager for new opportunities and adventures.

Charles didn’t want their encounter to end. Energized by her lively spirit, he asked, Do you have time for a rum punch?

I’m free to leave anytime. I’ve already been here longer than I’d planned, she said, eager to extend his visit. She quickly said goodbye to her colleagues and took off with the governor along Ocean Boulevard to Port Royal Street, strolling leisurely beside him, occasionally touching as they walked. Kay wondered about the coincidence of their chance meeting.

What brought you to the crafts market today? Surely not Eskimo art.

"Your husband mentioned your work as an artist last night, and so