Somewhere on St. Thomas Read online

  Somewhere on St. Thomas

  Michaels Family Romance, Book 1

  Toby Neal

  Copyright Notice

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 Toby Neal

  http://tobyneal.net

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  Cover Design: Victorine @ Blue Valley Author Services

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-9967066-1-2

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt Somewhere in the City

  About the Author

  More Titles from Toby Neal!

  Connect With Toby

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  Toby Neal’s Website

  Chapter 1

  I never expected a spelling bee to be the apogee of my life, but the night of July thirtieth, 1984, turned out to be exactly that. I was one of two finalists competing for a major college scholarship, and I needed to win or I was going to be stuck on our tiny island of Saint Thomas, in the Virgin Islands, cleaning hotel rooms.

  Blinded by hot stage lights, I clutched the old wooden podium and stood listening to my competition recite, “Succedaneum.” Thank God they didn’t also require a definition. Sweat prickled under my armpits.

  My competition, a tall gangly boy with thick glasses and an accent that marked him as from the nearby French Antilles, made it through. Modest applause followed his effort.

  “Antediluvian,” the proctor said. Oh, this felt like cheating because I knew it so well. My parents had come to St. Thomas to do religious work, stayed on past their allotted stint, and made a niche on the island managing vacation rental homes for off-islanders.

  “Antediluvian,” I stated. “Of, or pertaining to the period preceding the Great Flood referred to in the Bible. A-n-t-e-d-i-l-u-v-i-a-n.”

  More applause than the other kid got. I was showing off a bit, but I was tired of proving that red hair and big boobs didn’t mean bimbo. All I had to do now to prove that to the world was get off this rock, go to college, and become a lawyer in the big city.

  “Xanthosis,” the proctor said to the gangly boy. The kid’s Adam’s apple worked as he blinked behind his glasses. I could tell it was over.

  “Xanthosis,” the kid repeated. “Z-a-n-t-h-o-s-i-s.”

  The buzzer marked his shame, and sympathetic clapping escorted him off the stage. I felt bad for him, but he was younger and there would be other chances. This was it for me, and if I could get this word right, I’d win a golden ticket out of here. And oh, how badly I needed to get out of this palm-tree studded, nowhere paradise. There was nothing for me here—except my family, of course.

  “Pococurante,” the proctor said to me.

  The lights blinded me. I clung to the podium and I shut my eyes. I could feel the prickle of sweat under my arms penetrating the green fabric of the dress Mom had told me to wear to enhance the color of my eyes. I tried not to hyperventilate. I pictured myself as the lawyer I hoped to be, making a confident plea to a jury.

  I knew what this word meant, but I wasn’t sure of the spelling. I sucked in a breath, blew it out, and went for it.

  “Pococurante,” I said. “To be indifferent to something. And I am certainly not p-o-c-o-c-u-r-a-n-t-e to winning this scholarship. I want it more than anything.”

  Huge applause broke out as a bell marked the end of the competition. My dad ran to the front of the stage and I hopped off and into his arms.

  “I did it!”

  “I never had a doubt, Ruby,” he exclaimed, blue eyes extra-bright with excitement. “You’re going to get your dream, girl!”

  Mom, Pearl, and Jade were right behind him, and we mass-hugged in the narrow area in front of the battered wooden stage. I had the best, most loving family: Mom, sturdy and tall with her auburn hair and hazel eyes; ten-year-old Jade, who shared my green eyes but had Mom’s hair, and Pearl who had Dad’s blue eyes and curly blonde hair, already so beautiful at fourteen that she should wear a bag on her head.

  Yes, this was the night I found out for sure I would be able to go to Northeastern University, where I’d already been accepted. With this win, I’d be leaving in two weeks.

  “Got a nice dinner planned,” Mom said. “Lobster and fish. Hope you don’t mind we invited company on your special night—he brought the main dish.”

  “Who is it?” I frowned a little. Mom and Dad were hospitable to a fault, always inviting ex-pats or the transient workers they hired for cleaning and yard work over for meals.

  “New yard and coconut trimming guy.” Dad hefted Jade up like she was two, and headed for the door. “Sailor. Seems to have some ocean skills.” Dad liked guys with ocean skills. I usually found them not that bright.

  Mom winked. “I think you’ll like this one, Ruby.”

  “Hah. I’m out of here,” I snorted. Mom knew how focused I was, so she liked to tease that I was going to fall in love, marry a local, and end up staying on Saint Thomas. I followed the family out of the church hall where the spelling bee was held, shaking hands with the geeky kid who’d lost and wishing him best of luck next time. I piled into the station wagon with my sisters for the drive back out to deep-armed, crystalline Magens Bay, where we lived.

  “You smoked that guy,” Pearl said, grinning. She snuggled against me on one side, and Jade on the other. I felt warmed by their support. I knew I’d have felt very differently on the drive home if I’d lost that spelling bee.

  “That kid didn’t need the win as much as I did. He’ll have other chances,” I told Pearl.

  We drove up the windy two-lane road out of Charlotte Amalie, with its red-roofed, Mediterranean-style houses and palm trees. I looked back down at the capital of Saint Thomas, waiting to feel sad that I would be leaving so soon—but all I felt was excited. The life I’d worked so hard for was going to happen in just a couple of weeks.

  I was setting the long table out on the screened porch with its view of an aqua sliver of Magens Bay when Mom came into the doorway, holding a string bag wriggling with lobsters. “Ruby, this is Rafe McCallum. He brought some fish that need cleaning. Can you take him to the outside sink? I have to get these lobsters into the pot.”

  “Sure,” I muttered, dropping a handful of forks with a clatter. “Hi.”

  Mom turned, her eyes spark
ling, and left. Rafe walked into the breezy space that doubled as our dining room. He was holding a canvas bag that smelled strongly of fish and was clearly heavy, if the knotted muscles of his bronzed arms were anything to go by.

  “Hi. Need to clean these. Your mom said you have a sink?”

  At least six foot three, topping me by a foot, he had eyes the color of deep open ocean. I didn’t think I’d ever seen that color before. We stared at each other for just a little too long, and I felt the blush I’d suffered from my whole life prickle up my chest and heat my cheeks. I had that fair skin redheads do, with an ebb and flow of blood that betrayed my every mood.

  Spooked, I headed for the side door. “Sure. Come this way.”

  I was still wearing the dark green dress I’d worn to the spelling bee, a fit-and-flare style that hugged my figure in a way I’d thought was attractive but modest, and now felt was entirely too revealing.

  He followed me down chipped cement steps and around the lawn on the side of the house to the outdoor sink, a cold-water, galvanized affair with a hole that drained out onto the ground and a built-in wooden cutting board.

  “Want some help?” I asked, pulling myself together, reminding myself I had one foot out the door. Guys like Rafe were a dime a dozen in the Virgin Islands: handsome, pleasure-seeking young men, rootless, with no more future on their minds than the next wave or sailboat or high. I mocked them with my friend Jenny. “I’ll never date a surfer or sailor,” I’d sworn, long ago. “Hot bodies and no brains.”

  “Could use a knife.” Rafe dumped a couple of large, colorful parrotfish out on the board. I could see marks on them from his spear, and I imagined him swimming underwater in nothing but a pair of trunks. “I’ll do it. You should keep your pretty dress clean.”

  I turned and hurried back into the house, going into the kitchen and taking the big filet knife in its plastic scabbard out of the drawer. Mom was dropping the lobsters into a pot on the stove.

  “Cute, isn’t he?” she said.

  “He’s a sailor, Mom,” I said. “Probably surfs too.” Surfers were the ultimate time wasters, in my not-so-humble opinion.

  “He does surf, that’s not a sin. And ocean skills are handy. Look at these lobsters and fish. But never mind,” Mom said. “He’s too much man for you.”

  “Not too much for me,” Pearl piped up from where she was chopping greens at the counter. Pearl was definitely precocious in the man department.

  Mom bumped Pearl with a hip. “Give Ruby a chance to maneuver.”

  “I’m maneuvering right out of here.” I hustled off, knife in hand.

  I drew up short halfway to the sink, and gulped. Rafe had taken off his shirt. Late evening sun gilded a torso that could have been in the Louvre.

  What’s wrong with me? I’ve seen hot men before. I forced my legs to move, and Rafe turned from rinsing one of the parrotfish at the tap. I thought I saw a little red around his ears as he saw my hesitation. “I didn’t want to get fish guts on my shirt,” he apologized. “That knife sharp?”

  “Oh, sure. Of course.” I circled around to the other side of the sink to hand it to him, but now I had a view of his chiseled chest and the kind of lean and supple abs that come from working and playing hard. I handed him the knife in its scabbard, noticing some sort of tattoo on his shoulder. I made myself look down at the fish. “You go spearfishing a lot?”

  “Yeah.” No elaboration. He plonked the fish down on the cutting board, and using quick, confident strokes, slashed the meat off in large filets. “I like this way to prep them. It’s quick, and you don’t have to deal with bones or scales.” He flipped a filet, sliding the knife between the meat and scaly skin, slicing it off. He slanted a glance at me from under dark brows and caught my eyes on him. Long, chocolate-brown, sun-streaked hair framed a rugged, interesting face I’d been too busy gawking at his body to notice.

  He was older than me, from the sun-crinkles beside his eyes, and definitely, totally, not my type. Probably hadn’t finished high school and had an IQ of 80, though with that body he wasn’t going to have any trouble getting women to chase him.

  “Well. I’ll leave you to it.” I started to walk away, but he called me back.

  “Ruby. Can I get a bag for the guts and such?” He held up the stripped carcass of the fish. It had taken him about three minutes to prep the filets. He definitely knew what he was doing with his hands.

  “Okay.” I had to go back in the house again, and I could feel his eyes on my back. “Get a grip, Ruby,” I growled at myself. “You have places to go, people to meet. Intellectual people, with good prospects. The last thing you need to do is get distracted by some pretty-boy surfer.”

  I managed to hang onto that resolve, keeping my eyes on my plate or my family members through dinner, only breaking from that during my father’s toast to my spelling bee win. Rafe, across from me, met my eyes with his and my glass with his wine goblet as me and my sisters toasted with grape juice.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “I hope Boston is all you dream it will be.”

  “It’s going to be awesome,” I said, almost defiant. He shrugged, and sipped.

  He had long, graceful hands, and he gestured when he talked, mainly with my parents since I wouldn’t participate. They discussed the things he’d studied on the boat he’d crewed over to the Virgin Islands and the interests they had in common. He’d read everything from the Bible to Socrates, and he was learning astronomy and art history on the boat in his spare time. This trip was part of his “personal mission” to go everywhere, see all he could, and do what he wanted to in the moment.

  Forking up a bite of sumptuous lobster, I considered that if I hadn’t been the daughter of former missionaries and pure as a lifetime of Bible memorization could make me, I might have had a little fun with someone like him before I left for college. But as it was, on the eve of my long-awaited departure, I wasn’t going to be derailed by anyone. No matter how handsome and interesting.

  Rafe came to church the next Sunday. I stood a few rows behind him, appreciating the breadth of his shoulders, the wide column of his neck, the blond-streaked curling brown hair touching his back. That hair had a lively, rebellious quality to it, haloing his head as if to express impatience with the rules and all that was mundane and usual. The tattoo I hadn’t got a good look at was peeking out of his shirt. I kept staring at his arms, trying to see what it was.

  He had a great voice and belted out the choruses of our weary old tunes in the dog-eared hymnal with an enthusiasm I couldn’t help but like. On the way back out, he hurried to catch up with me in the aisle.

  “What are you doing after this?”

  I turned my head, surprised. He was so tall I was looking at his collarbone. “Nothing in particular.”

  “Want to go for a hike? I hear there are some good trails around here.”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly. “I’d better ask my dad.”

  He grinned. “Tell him my intentions are honorable.”

  I blushed, that awful flare, and I saw him notice it by the widening of his nostrils, the expansion of his pupils as he looked down at me. I had to force myself to remember I was standing in the doorway of the church. I held my Bible over my cleavage like a breastplate.

  “Never mind. I don’t need to ask Dad. It’s just a hike. You know I’m leaving in two weeks, don’t you?”

  “Like anyone around here could forget it. You’re the boss’s daughter, the smartest girl on the island. Leaving paradise and going to Northeastern University.” He pronounced it in contemptuous tones. “I just want to go on a hike with someone who knows the trails around here.”

  “Okay, then.” I was so embarrassed by my self-important words that I could hardly get down the steps fast enough, but he was right behind me. “Let me get into some hiking clothes. I’ll take my bike and meet you at the park.”

  “Bring extra water,” he said, lifting a hand in farewell. “You’re going to need it.”

  I felt my heart
speed up with excitement as I got into the family station wagon for the short drive home. “What was Rafe talking to you about?” Pearl asked, pouting.

  “Nothing.” I didn’t want to deal with my siblings’ teasing or questions. “I’m going for a bike ride.”

  Saint Thomas, in the non-resort area we live in, is rural and green with steep, jungled mountains made of the bones of the ancient volcanoes that formed the island chain. I hurried into the house and changed into shorts and a tank top, bundling my hair into a ponytail and rubbing down with sunscreen as I headed into the kitchen to fill up a plastic water bottle.

  “Where are you going?” Mom was at the kitchen sink, washing something.

  “I’m eighteen. Do I have to tell you everywhere I’m going?” I exclaimed, and filled the water bottle under the cold artesian stream of water.

  “She’s going somewhere with Rafe,” Pearl said loudly.

  “Am not!” I screwed the top on. “Just taking a bike ride.”

  Mom’s hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. “Too much man for you,” she whispered.

  I didn’t dignify this with an answer and flounced out. I hopped on my old bike with its three speeds and the wire mesh basket in the front. That bike was how I usually got anywhere from our tiny town on Magens Bay.

  Rafe met me at the seed-tufted soccer field in the middle of what passed for town. He was driving a rusty old red truck that looked like it had been around since the sugarcane days fifty years ago. He wore shorts and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The tattoo I’d wondered about was a bald eagle pouncing, with claws extended.