Chapter 1
Gods of Paradise
January 1972
Mustique Island, the Grenadines
The bow of Willy Mayâs boat, Otrera, cut the waters like a butter knife, winking along the waves. Willy Mayâs first glimpse of Mustique Island had not been of the palm groves dancing in the breeze or the ivory beach wrapping the three-mile isle like a satin ribbon. Her eyes had been cast down into the deep blue, and she wondered if she had been brought here on a foolâs errand. Her new British friend, Davey from Trinidad, had convinced her to come.
One night while a soca band played a calypso beat and tiki torches lit up the Port of Spain harbor, Davey had turned to her and said, âHow about popping by Mustique to say hello next week?â
As if Caribbean islands were everyday homes in an everyday neighborhood.
Davey knew a guy on MustiqueâArne Hasselqvist, a celebrity Swedish architect, who was causing quite the hubbub among those who had the means to own a piece of paradise. But thatâs the thing with Shangri-la, only the elite are invited. In Mustique, like most places, money and title were prerequisites.
The sunlight shimmered like a crowning aurora. The closer they came to the shore, the calmer the sea, reflecting a rippled image of Willy May on the glossy surface. The sea spray held her hairâs natural wave in place. Sheâd worn it in various styles throughout her life but now, at forty-five, it was shoulder length and honey blond with a little help from Clairol. Her cheekbones Vâed prominently, making her look perpetually on the verge of puckering to speak or laugh or blow a kissâwhatever the viewer wanted to believe. And once soft as a cream rose, her skin had been sunbaked to a nut. Sailing had changed her in that way and many others.
Itâd taken three years to circle the entire earth, starting in Bristol Channel and moving eastward. The drive to attain the goal had fueled her every moment. But having done so, the thought of another rotation made her tired. So, sheâd gone in the opposite directionâwest to the Caribbean, for a respite.
Now, as she looked down into the watery mirror, the pouches beneath her eyes stood out. The crowâs-feet at the corners were new, too. She frowned at herself, and then stuck her hand straight through the middle of her face to see beneath the surface.
An inch separated Otreraâs hull from the coral. Mustique was laced in a massive reef. Like porcupine quills, it kept the island safe. There was only one entry: Britannia Bay. Davey had warned her that an attempt to dock at any other location would result in the shipâs grounding.
The island was in an amphidromic point. Tideless, in essence. But if the earth shrugged one way or another, if the balance of water to air hiccupped, ruin was inescapable. Such was life, Willy May knew.
Before her first mate, Ronnel, could secure the boat to the dock piling, two men in blazing-white suits, espadrilles, and straw hats welcomed her to the pier.
âAhoy, ahoy there!â they greeted in a British clip.
One took off his hat and waved it excitedly, exposing a tanned bald head.
âWelcome to Mustique!â said the other.
Willy May shielded her eyes against the glare.
Otrera kissed the landing and Ronnel knotted the hitch. Willy May would have been more comfortable tying the dock lines and placing the fenders herself but fought the urge. A woman of means would never do that, and first impressions were everything. So, she pushed her shoulders back and pressed her lips together. Old lipstick from the morning pulled dry at the corners. She went without a lot of things as a sea woman but never without color cream on her lips. Sheâd feel more naked without it than the emperor in his new clothes.
Davey gestured to the slender man with the bald head. âMay I introduce the master of ceremonies, Mr. Colin Tennant, heir apparent to Baron Glenconner.â
âPlease, just call me Colin.â Colin bowed in Edwardian fashion. âDelightful to have you on our island.â
Oddly charming, thought Willy May. Like a grown-up version of Peter Pan, sprite-like while homely human. Unsure if she was supposed to curtsy in theatrical return, she put her hands on her hips instead.
Colin turned to the man at his side. âThis is Hugo, my business partner. We were chums at Eton. Hugo knows everything about everything so if you want to know anything, heâs got the encyclopedia in his noggin.â
Hugo nodded hello.
âI presume you havenât eaten,â Colin went on. âBut even if you have, you can eat again. The heat stokes the metabolism. Itâs one of Anneâs biggest complaintsâthe incessant sweating. But when sheâs home in Scotland, her dresses fit like a glove without girdle or tights. Have you seen the new hosiery at Selfridges? Fabulous. I love a costume, donât you? We put on our own dramatics, you see. I ordered a whole case of different-colored tights, polka dots and animal prints, during Princess Margaretâs last visit. Naturally, it turned out to be the hottest summer on record, so nobody was in the mood to wear them. We strung them on fishing poles as streamers instead . . .â
He rambled a soliloquy as he led her down the wharf. Over her shoulder, she caught eyes with Davey, who put up both hands as if to say, Whatâs to be done but go along?
A golf cart parked at the edge of the beach where the sand turned to crabgrass.
âPrincess Margaret is building a châteauâat the southern tip of the island. We gave her the plot as a wedding gift. Better than any of the bric-a-brac usually dispensed at weddingsâWaterford vases and Leavers laces,â he singsung. âOne never really knows what to do with the stuff. Instead, we offered a piece of the Garden of Eden!â
He gestured for Willy May to sit in the passenger seat, which she did. Her mind whirled on his chatter and the thrill of knowing that the rumors were true: Princess Margaret was a resident.
âHugo, Daveyâhurry up!â Colin called back. âWe donât want our Texas beauty queen wilting in this heat!â
Willy May had won the Limestone County Beauty Contest in 1942, which automatically made her the queen of Central Texas. It came with a twenty-five-dollar prize and a yearâs worth of milk from the local dairy sponsor. Her parents, William and Gretchen, were day laborers. Sometimes her mom cleaned houses. Sometimes her dad did carpentry or plumbing. They were a Jack and Jill of all trades and masters of none. The mention of her past made her earlobes sweat. Willy May hadnât told Colin about her history. But that was the thing with money, it bought you secrets. Yours and other peopleâs.
Hugo and Davey slid onto the back bench of the golf cart and their foursome took off with a jolt over flattened bamboo and fallen manchineel leaves. A large sign warned: poisonous. do not eat the small green apples. do not stand under trees when it rains. avoid touching the flowers and sap. avoid breathing pollen. toxic. lethal. avoid.
Willy May felt a tightness in her chest and realized she was instinctually holding her breath. The men made no mention of the poisonous grove blanketing the island. Was it too late to get back on her boat and sail away? The wheels of the golf cart sprayed sandy dirt as Colin pressed the acceleration and they sped onward.
Behind her on Otrera, two island men collected Willy Mayâs luggage off the deck while Ronnel tied down the sails. He would sleep in the crew bunk and stay on to keep watch. Part of her was jealous. Otrera had become home since her divorce. Sheâd created it with her own hands.
Boatbuilding had started as a hobby. On a lark, she and her ex-husband, Harry, had built another vessel named the Stingray. They used it for holidays and annual family sails, going as far as Shanghai. Her daughters, Hilly and Joanne, had been small then. Theyâd easily fit into one bunk and loved sleeping head to toe, toe to head. Theyâd been glued at the hip at those tender ages and shared a root attachment that seemed to transcend even her own to them. Willy May found their sisterhood fascinating. She and Harry hadnât much experience with sibling bonds, both being only children.
Harryâs mother was the daughter of an earl whose pedigree was heavy but bank account light. She married an aging tradesman, Philip Henry Michael Sr., of the vastly successful Michael & Boutler Brewery. Harry was the blue-blooded prince of his household, the sole heir.
As a father, Harry knew little of raising girls. Truth be told, neither did Willy May. But she kept that to herself. She was their mother. Her choices were their choices. Her daughters were part of her, sprung from her deepest hope. She wanted them to experience the world and rise to be part of it. And look how well theyâd turned out.
Hilly was a model and actress, and Joanne was studying to become a musician. Willy May was proud of them both. They were artists, the heroes of their own lives.
To onlookers, the cardinal sin in their family had been the divorce. Such a sordid affair. She hadnât expec...
