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“Do I want to know how big the challenge?”
“Well, at the moment, we still have electricity, plumbing, and a comm tower.”
“As opposed to?”
Trudy grins at me. “Storm’s still early yet.”
Then she roars up over a small rise, and MacManus’s private lodge comes into view.
TRUDY DROPS ME off in front of a spectacular front porch. She promises to check on me in an hour; then she’s off in a spray of water. The woman definitely likes to drive.
I mount the front steps with supplies in hand, happy to be on my own where I can gawk and inspect without having to explain my curiosity to others.
Needless to say, this “cabin” is a huge step up from my modest abode, a vast rectangular structure closer in size to the mess hall but twenty times nicer. The overhang of the sprawling front porch is supported by polished tree trunks, which gleam like pillars of gold against the rain-swept sea. On a sunny day, the view from here must be insane. Even in the midst of today’s gray-walled downpour, there’s something mesmerizing about standing within the shelter of the porch while watching the storm-tossed sea.
A deck this large fairly begs for a row of rocking chairs with bright-patterned pillows. I don’t see any, but it’s possible they’re tucked away given the conditions. The front door appears to be solid wood, the inset panels bearing the carved shapes of island flowers and tropical fish. I run a finger along the flowing designs, marveling at the detailing. This door probably costs more than most people’s homes. It is both unbelievably gorgeous and incredibly frivolous, given what this level of heat and humidity will do to it in the end.
The door is framed in dark charcoal-painted trim, set against a deep-red exterior, which makes this the only building on the property I’ve seen that isn’t blue or green.
Apparently, MacManus likes to stand out.
I shed my shoes, raincoat, and umbrella, then square my shoulders and prepare to enter. The door immediately puts up a fight before eventually yielding with a groan. Definitely feeling the impact of its tropical living conditions. Is it a testimony to MacManus’s arrogance that he chose such a door? I wonder. Or indifference? And which is worse?
Even though all the exterior walls are essentially windows from halfway up, the inside of the lodge remains heavily shadowed, the storm sucking all the light out of the place. I locate three switches next to the door. The first snaps on two vast overhead lights set in the middle of sleek ceiling fans. The second switch gets the fans swirling. The third makes the lower half of the walls glow. I’m so taken aback I stop and gape.
Unlike my cabin with its exposed stud beams, MacManus’s house boasts a completely finished interior, including dark-painted baseboards. Above each trim piece runs a bead of lighting, which I just activated. Ingenius, especially at night, when too much light would impede the exterior view, while not enough could lead to stubbed toes.
If the home makes the man, so far MacManus is elitist, arrogant, indifferent, and brilliant. A dangerous combination.
I set the bucket of cleaning supplies inside the door and get my bearings.
I’ve entered the main living room. Beautiful hardwood floors striped in red and gold tones stretch before me, while the vaulted ceiling is finished in something equally exotic.
The walls are painted a light sage with dark-gray trim. The furniture is overstuffed and covered with a tropical print, flowers swooping across the cushions in shades of green, blue, and coral. That sets the stage for a massive dining room table with seating for eight and, to its left, a U-shaped kitchen featuring white glazed cabinets and charcoal soapstone.
It looks and feels like a designer showroom. Will this be the model for the luxury resort to come? If so, I’m already disappointed. The whole vibe of the base camp, with its stripped-down aesthetics and quirky charm, is lost here. Frankly, this kind of high-end oceanfront retreat could be on any island anywhere in the world.
I already think a wolf spider would give the place some personality. Maybe I can convince Wolfie to move. But not Crabby. He’s grown on me, especially now that I know how much he likes flowers.
Behind the main living area, I discover a hallway leading to three bedrooms. On the right is clearly the main bedroom dominated by a king-size bed and a massive, mirror-topped dresser. The attached bath is modest—tiny vanity, stand-up shower, toilet. Luxury compared to what the rest of us have, but no doubt a step down from the mogul’s usual haunts. Across from the main bedroom are two smaller rooms sharing an adjoining bath. One of the rooms offers an efficient double bed, two nightstands, single dresser arrangement. The second room contains a twin bed, a lone nightstand, and that’s it. Room for the help, I expect. Or maybe for Lea?
When she’s not being summoned to the master’s chamber.
I shudder despite the pervasive heat, then return to the entryway where I left my mop and bucket.
I’m not sure what to do next. All of the beds are stripped bare, decorative quilts folded at the foot of each mattress. Remembering Ann’s comment about musty sheets, I search till I discover a small closet bearing a stacked washer and dryer. Shelves to one side reveal stacks of folded linens. I sniff experimentally. Ann definitely has a point. I pop the first batch into the dryer with some kind of lavender-scented sachet. Now that I appear properly engaged if someone drops in, I tend to my real mission—trying to learn more about MacManus and his alleged ward, Lea.
I start in the main living area, searching for personal items—framed photographs, books, artwork. The side tables next to the couch offer up reading lamps and ceramic coasters, that’s it. Ditto with the lounge chairs in the other half of the room. The whole design seems to be about taking advantage of the view outside, not promoting the space inside.
The dining room wall offers up three broad shelves, each a lustrous masterpiece of undulating wood that seems less like it’s mounted on the wall than flowing across it. The lower two shelves are topped with a collection of crystal glasses, high-end candles, and a wine decanter. Up high, however, is an item of interest—a roughly twenty-four-by-eighteen-inch work of abstract art. I have to climb on a dining room chair to reach it. With a self-conscious glance over my shoulder to make sure Trudy hasn’t returned, I grab the painting by its thin wooden frame and drag it down.
At first glance, it’s an evocative study of swirling greens and blues. There’s something about the shape in the middle that holds my attention, however.
I blur my gaze, blink it into sharp focus, and then I get it. It’s Pomaikai, an artistic rendering of the atoll sitting in the middle of the ocean. Upon closer inspection… I see darker colors shading some of the beaches along the perimeter, as well as subtle featherings of orange, yellow, and red lining the green vortex.
The proposed development plans. Has to be. The yellow would be the existing base camp, the cluster of red the lodge I’m currently standing in, which makes the streaks of orange dominating the northern space, farthest from the airstrip, the future resort. It’s a substantial imprint, dominating nearly a fourth of the atoll. I remember where Ronin’s comment about trees most likely being removed to improve the ocean view and the impact on the island’s bird and sea life. The proposed size feels too big to me. I already think Crabby and his friends won’t approve. The coconut crabs, on the other hand… Maybe tourists taste like chicken.
I’m struck by another thought—is the envisioned resort footprint near the area where Ronin and I were this morning? I’m not that well versed in the island’s geography, but I could ask someone else.
