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“No. You’re going to need money and I won’t be with you. Take it.”
“Fine. But I don’t plan on spending much.”
Kissing me on the forehead, he turns to the door once again. “Mine,” he calls out as he closes the door.
We arrive on Providenciales and try to flag down a cab, which is not an easy feat. After a few attempts, we are rewarded with a ride.
“The Windsong resort, please,” Miranda tells the driver. He nods and takes off. His driving is reminiscent of a New York taxi driver, speeding through red lights, weaving in between cars, and alm
ost hitting a pedestrian while making a sharp right. I grab on to the holy-shit-bar atop the window and hold on tight.
“I wonder who’s performing tonight,” Amanda muses aloud as we slide across the seats from our daredevil cabby’s turns.
“Performing?” I ask. “I thought it was a club.”
“It is, but not the kind of club you’re thinking,” Miranda tells me. “Sometimes it’s a comedy act, others times it’s a band or orchestra.”
“I’m hoping for musical,” Amanda says.
“Either way, it’s home of the sixty ounce margarita and I can’t wait to get my hands on that,” Miranda says , bouncing up and down.
Our driver gets us to our destination quickly and in one piece. Miranda reaches over the seat to pay the driver as we exit the car.
The resort is gorgeous, but everything in Turks and Caicos is gorgeous. We follow Miranda behind the hotel reception entrance to The Havana Club.
“We’re early. The show doesn’t start until nine-thirty,” Amanda says.
“That gives us more time to drink,” Miranda counters.
“I don’t plan on drinking much. The last thing I need is a hangover in paradise.”
“Oh , Olivia! Let loose and have fun!” Miranda says, giving me a playful shove.
We walk inside the club to flickering wall sconces, richly finished wall moldings, and a dramatic, dark cypress ceiling. It’s all very authentic. A young gentleman escorts us to an informal reception area and invites us to enjoy a game of craps or Texas hold’em and drinks before the show.
“What’s tonight’s performance?” Miranda asks him.
“A comedy show, ma’am,” he responds.
“Really? I wanted to dance,” she says, a pout across her lips.
“Me, too,” Amanda concurs.
As the gentleman walks away, I mutter to myself, “We have almost two hours to kill.”
“Let’s get this party started,” Miranda says. “I need a drink.”
“Oooh, me, too,” Amanda agrees. Both girls rush toward the bar while I trail behind.
Not yet crowded, we find a large enough space at the bar to accommodate all of us. “Can we have one of those huge margaritas?” Miranda asks the gentleman behind the bar. He doesn’t look like your typical bartender, dressed in a light cotton golf shirt and straw fedora.
“Absolutely, madam,” the gentleman says, with a distinct Caribbean accent.
“I love your accent! Say something else,” Amanda squeals.
“How many do ya need?” he asks, purposely exaggerating his words.
“I don’t want—”
