The Sea Grape Tree by Gillian Royes

from so far away?”
    â€œEverything I need is on the Internet, from the Wall Street Journal to the latest books and research data. I can write from anywhere, even Largo.”
    Several inches shorter than Sarah and some ten years older, Sonja had a kindness to her rounded features, despite the spiky hair. Before dinner that first night, she’d taken Sarah on a tour of the house. There were three floors: the lower level, where Sarah was lodged; a middle floor with a living and dining room, Sonja’s office, the kitchen, and a deck; and a top floor, where three bedrooms and bathrooms opened off a sitting area.
    Roper’s office and studio were in a separate building behind the house and up a path of flat stones. The smell of oil paint and turpentine greeted them when Sonja opened the door to the high-ceilinged room. Canvases of all sizes, most between three and six feet tall, were stacked against the walls in various stages of completion. One painting had the artist’s bold one-name signature scrawled on the bottom (the R in Roper dominating the other letters). On two easels were half-finished paintings, one of a nude woman with a basket of flowers on her hip, the other of a group of market women, the artist’s style a blend of realism and impressionism. The women’s features were symmetrical and their expressions peaceful, their skin painted with hues of browns and blues and greens.
    â€œNow that I look at his paintings,” Sarah commented, “I see Jamaica in them. I didn’t really understand them in London. They seemed overwhelming, full of passion and color.”
    â€œLike the man himself, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œI don’t really know him—”
    â€œYou will,” Sonja said with an impish grin. “He’s larger-than-life.”
    â€œAnd all his subjects are women.”
    â€œWomen are the creators, and he’s reaching for the eternal through them.” Her hostess winked at her. “So he says, anyway. I have to respect that.”
    â€œDon’t you get jealous? He must have models.”
    â€œI used to. When you live with an artist, though, you have to accept the whole package, and that includes his ­subject matter. So far,” she said, knocking on the table she was leaning on, “his philandering has been limited to canvas­—as far as I know, anyway.”
    It turned out that Sarah was not to be the only guest. “We’re expecting a couple from New York,” Sonja had explained over dinner. “He’s a trumpeter, an old friend of Roper’s. I have to check, but I think they’re coming in a day or two after Roper comes back.” Sarah had gone to sleep that night certain that the couple, along with Roper and Sonja, would turn into a foursome, herself the odd one out, as usual.
    A wave broke in front of her and pushed up the hilly slope of sand. Turning the sketch pad to a fresh page, Sarah drew another four-by-four square. The constant motion of the water was starting to frustrate her, her attempts to capture it unsuccessful. Her rapid pencil strokes quickly became irrelevant as the foam pulled back and prepared for another onslaught.
    There was only one way to capture a close-up of a wave’s movement, she decided, and pulled her digital camera out of her bag. After turning it on, she rested her elbows on her knees and steadied the camera. Focusing on the slope of the beach in front of her, she zoomed the lens in and waited. As soon as she heard the pause of another wave curling over, preparing to crash to the sand, she clicked—and photographed a large brown foot planted in the middle of the foam.
    â€œShit!” Sarah muttered, and looked up. The owner of the foot had already passed and was streaking toward the end of the beach. Wearing only a pair of red trunks, the invader was a strapping local man, by the looks of it, his shoulders thick with muscle, his bald and shining head held