Will Work For Love by Amie Denman Page A

half roof. Focused on her. It would have
been nice to tell him the whole story about how her business
manager and her friends were urging her to take a leap of faith and
expand the business into manufacturing jerseys, T-shirts, and
uniforms they were only silk-screening and embroidering now. The
profits could eventually really grow with a move like that, but
she’d have to make a big investment in a building, equipment, and
lots more employees. Big risk.
    A risk she was not sure she was up to taking right
now. And at this very moment, looking over the beautiful water and
watching St. Thomas disappear was a lot more appealing than
thinking about the bottom line back home. She didn’t say anything,
and Chris didn’t ask.
    When they approached the harbor and docks at St.
John Island, the sun was sinking a little lower in the western sky.
Whitney noticed the sundown at about six o’clock yesterday, so she
knew they only had about two hours of daylight left. Maybe she
would get to enjoy the sunset from the water tonight. At the dock,
a man with an ancient battered pickup truck waited.
    “Hey, Chris,” he said, with a sweeping, full-armed
wave “Thanks for making a special trip over here.” He grabbed the
ropes Chris threw onto the dock.
    “No problem, Sammy,” Chris said.
    Sammy glanced onto the boat and saw Whitney sitting
in one of the captain’s chairs. She waved. “I can see that. No
problems today,” he said.
    Sammy was middle-aged with ebony skin and thick gray
hair cut very short. His face was permanently wrinkled into laugh
lines. Although he effortlessly tied the boat to a post on the dock
with one hand, the lower half of his other arm was missing.
    “Got my truck waiting here,” Sammy said, gesturing
at the end of the dock. “If I help you unload, you’ll still have
time for a sunset cruise,” he added, grinning at Whitney.
    “I can help, too,” she said, extending her hand as
she stepped out of the boat. “I’m Whitney Oliver.”
    “Sam Flemond.”
    They worked quietly for the next ten minutes or so,
carrying supplies off the boat, down the short dock, and stacking
them in the bed of Sammy’s truck. Whitney and Sammy carried heavy
items together, both unsteady and staggering a little on the narrow
dock. Once, Whitney nearly stepped off the dock, but she felt a
steadying hand on her back.
    “Be careful,” Chris said. “Good help is hard to come
by.”
    She turned around and saw Chris’ infectious grin
that had them all laughing as they finished unloading the boat and
loading Sammy’s truck.
    “Thanks, Chris,” Sammy said. “What do I owe you for
the delivery?”
    “Nothing at all, I was coming over today
anyway.”
    Sammy looked doubtfully at the empty boat.
    “Sightseeing tour for Whitney. She’s never been here
before.”
    Sammy’s face lit up. “Never been to St. John? It’s
the best island in the Caribbean.”
    “I can see that already,” Whitney said.
    “How about showing her the view from your place?”
Chris suggested.
    Sammy looked shrewdly at Chris. “I know what you’re
up to, and I appreciate the offer, but I can’t keep you. Not when
you’ve got other plans.”
    “I was just thinking that maybe your wife had been
up to some baking today. You know I never turn down food.”
    “If you want to come along down the road, we’ll see
about some pie.”
    Chris winked at Whitney and put an arm around her.
“Do you mind a little side trip?”
    “I’m all yours,” she said.
    The three of them squeezed into the cab of Sammy’s
truck and drove five minutes down the road. Sammy stopped in front
of a dilapidated group of houses missing windows and showing
weathered boards. Several of the small homes had tarps covering
parts of their roofs.
    “I didn’t know you needed shingles, too,” Chris said
quietly. “I can bring those next time.”
    “You’ve done enough. Wait here while I see if the
wife has some extra pie to send with you for the return trip.” He
winked.