what you see today. Not many trees, anyone notice?”
“Yeah,” says Chelly. “I was wondering about that.”
Drew asks, “Remember the Falkland Islands pictures I showed you?” She nods. “I had a feeling the terrain here would be the same.” He glances to the sloping ground. “Looks like something cleared most of the vegetation.”
“No,” I answer. “It may look that way, but the rock under the surface makes it very hard for roots to form, making it a natural terrain for grasses.”
“Still,” Bob says, “I hoped for palm trees and bright flowers.” He eyes up a grouping of two-toned ornamental grasses. “It’s pretty, don’t get me wrong. I just hadn’t pictured grassy hills when I thought of visiting an island off Argentina.”
“Reminds me a little of Ireland,” Drew says. “From the pictures it didn’t seem as green, though. Now that I’m here it’s colder, and much windier than I expected.”
A two-foot tall black-and-white body waddles by, heading back to the cove, and I wait for the expected exclamations.
“Holy crap,” says Paul. “Did I just see a penguin?”
“Bet they don’t have those in Ireland.” Chelly leans into Drew and kisses his cheek. He whips around to gawk at the bird, and the group continues in this fascinated vein for a bit while we walk.
By their expressions, I’m betting only one or two of them even vaguely researched where we were going. Typical ignorant Americans. They really do make the rest of us look bad. Hell, Tommy is Australian and Drew is older than I am—there’s no excuse for the lot of them, really.
Vivian continues walking, ignoring the inane chatter from the group. She looks regal as she carries herself over the crushed stone drive, even in a jumpsuit. The lighted trails remind me of the winding pathways in Alaska, without the snow and different plants. I wonder if that was subconscious on our part when we directed Dalton to install them down here.
We gather on the terraced parking area near a group of electric utility and transport carts. They are larger and nicer than golf carts, but the principle is the same—compact, not built for speed, but designed to shuttle people and things for short distances.
Chelly looks around, the strong breeze whipping her long hair about while she takes in the many small buildings and road leading to the main house. “I’m getting the feeling like I’m walking through an episode of Fantasy Island more and more as the months go by.”
Drew laughs and squeezes her hand. “Vivian as Mr. Roarke?”
Before Chelly has a chance to clarify, Dria jumps in. “But of course, darling,” her eyes flash in a rare show of amazing good humor. “I’m proud to say you’re the first in a while to make the connection.”
The young blond woman straightens under the attention and smiles. “Classic TV. ‘Da plane, boss. Da plane’.”
We toss our bags in the carts and motor up the winding drive toward the main house. Bob, Tommy, and Paul make a big show of driving the cart while acting like fools. All in good fun and we’ve been cooped up in the plane, so I don’t correct their idiotic behavior. Dria must be thinking the same thing since she rarely suffers fools.
The largest grouping of buildings we pass look like old English country farmhouses, a style Vivian detests, and one most prevalent on these islands. She never lived in the houses here, flat out refused, making a rustic cabin instead. Said the old design reminded her of the homestead Mikov locked her in for over two decades. Can’t say I blame her for disliking it.
Dalton and his wife remodeled the dilapidated structures when they hired on. By then, the first portion of the main home was built and we didn’t have to field questions on why we lived in the crappy cabin. I’ve gotten used to my wife’s idiosyncrasies, but that tiny shack was never my favorite—like living in a windy coffin.
“Is that the caretaker’s house?” Drew asks from the
“Yeah,” says Chelly. “I was wondering about that.”
Drew asks, “Remember the Falkland Islands pictures I showed you?” She nods. “I had a feeling the terrain here would be the same.” He glances to the sloping ground. “Looks like something cleared most of the vegetation.”
“No,” I answer. “It may look that way, but the rock under the surface makes it very hard for roots to form, making it a natural terrain for grasses.”
“Still,” Bob says, “I hoped for palm trees and bright flowers.” He eyes up a grouping of two-toned ornamental grasses. “It’s pretty, don’t get me wrong. I just hadn’t pictured grassy hills when I thought of visiting an island off Argentina.”
“Reminds me a little of Ireland,” Drew says. “From the pictures it didn’t seem as green, though. Now that I’m here it’s colder, and much windier than I expected.”
A two-foot tall black-and-white body waddles by, heading back to the cove, and I wait for the expected exclamations.
“Holy crap,” says Paul. “Did I just see a penguin?”
“Bet they don’t have those in Ireland.” Chelly leans into Drew and kisses his cheek. He whips around to gawk at the bird, and the group continues in this fascinated vein for a bit while we walk.
By their expressions, I’m betting only one or two of them even vaguely researched where we were going. Typical ignorant Americans. They really do make the rest of us look bad. Hell, Tommy is Australian and Drew is older than I am—there’s no excuse for the lot of them, really.
Vivian continues walking, ignoring the inane chatter from the group. She looks regal as she carries herself over the crushed stone drive, even in a jumpsuit. The lighted trails remind me of the winding pathways in Alaska, without the snow and different plants. I wonder if that was subconscious on our part when we directed Dalton to install them down here.
We gather on the terraced parking area near a group of electric utility and transport carts. They are larger and nicer than golf carts, but the principle is the same—compact, not built for speed, but designed to shuttle people and things for short distances.
Chelly looks around, the strong breeze whipping her long hair about while she takes in the many small buildings and road leading to the main house. “I’m getting the feeling like I’m walking through an episode of Fantasy Island more and more as the months go by.”
Drew laughs and squeezes her hand. “Vivian as Mr. Roarke?”
Before Chelly has a chance to clarify, Dria jumps in. “But of course, darling,” her eyes flash in a rare show of amazing good humor. “I’m proud to say you’re the first in a while to make the connection.”
The young blond woman straightens under the attention and smiles. “Classic TV. ‘Da plane, boss. Da plane’.”
We toss our bags in the carts and motor up the winding drive toward the main house. Bob, Tommy, and Paul make a big show of driving the cart while acting like fools. All in good fun and we’ve been cooped up in the plane, so I don’t correct their idiotic behavior. Dria must be thinking the same thing since she rarely suffers fools.
The largest grouping of buildings we pass look like old English country farmhouses, a style Vivian detests, and one most prevalent on these islands. She never lived in the houses here, flat out refused, making a rustic cabin instead. Said the old design reminded her of the homestead Mikov locked her in for over two decades. Can’t say I blame her for disliking it.
Dalton and his wife remodeled the dilapidated structures when they hired on. By then, the first portion of the main home was built and we didn’t have to field questions on why we lived in the crappy cabin. I’ve gotten used to my wife’s idiosyncrasies, but that tiny shack was never my favorite—like living in a windy coffin.
“Is that the caretaker’s house?” Drew asks from the
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