It’s off to the shed with a get in behind to the dog. The girls need milking, so it’s into my gummies and I’ll catch you later.” With a final nod and smile at Jack, the young man leaped over the table and trotted away.
“Could you translate that?” Jack asked Kiri under his breath.
“He said goodbye.”
“You Darwinians sure have an odd turn of phrase or two,” Jack muttered.
“I’m Fijian,” Kiri told him. “And oyster boy Derek was born in Tasmania. Darwin seduces, Jack. It becomes home, no matter where you were born.” She began heaping a plate with lobster, scallops, eel, crayfish and paua —abalone, in Jack’s part of the world. “The local seafood, our kaimoana , is unrivaled,” she assured him. She offered her plate to him, and lifted a tiny red crustacean to his mouth.
“You eat baby lobsters here?” Jack wondered, politely refusing the dainty creature. “That’s illegal where I come from.”
“This is a yabby. A freshwater crayfish. It has a beautiful, toasty flavor.”
Deciding to stick with what looked most familiar, Jack opted to sample an Australian scallop served on its pearly purple half shell.
“Who’s the host of this party?” he asked.
Kiri’s full lips drew into a smirk. “J.T. Marchand.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Who’s it for?”
“Sally Huatare. She’s head housekeeper at Marchand Manor.”
Jack scanned the crowd with as much feigned disinterest as he could muster with Kiri tugging at him and speaking nonstop at his elbow. There were plenty of men around, but none who fit the image Jack had formed of the Stanford-educated attorney and demagogue of a small island kingdom. Most of the men on the beach were too young, buff and undressed, or too old, relaxed and tattooed to be J.T. Marchand. Jack’s brow wrinkled in frustration as he tried to reconcile the reclusive man of power he’d researched with the generous employer who would throw an extravagant beach party for a servant. Jack decided to bide his time and wait for a suitable opening in which he could ask Kiri to point out Marchand.
She led him farther along the buffet. Barbequed meats and vegetables flavored with cinnamon, cumin, ginger, saffron and even vanilla assailed his senses before he encountered the sweet brilliance of the dessert table.
“This is passion fruit tart,” Kiri told Jack as she tried to slip a thin wedge between his lips. He took it from her, all the while eyeing the other desserts arranged among fragrant and colorful blossoms set upon beds of ice. “Levora Solomon’s rose petal ice cream,” Kiri said, pointing to a pale pink confection before introducing the rest of the desserts. “Pineapple sorbet, cinnamon ice cream with poached pears and raspberry vacherin.” Kiri selected the last dessert for herself. “The vacherin is my favorite. It’s a meringue shell filled with fruit salad and topped with raspberry sorbet.” She spooned a luscious dollop of whipped cream onto the plate beside the meringue shell. “It’s paradise on a plate, Jack.”
Male and female servers, some topless and in native dress and others in traditional Western beachwear, chatted amiably with the party guests. The line between worker and guest blurred with the servers leaping over tables to join the group dancing in the sand apart from the buffet.
“There are so many people here,” Jack mentioned casually. “Sally must be pretty popular.”
“Sally is friend or kin to just about everyone here.” Kiri leaned closer to Jack and used her spoon to point out a short, dark-haired woman who appeared to be about Levora’s age. “I grew up with her oldest daughter. She’s in America now, living in California. She went to school there. J.T. paid her way through college.”
Jack leaped, inwardly thanking Kiri for the perfect opening. “Is J.T. Marchand still here? You don’t have to introduce me. If you could just point—”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to that.” Kiri bumped
“Could you translate that?” Jack asked Kiri under his breath.
“He said goodbye.”
“You Darwinians sure have an odd turn of phrase or two,” Jack muttered.
“I’m Fijian,” Kiri told him. “And oyster boy Derek was born in Tasmania. Darwin seduces, Jack. It becomes home, no matter where you were born.” She began heaping a plate with lobster, scallops, eel, crayfish and paua —abalone, in Jack’s part of the world. “The local seafood, our kaimoana , is unrivaled,” she assured him. She offered her plate to him, and lifted a tiny red crustacean to his mouth.
“You eat baby lobsters here?” Jack wondered, politely refusing the dainty creature. “That’s illegal where I come from.”
“This is a yabby. A freshwater crayfish. It has a beautiful, toasty flavor.”
Deciding to stick with what looked most familiar, Jack opted to sample an Australian scallop served on its pearly purple half shell.
“Who’s the host of this party?” he asked.
Kiri’s full lips drew into a smirk. “J.T. Marchand.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Who’s it for?”
“Sally Huatare. She’s head housekeeper at Marchand Manor.”
Jack scanned the crowd with as much feigned disinterest as he could muster with Kiri tugging at him and speaking nonstop at his elbow. There were plenty of men around, but none who fit the image Jack had formed of the Stanford-educated attorney and demagogue of a small island kingdom. Most of the men on the beach were too young, buff and undressed, or too old, relaxed and tattooed to be J.T. Marchand. Jack’s brow wrinkled in frustration as he tried to reconcile the reclusive man of power he’d researched with the generous employer who would throw an extravagant beach party for a servant. Jack decided to bide his time and wait for a suitable opening in which he could ask Kiri to point out Marchand.
She led him farther along the buffet. Barbequed meats and vegetables flavored with cinnamon, cumin, ginger, saffron and even vanilla assailed his senses before he encountered the sweet brilliance of the dessert table.
“This is passion fruit tart,” Kiri told Jack as she tried to slip a thin wedge between his lips. He took it from her, all the while eyeing the other desserts arranged among fragrant and colorful blossoms set upon beds of ice. “Levora Solomon’s rose petal ice cream,” Kiri said, pointing to a pale pink confection before introducing the rest of the desserts. “Pineapple sorbet, cinnamon ice cream with poached pears and raspberry vacherin.” Kiri selected the last dessert for herself. “The vacherin is my favorite. It’s a meringue shell filled with fruit salad and topped with raspberry sorbet.” She spooned a luscious dollop of whipped cream onto the plate beside the meringue shell. “It’s paradise on a plate, Jack.”
Male and female servers, some topless and in native dress and others in traditional Western beachwear, chatted amiably with the party guests. The line between worker and guest blurred with the servers leaping over tables to join the group dancing in the sand apart from the buffet.
“There are so many people here,” Jack mentioned casually. “Sally must be pretty popular.”
“Sally is friend or kin to just about everyone here.” Kiri leaned closer to Jack and used her spoon to point out a short, dark-haired woman who appeared to be about Levora’s age. “I grew up with her oldest daughter. She’s in America now, living in California. She went to school there. J.T. paid her way through college.”
Jack leaped, inwardly thanking Kiri for the perfect opening. “Is J.T. Marchand still here? You don’t have to introduce me. If you could just point—”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to that.” Kiri bumped
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