How Stella Got Her Groove Back by Terry McMillan Page A

white blouse and she reminds me of me thirty years ago. I remember that make-do look. As I take my bottle of Ting over to where the General is I can see another girl standing in her bra and panties inside the living room of the house, ironing something. Our eyes meet and there is something like disgust in hers for me. I sort of get it, but I go ahead and sit on a handmade wooden bench and drink my Ting while the General drinks two Red Stripe beers.
    We have the most amazing view of the tip of the island and the view of the ocean is pretty much surreal—no one would believe this. I don’t believe this. I am sitting on a live postcard. Miles of dark green clusters lead down to the blue-green sea, where I can see fishermen sitting in small boats, waiting. I see coral reefs shaped like navy blue states on a map of the U.S. The sky runs into the water. This is a good place to pray, I think. You would be more inclined to tell the truth from this altitude and someone might actually hear you up here I betcha. Even if I had remembered to bring my camera you would have had to be here to feel this to take it all in because a photograph even a video would not have the same impact. You always lose something when you try to recapture rename what you saw or felt and I am glad that I am here and I will remember all of this without a camera and when I tell people about it I just want to be able to recount enough of the beauty so that one day they will want to see it for themselves.
    The General smokes his cigarette slowly and we sit there in relative silence for which I am grateful and as the two young girls come out of their home and take a tiny little key and put it in the tiny little padlock on their front door and disappear into a clump of trees, I’m wondering again what Winston might be doing. I guess I look a little perplexed because I hear the General say, “They’re taking the shortcut to town.”
    On the way back I practice my galloping but it is still too hard to keep up with Dancing Dan and I’m too hot and I am tired of smelling the General and so when we get back to the stables I am anxious to give him that twenty-dollar American bill and he is happy as hell and I tell him to go buy himself some smokes and I want to say a can of Right Guard would be a good investment but instead I say, “I think I worked up a sweat so as soon as I get back to the hotel I’m taking a long hot shower so I’ll not only feel clean but will smell fresh too.”
    “I don’t blame you,” he says and walks me down to the bottom of the road where the van is waiting to take me back to the hotel.
    • • • •
    It is lunchtime and in fact I don’t smell so fresh so I take my afternoon shower and put on my navy blue and white one-piece swimsuit and some white shorts over it and head for the beach. I decide to secure myself a chaise first and then come back and have lunch. I have to walk past the dining room in order to get to the beach so on my way there I look inside. The white tables are filled with two or three hundred people but somehow in the middle of all those folks I see Winston sitting all by himself and he is simply looking at me saying hello with his eyes. I wave but keep walking.
    To my surprise I feel relieved to have seen him, and to be honest—be honest with yourself, Stella—I really am fucking ecstatic, because why else is my heart beating so fast, so irregular? I get myself set up and see a few of my favorite honeymooners sleeping and slurping and then head back toward the dining room.
    His table is empty. My heart plummets and I am suddenly embarrassed because now I am totally aware of what is happening to me: I like this boy. I look around as if everyone has just heard what I’m thinking and I shake off the whole notion by piling my plate with pasta and seafood and forcing myself to eat every drop of it without once looking up from my table to see if he will reappear.
    He doesn’t.
    I spend the next hour or so doing