Rum Punch Regrets Read Free

was painted in bright colors and zigzags (maybe this was where “Ziggy” came from?) and on the top of the front windshield, in the Rastafarian green, red and yellow, was painted big and bold: “ZIGGY.” The back of the white van displayed a bit of island wisdom: “You got to GO to come BACK.”
    Where am I? Abby thought as she shook her head and climbed into the back of the beaten-to-hell-and-back minivan.
    Ziggy tore out of the small parking lot and began the journey to the place Abby would be calling home for the next few months. As he flew at a race car’s pace through narrow dirt lanes, Ziggy pointed out the things she would need to know, like Ram’s, the grocery store that was not open on Sundays and closed at six o’clock in the evening all other days. There was a gas station, one of two on the island that was open on Sundays, but never open later than ten o’clock at night. Then came the bakery, a car rental lot, and a small stadium for rugby, cricket and soccer games. She could make out the lights at Port Zante, where cruise ships docked and the town would be overpopulated for a few hours while tourist dollars stimulated the local economy. Then there was Ricky’s, Ziggy’s favorite bar and a local spot for dive training. Ricky’s was attached to the Frigate Beach Hotel and the property also boasted a small but quaint beach with a view of Nevis, the other neighboring island. Ziggy made sure to toss all of this information Abby’s way like a machine gun, glancing in his rearview to make sure she was taking it all in.
    And she was. Abby nodded blankly. Grocery store, bar, gas station, bar, port, bar, bar, yeah, yeah, bar, yeah. Abby needed a shower, not a sightseeing tour right now. She couldn’t help but notice something else was lingering in the air of the vehicle. It was the smell of someone who had some serious pot in his or her pocket or possibly a skunk. This guy was packing some good shit.
    Ziggy slowed down after they went through a small roundabout, and without putting on his blinker he turned sharply to the left. Abby was thrown across the backseat and landed hard on the armrest.
    Well, she thought, the good news is I’ll be able to pass the driving test swiftly and with ease!
    They stopped at a gate in a partially hidden driveway. The wrought-iron doors swung open as Ziggy tapped the remote he held in his hand. He turned around and handed it to Abby. “Dis one be yours.” He smiled, showing her his sexy yellow teeth again.
    They pulled up the winding driveway and made their way through the lush green foliage to the house. The South American guys who had originally built it had named the spread “La Cantina.” They had lived there years prior, before selling it to Leigh’s ex, Kenny. In not-so-typical island fashion, it was a Spanish masterpiece that was set back off the main road, surrounded by palm trees and other dense tropical plants. Being not so well versed in trees and bushes of the islands (or anywhere, really), Abby only knew they were green and gorgeous.
    The South Americans were wise in the home design and landscaping. It had ultimate privacy, and there was plenty of land -- something that not many homes had here unless they were old plantations or sugar mills, as Ziggy was quick to point out. There were maids’ quarters on-site, but not where they could be seen from the main house, in addition to the two-story guesthouse that had been built after the pool was added.
    Abby was stunned when she saw it. The home was more of a manor than a little old cottage. There were balconies -- not just one, but two. The porch was massive, built with a Southern flair, stretching like fingers around to the back of the house, where it met with a stone patio. And the grounds were like those of a Beverly Hills home, perfectly manicured and neatly organized by color. Abby could tell that Leigh had had some influence on the landscaping as they pulled closer, recognizing some of the rose bushes from