Anne McAllister - McGillivrays Mistress

S OME PEOPLE called it sculpture. Lachlan McGillivray begged to differ.

As far as he was concerned, the monstrosity on the beach in front of his elegant upscale Moonstone Inn waspure and simpletrash.

What else could you possibly call the nightmareten feet high and growingthat had begun to arise a month ago from the flotsam and jetsam that washed up on Pelican Cays beautiful pink sand beach?

Delightfully inventive, an article in last Sundays Nassau paper called it. A creative amalgam, the Freeport newspaper had said. Fresh and thought-provoking, the art critic from a far-reaching Florida daily claimed.

Deliberate nose-thumbing, was Lachlans opinion. It was just Fiona Dunbar having a go at him.

Again.

Fiona Dunbar had been a pain in the posterior his posterior!since he and his family had moved to the small Bahamian island when Lachlan was fifteen.

Life in suburban Virginia with its soccer leagues and its supply of cute blonde cheerleaders had been all hed ever wanted back then. Being uprooted and transplanted to a remote Caribbean island just so his father could satisfy a need for wanderlust at the same time that he pursued his career as a family physician had infuriated Lachlan, though the rest of the family had come willingly enough.

In fact his brother, Hugh, two years younger, and his sister, Molly, six years his junior, had been delighted to trade their stateside existence for life in the sticks.

Theres nothing to do there! Lachlan had complained.

Exactly, his father had said happily, looking around at the miles of deserted beach and the softly breaking waves and then up the hill at the higgledy-piggledy scatter of pastel-colored houses, its 350-year-old rusting cannon, and the half-overgrown cricket field with its resident grass-mowing horse. Thats just the point.

Lachlan hadnt been able to see it then. Hed thought it was the most boring place on earth, and hed said so often.

So leave, Mollys best friend, the supremely irritating Fiona Dunbar had said, sticking her tongue out at him.

Believe me, carrots, I would if I could, hed replied.

And he hadas soon as his acceptance had come from the University of Virginia. Hed been gone four years, returning only occasionally to see his parents. Then hed gone on to Europe to play soccer in England, Spain and Italy, and had come back even less often, and then only to regale family and friends with tales of life in the fast lane.

But oddly, the longer he was gone, the more he found himself remembering the good things about Pelican Cay. The more hed awakened in the morning in this big city or that one and listened to the birds cough, the more fondly hed remembered waking to island birds and island breezes. The more he moved frenetically from one place to another, the more he appreciated the slower island pace. He liked the autobahn and the Louvre and the centuries of European culture. He liked French cuisine and Italian delicacies and Spanish wines. But sometimes he missed a slow amble down a potholed road, a one-room island historical society, the 350-year-old rusty cannon, a plate of conch fritters and a long cold beer.

A couple of years ago, when Hugh had come back to start his island charter service, Fly Guy, in Pelican Cay, even though their parents had moved back to Virginia, Lachlan had thought his brother had the right idea.

Ill probably come back when I retire, too, hed said.

Hugh had raised dark brows. And do what?

Hugh had gone to college, then into the U.S. Navy where hed been a pilot for eight years. But always a beachcomber at heart, hed finally bolted the regimented world and was never happier than when he was lying in a hammock, drinking a beer and watching the waves wash up on the shore.

That was not Lachlan. Lachlan had always had goals. Hed made up his mind at the age of twelve that he was going to be the best damn goalkeeper in the world and hed never swerved from his pursuit of that.

While his parents had scowled at his profanity, theyd admired his determinationand his success. Hed spent sixteen years as one of the best goalkeepers in the world. But even he couldnt play in goal forever.

It was a young mans game. A young healthy mans game. Retirement had come last summer, at the age of thirty-four, when a serious knee injury had so compromised his quickness that Lachlan knew it was time. His mind was as quick as ever, his anticipation as great. But he would never get his edge back physically. And he refused to play down a level.

There was only one place to beat the top.

Fortunately, hed been buying up real estate for the past four years. Eighteen months ago hed decided on his post-soccer career and had, with his customary determination, set about accomplishing it. First hed bought the Mirabelle, a small elegant inn at the far end of Pelican Cay. It was already a thriving business and he could step right in whenever he wanted to. That made sense to everyone.

But when the Moonstone, then called the Sand Dollar, came on the market and he bought that, everyone had been appalled.

What the hell are you going to do with that? Hugh had demanded. The eighty-year-old, three-story clapboard structure with its peeling paint and sagging verandas had looked like nothing but work to him.

Ill restore it and refurbish it, Lachlan had said, relishing the prospect.

What do you know about building restoration? Hugh raised skeptical brows.

And Lachlan had had to admit hed known very little. But the challenge drove him. Hed thrown himself into it with vigor and enthusiasm. Hed learned and studied and worked. Hed hired lots of help, but hed been right in there doing his part, determined to turn it into the best damn inn in the Caribbean. It had been open over a year now, and was doing very well.