Someone Else's Ocean

Half an hour prior, I’d been in my plush sun chair on my porch with a freshly corked pinot when I got the call.

“At Ease Property Management, Koti speaking.”

“Koti, this is Stephanie Osborne.”

“Hi, Mrs. Osborne, are you enjoying your stay so far?”

“I am, but we have an issue.” I took a well-

deserved sip of my wine as I prepared for the worst. I loved my job, but there was always that one guest that could make said job a living hell. The Osbornes had only checked into their villa three hours prior. One call was typical from a new guest, even with the inch-thick notebook that was on the counter, filled with every single piece of information they would need. It was her fourth call since I left them.

“How can I help?”

“Well, there was a large iguana next to the pool.”

I choked down my laugh. “Yes ma’am, it’s common on the island.”

“I understand…” she said hesitantly, “and that’s fine. He gave us a fright, but that’s not the problem.”

“No?”

“Well, it seems he decided to relieve himself next to the pool.”

I sat up in my chair. “In the pool?”

“No, next to it.”

“I’m not following.”

“There’s iguana excrement next to the pool.”

I was already downing my wine and took my final swallow before I braved a reply. “Okayyyy.”

“I was wondering when you would be by to pick it up?”

And there you have it. My new life in a nutshell—sans new Jimmy Choos and Christmas at Rockefeller Center—now the proud owner of an anorexic bank account.

I threw the poop in the trash can and inhaled a calming breath as I scanned her three-million-dollar view which consisted of deep blue to aqua surf and the neighboring island—St. Johns.

Nothing bad happened here, at least not in my private universe. The universe I created when I left my toxic life in New York and retreated to the one place I remembered being happy.

If the island could cure me, I was sure after a few days it would work wonders on Mrs. Osborne.

“Can I help you with anything else while I’m here?”

With curious, crinkled eyes she looked up at me from where she sat. “Do you really make your own electricity here in St. Thomas?”

“Actually, no, we buried a giant extension cord below the ocean from the States.”

It was my best friend Jasmine’s line for people who weren’t smart enough to believe differently. I had never used it until I was forced to pick up iguana crap.

Mrs. Osborne—a seven-day refugee from Long Island—sat with a magazine on her lap, mouth open, her eyes on the surf while she pressed her brows together to try to make sense of it. I bit my lip to keep my laugh hidden. She was old money and hadn’t earned a cent and it was painfully obvious. She’d clearly ignored the thousands of solar panels set up all over the top of the mountains as she was chauffeured in.

What was even more ironic was that I used to spend hours of my life on the phone with women just like her, answering endless questions and catering to their every whim much the same as I was at that moment, but for a much larger paycheck. Watching her ungreased wheels turn was entertaining, but I had a breathing bottle to get back to. “Well if that’s all, I’ll leave you to it.”

The announcement of my departure led to another set of questions. “Is it true we will be bathing with rainwater?”

“Yes, Mrs. Osborne, as I explained when you arrived, we do use the rainwater since there are no real alternate water sources. The rain is captured by the gutters and then drained into a filtration system underneath the house. It’s completely safe. I’ve checked your water level and it looks good for the length of your stay but feel free to give me a call if you need some delivered.” Studying the excess amount of skin around her eyes and the sagging lady flaps underneath her arms, I was sure she wasn’t worried about the pH of the water affecting her skin. Still, she was a beautiful older-looking woman. I had to give her credit, she put in a ton of effort when other women her age wouldn’t.