Lights Out

“In a well-chosen word,” said Trimble. “And what’s your involvement in all this grandeur?”

“I’m just here for the summer, helping Jack set up the waterfront program,” Eddie replied. He had an idea. “Do you have time for a trip to the reef?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Should I?”

“I would.”

“Why?”

“Hard to put in words. You really have to see it. Then the answer’s sort of obvious.”

The twin fires blurred again. “And after the summer?”

“I’m supposed to start college, at USC.”

“Very wise,” said Trimble.

A breeze stirred. The pig sizzled.

Eddie joined the others for dinner. They ate in the bar, sitting at a round wicker table. In the middle was a big glass bowl filled with sea water. Hibiscus blossoms floated on top and tropical fish netted by Eddie a few hours before-tangs, sergeant majors, royal grammas-swam below. Candlelight sparkled on the scales of the fish, the cutlery, the jewels on Mrs. Trimble’s fingers. Packer poured champagne, then raised his glass.

“A toast,” he said. “To our guests, Perry and the beauteous Mrs. T.”

“Hear, hear,” said Jack.

“And to this beauteous place,” Packer added. “To the Galleon Beach Club, Hotel, and Villas.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jack said.

They raised their glasses, drank. Eddie, looking up, saw the moon over the water. He had never seen it so white, so defined, so clearly not a disc but a ball, massive, powerful, even dangerous in some way.

Mrs. Trimble, sitting beside him, followed his gaze. “Beauteous, isn’t it?” she said, too quietly for anyone to hear but him.

Eddie smiled. Mrs. Trimble smiled back. She had platinum hair, an unlined face, plucked eyebrows, dark brown eyes. He couldn’t guess her age. Her husband looked about sixty.

“I hear you’re quite a swimmer,” she said.

“Jack’s the swimmer.”

She studied his face for a moment, then glanced across the table at Jack. He was draining his glass. JFK, wearing a white shirt and black vest, arrived with the first course-spiny lobster tails, an hour out of the water.

“Richesse de la mer,” he announced, in what sounded to Eddie like perfect, unaccented French.

They drank champagne. They ate lobster tails, conch salad, roast pig.

“The sauce is delicious, Evelyn,” said Mrs. Trimble. “Do you mind telling me the ingredients?”

JFK was summoned. “Onions, garlic, pineapple, herb.”

“Herbs?” said Mrs. Trimble. “What ones?”

Jack spoke before JFK could answer. “Lots of different herbs grow on the island. They’ve all got local names.”

“How interesting.” She turned to JFK. “Have you got an herb garden?”

“Many many,” said JFK. “I could be carryin’ you to one in the morning.”

“Wonderful. Let’s plan on it.”

“Mind slicing me some more?” said Jack. JFK moved off to the cutting board.

Packer poured more champagne. Eddie noticed that Mr. Trimble laid his hand over his glass, wondered whether Packer might leave his own empty. But he filled it to the brim, gulped, said, “Evelyn’s old man tells me you’re quite the world traveler, Perry-if you don’t mind me calling you Perry …”

Trimble nodded; now it was the candlelight that was reflected in his glasses.

“So tell me, Perry, in all your travels, have you ever come across a setting like the one we’ve got here at Galleon Beach?”

Trimble laid his fork and knife on his plate in the all-finished position. “I’ve seen some nice places, B-Brad. But as I was telling your able employee here-” He nodded across the table toward Eddie; Packer’s eyebrows rose. “-it takes a lot more than setting to make a project like this work.”

“He’d be a lot more able if he got a haircut,” Packer said with a loud laugh. No one joined in. Eddie saw that Evelyn’s fingers were wrapped tight around the stem of her glass, as though she were choking it.

“What does it take, Mr. Trimble?” Jack asked, pushing his own glass away.

“In a word? People. It all depends on the people.”

“Christ, I’m glad to hear you say that,” Packer said. “Hasn’t that been my code since day one, Ev?”

Evelyn said: “What do you look for in people, Mr. Trimble?”

“Perry, please.”

“Perry.”

He gazed down at his plate. There was still a lot of roast pig on it, untouched. “Values, Evelyn. I look for values.”

“Values?” said Packer.

“Honesty. Integrity. Loyalty. Reliability. Faith-in spouse, in family, in God.” There was a silence, followed by a loud pop from the driftwood fire. Trimble looked up. “That’s all. It’s simple.”

“What about imagination?” Jack asked. “Drive, determination, education, shrewdness, brains?”

Trimble smiled. He had big, uneven teeth, angled, jagged. “That’s my end,” he said. “The question was what do I look for in my people.”

Packer checked his watch. “How about a snort of V.S.O.P.? Then we can take a gander at the plans, if that suits you, Perr.”

“I’m anxious to see them.”

Not long after, Packer and Trimble were sitting at the cleared table with the plans and a bottle of Remy. Evelyn and Mrs. Trimble had gone for a walk on the beach. JFK was in the kitchen. Eddie and Jack stood by the fire, cognac glasses in hand.

“What do you think?” Jack said.

“About what?”

“Everything. So far.”