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stairs, I told him I wanted to live in Anguilla and open the greatest restaurant in the Caribbean.
    â€œYou’re a nut case,” he said, and gave me a big hug.
    Signing a lease in Anguilla is a casual affair—at least for James. “Meet me at the shop in Long Bay,” he said. And there the three of us signed the life-changing document on the hood of a jeep in a dusty parking lot. James had a Heineken in his hand and was barefoot, and Bob and I marveled at the absence of lawyers and witnesses.
    Later we went for a drive, talking of names for the restaurant. Could we somehow combine our names and Jesse’s? Bomeljes? Jessmelbo? Meljebob?
    â€œWhy don’t we just call it Blanchard’s?” Bob said.
    â€œPerfect,” I said. “That covers the whole family.”
    We rounded a corner and came to a small harbor, where a half-dozen wooden fishing boats were anchored, bobbing like brightly colored toys. The boats bore names such as
Falcon, Rumrunner,
and—our favorite—
It’s a Business.
    We watched as one made its way to shore, its captain deftly maneuvering around the coral reef that protected the bay. His younger helper, bare feet planted firmly apart, kept his balance by holding a rope tied to the bow. He looked as if he were water-skiing on the deck.
    We walked down to the water to see what they had caught. The captain passed a large, bright yellow plastic tub over the side to his assistant, who now stood waist deep in the water alongside the boat, which was called
Blue Runner.
The tub was crawling with lobsters. It was clearly too heavy for the young man, who struggled to keep it from sinking as he towed it out of the water toward the beach.
    Bob kicked off his sandals, waded out next to the boat, and grabbed a handle. “Thanks,” said the young man.
    â€œI Thomas Rogers,” said the captain when he got back to shore. “That Glenroy. He my youngest. You come to buy lobsters?”
    â€œWe were just passing by,” Bob told him. “But we are starting a restaurant on Meads Bay. Would you be able to supply us with lobsters when we open?”
    While they talked, I settled myself on the beach and burrowed my toes into the cooler sand under the surface. The sun was directly overhead, and its magical warmth penetrated my muscles as I adjusted to island time. I felt unaccountably happy.
    Thomas didn’t notice several giant lobsters that had escaped from the tub and were scrambling down the beach, looking disjointed and prehistoric. Bravely deciding to retrieve the runaways, I tried to corner them using my shoes as a blockade. Since Caribbean lobsters have no claws, I thought they’d be easy to catch. I grabbed one around the middle. Its tail snapped against my hand so hard that I yelped and flung the creature into the air. By that time Thomas and Bob were enjoying the show, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. Saving me from further embarrassment, Thomas ambled over, lifted the feisty lobster by the antennae, and returned it and the other escapees to the tub.
    Glenroy appeared from behind the sea grape, driving his father’s truck onto the beach, and pulled up to the pile of buckets, gas cans, and other paraphernalia they’d unloaded from the boat. He and Bob stowed the lobsters and equipment onto the back of the truck while Thomas went back out, tied the boat to a buoy in the bay, climbed into a dinghy, and paddled for shore.
    â€œThomas gave me his number,” said Bob as we drove back toward Malliouhana. “He said he can catch as many lobsters as we need. And his cousin catches snapper.” He stopped, victorious. “Our first vendor on the island!”
    Grilled lobster with a honey glaze . . . crispy crusted snapper with curried rice . . . I could almost see the menu.

Chapter 2

    We had trouble paying attention in Anguilla. Unencumbered by walls, our blue beach umbrella created a delightfully distracting office. We forced