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ourselves to concentrate—to work in a spot where the rest of the world comes to play. We sketched floor plans, our toes wriggling deeper into the sand as each new idea struck. Fat lizards puttered around us, their tails creating intricate patterns in the sand. They snatched tiny bugs with the tips of their long, long tongues—we were hypnotized.
Concentrate,
we told ourselves,
concentrate.
We moved paper cutouts of tables and chairs around on the plans until we were satisfied we had a workable layout.
    The existing restaurant was a disaster—the nautical theme reminded me of a poor imitation of “Pirates of the Caribbean” at Disney World. The bar was a termite-infested boat that crumbled when touched. Telephone poles draped with ropes and fishing nets held up the roof; lobster buoys, rusty anchors, and brass propellers rounded out the seaside memorabilia. The bathrooms were worse—hardly more than outhouses with a subway-corner scent. (I refused to go in.) A few pieces of equipment could be salvaged from the kitchen: a grill, a ten-burner range, and a small walk-in cooler. Serious scrubbing, we hoped, would revive them.
    The plans took a week. Frequent dips in the sea to cool off easily turned into an hour of lazy floating. We walked the crescent mile and back again several times a day—the wide, soft beach rarely had footprints other than ours. Solitude, I learned, can be its own distraction. My mind was constantly tricked by the sun into thinking I was on vacation.
Concentrate,
we reminded ourselves,
concentrate.
Despite the diversions, we managed to compile a list of building materials that filled an entire legal pad. Bob detailed every piece of wood, how many pounds of nails and screws, the number of shingles needed for the roof, and how many gallons of paint to finish it off. I added a Cuisinart, KitchenAid mixer, pots and pans, furniture, linens, glasses, dishes, silverware, candles, and on and on and on.
    â€œWhere do we find it all?” I asked Bob.
    â€œI think that lumberyard we keep passing is a good place to start,” he said.
    We pulled up in front of Anguilla Trading next to a tiny white Daihatsu pickup. Barely more than a toy, this adorable little truck seemed to be the vehicle of choice on the island. They were everywhere—hauling boxes, concrete blocks, even people.
    This one was earning its keep. It was loaded with fifty or sixty pieces of lumber protruding up over the cab and dangling precariously out over the tailgate, almost touching the road. The miniature wheelbarrow-sized tires were squooshed down by the weight, and we admired the ingenuity of the loading job before going into the store.
    From the outside, Anguilla Trading looked like it had a large selection, with toilets in a rainbow of colors displayed prominently in the window, tempting the passing motorist. Water pumps, rusty shovels, pickaxes, and five-gallon pails of paint adorned the entrance.
    Inside, we were in the dark. Not total blackness, but the lights were off and the store appeared closed. I knew from childhood visits to Deer Isle, Maine, that generating electricity on an island is expensive. Understanding this conservative approach made me feel a tiny thread of connection to life in Anguilla; I respected the darkness. The amount of hardware heaped on the shelves (and floor) took us completely by surprise. The inventory was staggering. Anguilla Trading is the Caribbean version of Home Depot. Bob rummaged through nails, which were in worn wooden bins like in the old general stores in Vermont, while I wandered around the corner and found myself in the gift department. Dishes, glasses, and toys sat alongside alarm clocks decorated with eagles and hearts, and an extensive collection of mop buckets overflowed into the Christmas ornament display. The store rambled on forever through rooms with couches, appliances, tools, and paint. I knew we’d be good customers.
    â€œAre you getting bitten in