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here?” I asked Bob, back by the nails. I balanced on one foot, scratching my ankle with the other.
    â€œYeah, I think they’re sand flies,” he said. “There’s so much here, but I can’t find what I need. Most of these nails are for concrete. Let’s go out and look at the lumber.” I followed him out the back door and down some rickety steps. Squinting to adjust to the bright light outside, we roamed around piles of cement blocks, rolls of rusty wire, and stacks of crooked lumber. I knew what Bob’s reaction to the lumber would be. He is not only a good builder but a fussy one. Bob eyed the two-by-fours dubiously, picked up a few, sighted down the length of each, and discarded them in disgust.
    â€œThese things look like Twizzlers,” he muttered. “I couldn’t build a pigpen out of this stuff.” It was apparent that the preferred material for construction in Anguilla was concrete, not wood.
    Bob disappeared into another building, and I sat down on the pile of two-by-fours, tilting my face up to the sun—even in a lumberyard, it felt warm and reassuring. Across the channel, St. Martin’s emerald mountains were circled in mist, and for a moment time was suspended.
This is not vacation,
I reminded myself for the billionth time.
    â€œMel, I found the plywood,” I heard over the roar of a muffler-free dump truck. It was backing up directly toward me in a gray cloud of exhaust.
    â€œComing,” I yelled back, knowing he probably couldn’t hear me over the din of the truck. Jumping over muddy puddles and climbing over mounds of crushed stone, I made my way toward the ramshackle building where Bob had located the plywood.
    â€œHere it is.” He beamed as if he had unearthed a diamond mine. He was ecstatic to locate something on his list. Plywood has never really made me jump up and down, but Bob’s excitement was contagious, and I admired the stack of splintery wood with equal enthusiasm.
    Crossing the soggy yard, the dump truck splashed past us, splattering our legs with mud. We climbed back into the main building and stood for a minute while our eyes adjusted again from the bright sunshine.
    â€œGood afternoon,” said a good-looking gentleman from behind where we were standing. “Can I help you find something?”
    â€œGood afternoon,” we replied in unison.
    Bob said we were looking for the plywood price, and the man was curious about who we were. Once we introduced ourselves, we learned we were speaking with Walton Fleming, an Anguillian entrepreneur who was taking good advantage of the island’s growth. Walton owned not only this huge retail emporium, but also the Anguilla Great House Hotel. Unlike the more luxurious properties on the island, the Great House oozed Caribbean charm. Colorful little cottages trimmed with painted shutters and surrounded by palm trees lined the beach. Visitors who chose to stay with Walton were transported to a more low-key Caribbean. A week at the Anguilla Great House could make even the most high-powered executives relax. Life there was as simple as it gets.
    Walton asked the young lady behind the sales counter to help us with prices, and she sifted through a giant black notebook searching for the information. I told Bob I’d meet him in the car; the sand flies had rediscovered my ankles, and I was anxious to get outside.
    â€œOkay,” he said absently, not wanting to turn his attention away from the sales clerk. “Do you keep the drill bits out back?” he asked, pointing to a plastic case that had clearly held drill bits at one time.
    â€œBits finish,” she answered, and resumed her slow, patient search.
    â€œBut since the case is still here, you’ll be getting in more bits, right?”
    She stopped thumbing through the notebook and stared blankly at Bob. “I ain’ know,” she said with a shrug, and went back to her task. Like everyone in Anguilla,