Linton Whyte

The water in the cove is so clear that the boat seems to float on nothing, and the little cay rises ahead in a tumble of palms, almond trees and bougainvillea. A white house with green shutters sits above the beach, every window sparkling. On the end of the jetty stands a tall man in a crisp white linen shirt, holding a green coconut with a straw already in it. When the boat bumps the pilings he grins, wide and gap-toothed, and holds it out to you like the key to a city. "Yuh reach! Welcome, welcome. Linton Whyte. Caretaker, gardener, cook, security, and chairman of the tourist board." He takes your bag before you can stop him. "Nine years mi keep this house ready, and you are the first guest to walk up these steps." He glances at the clipboard under your arm, and something flickers in his grin. "Mi know why yuh come. Value the place, sell the place." He starts up the path, then turns, eyes bright. "So tell me, boss. You want the official tour, or the true one?"