The Sea Grape Tree Read Online Free Page B

the bed. It was definitely overweight, according to the airline’s website.
    â€œRepacking time,” she muttered. Some of the clothes would have to go. The art supplies couldn’t be eliminated.
    â€œBring everything you need,” Roper had declared on the phone, “because my place is in the bush, and it’s a long, rough road to town.”
    She dumped the contents of the suitcase on the bed. No need for a fancy wardrobe if the place was as remote as he said. The lavender outfit she’d bought that afternoon, after hours searching for summer garments, would be enough for special evenings, if any. The rest would be more practical gear, old painting pants, shorts, underwear. She repacked, rolling every item of clothing to save space, and added a wide-brimmed straw hat, purchased at the last minute when she had an image of her face turning as red as her hair.
    She glanced at the bureau mirror, daring to look again at the woman who stared back, this person she didn’t yet know. The mousy brown hair she’d had all her life had been replaced by bright red locks, the fringe hanging like fiery exclamation marks above her eyes. The rather ordinary blunt-cut bob that had been a convenience now looked edgy and aggressive.
    Three days before, when she’d emerged from the bathroom after the dye job, Penny had been standing in the hallway talking on her mobile. She’d stopped abruptly to shriek.
    â€œOh, my God, Sassy’s gone and dyed her hair re d !” she’d said to someone on the phone.
    Sarah had given her hair another rub with the towel. “What d’you think—I mean, honestly?”
    â€œIt’s fabulous, totally not you!”
    Penny was right, of course, because standing out had never been on Sarah’s radar. Ironically, it had been the very desire to melt into the background that had driven her to the opposite of her intention. She’d been sure—having experienced the vibrancy of Notting Hill Carnival more than once—that if anything would stand out in Jamaica, it would be her pallid and very temperate appearance. And the last thing she wanted was to look like a pale tourist, a target for beggars and con artists.
    To blend into a tropical country, she’d decided, she’d need to be a bit more colorful than usual, and she’d start with her hair. A likable sales assistant had talked her out of Topaz Glow and into Poinciana Passion , a more fashionable color, the girl had assured her, and, conjuring up images of exotic flowers, Sarah had taken the plunge.
    The instant she’d looked in the mirror after emerging from the shower, Sarah’s heart had sunk. Her first thought was that it looked like a fire had broken out on top of a five-feet-ten-inch pole. Her entire face looked different in contrast to the blindingly red hair. The pale skin had become paler, the lean face leaner, and the cheekbones more prominent and dramatic. Her long neck, which her mother had compared to that of a swan (and she to an ostrich), looked longer than ever. She’d stand out like a bloody sore thumb, she’d thought glumly. The hair would be the first thing everyone would notice, because Jamaicans didn’t have red hair—at least none that she’d ever seen. She would be the only person on the island with Poinciana hair.
    Retrieved from the dustbin, the dye box condemned her to a flaming future. Do not apply fresh color before four to six weeks, the instructions had read.
    Bad enough that she was going to live with total strangers in Largo, but now she’d be living with a face and hair that looked disturbingly unfamiliar for at least another month, maybe longer. The whole experience was beginning to feel bizarre, but it was too late to turn back. The agreement had been made and the ticket had been bought.
    Swallowing hard, Sarah returned to the last of her packing, adding several large sheets of paper in a plastic bag, which she fitted