Excerpt From 'A Moveable Feast'

The dinner bell told a different story.

I arrived at Sapphire in one of the ubiquitous Kawasaki Mules — a motorized vehicle that's bigger than a golf cart but not as sturdy as a Jeep — that every renter on the island is given after landing at the airport. My "staff" were dutifully lined up, waiting to greet me as a I drove past the gates: two gardeners, with whom I would have very little to do during my week's stay, busy as they were puttering around the lavish grounds; two maids — Pearl and Pat — both of whom would become pals, at least for a week; and Donna Jacobs, who ended up a friend.

It's hard to settle into a villa meant for parties of six, seven, eight or more when you're only one person. It's difficult to relax.

I broke the ice with the worst kind of small talk, mentioning to Pearl, the matriarch of the group, that it had been raining on Barbados when we changed planes. "Did it rain here?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," she said, "the rain, it came down." Ah, that lovely, lilting Caribbean way of phrasing. Islanders always seem to add a dash of sunshine to their speech, making English sound almost musical — no mean feat for what is not the most melodious language on the planet. I was starting to melt. Could the ice be far behind?

I took my seat in the formal dining room, so beautiful and shimmering in candlelight but also open to the breezes swirling through the house. The room was off a central courtyard filled with exotic plants and trees, where birds and butterflies swooped and soared with no regard for man-made boundaries. The warm moist air turned the rambling house sultry, a tropical Wuthering Heights above the sea, open to nature's seduction.

"Here is the bell, to ring when you want your next course," Pat told me, attempting to hand over a dainty little glass ornament that would have looked more at home in a Park Avenue dining room than on a sunny Caribbean estate. At first, I laughed without meaning to. Then I balked, and stood up, pushed my chair under the table and marched directly into the uncharted territory of the kitchen.

Donna was stirring the contents of a pot on the stove. I approached, picked up the lid, and said, "What's for dinner?"

William Sertl is former travel editor of Gourmet. Permission to publish granted by Lonely Planet.