This story starts out a little slow, but it is, hopefully, the beginning of a series that will pick up a bit in the next chapters. Let me know what you think.
As in all of my stories, all of the women in this series will be based on real women that I've known . . . SOME quite intimately, others just as friends, but still fantasized about. Some of the stories will also be based on true events.
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I was in my late thirties and newly divorced when I found out that an uncle of mine was dying of cancer. My Uncle Charles was, much like me, the "black sheep" of the family. He and his late wife, Margaret, never had children, so they looked at me as their son.
When Aunt Margaret had just passed away, I knew that it hit my uncle hard, having been with her for more than 50 years.
After her burial, Uncle Charles and I sat down, alone, and started working on a bottle of his favorite Irish Whiskey. As we drank, he told me about a piece of property that he owned in the Carribean.
Everyone in the family had heard rumors of this place, but no one knew for sure that it existed, for Uncle Charles felt that no one deserved to see it, being the way that he was treated by them all.
"I'm dying, boyo," he told me. "I've been fighting the cancer for a year now, and without my Maggie, I just don't care. I miss her already, and I want to be with her."
At that point, my uncle was in his early nineties, but still as tough, stubborn, and feisty as could be. As much as I could not believe that he was giving up, I understood his reasoning.
Before I could say anything, he continued. "I want you to have my land," he told me. "You deserve it, and you'll love it."
He went on to describe it, and then told me, "I want you to have it, but I'm not going to leave it to you in my will. There's no reason you should pay a tax on something that I worked for, so I'm going to sell it to you."
At that, he pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and slid it across to me.
"I had my solicitor draw this up," he told me as I started to read it.
I was reading a sales contract for his property, in Jamaica. According to the contract, he owned thirty acres of oceanfront property, that he was selling me for the sum of $1.
"Are you sure this is legal?" I asked in disbelief. "ONE dollar?"
"As I said," my uncle informed me, "my solicitor drew it up. I assure you that it's quite legal. Because I owned it back when the Brits controlled the place, I'm grand-fathered in on owning property, and so is any family member I sell it to."
"Either you buy it from me, or you pay Uncle Sam, and the Jamaicans, an immense amount of taxes, along with legal fees. I do believe that this is the wiser choice, isn't it?" he continued.
"Yes, I have to agree, it is the much wiser choice," I said.
"So, give me a dollar, lad, and it's yours."
Being no fool, I did as was told, we shook hands on the deal, and drained our glasses.
"What is this stipulation about the caretakers?" I asked, as I reread the contract. "And the other one about not selling the place to developers?"
"Ahh, the Livingstons have been with me since I bought the place, right after the war," he said. "They're good people, hard working, and I don't want them without a home, especially after all they've done for me and my Maggie."
"I also don't want the place to become one of those damn 'super-resorts' that have overtaken the islands. For fuck sake! Enough of that over-development nonsense! My getaway has charm to it, and I want it to stay like that!"
"If that's a problem, lad, you can have your dollar back and the deal's off," he said simply, pouring us another round.
"It's not a problem at all," I replied, smiling at my uncle. "I just wanted to know."
"Good. I knew you were a smart lad, and fair," he responded.
"Now, you should know that you won't have to worry about the upkeep of the property. I know you're comfortable, but there's a wee fund stashed away for taxes and maintenance, along with another for the Livingstons to live on."
"That's not a problem," I assured my uncle, and we drank the night away.
A little over a month later, we were burying my uncle. I was the only family member with him when he passed.
After the funeral, the family was shocked, and a bit outraged, not only to hear that my uncle's property did indeed exist, but that he had already sold it to me.
Before I decided what to do with the property, I knew that I had to go see it, so I booked a flight and packed my bags. At the time, I was on a seasonal lay off from my construction job, so getting the time off wasn't a problem.
I spent the next few weeks in Jamaica, enjoying the warmth and sunshine, and getting to know my new piece of property.
I was quite pleased to find that it was in very good condition, despite my uncle not being there for a few years, and having very few paying guests at all.
I met the Livingstons, who consisted of the mom, Betsy, a slightly chubby but very cute, bright-eyed, dark-skinned woman who looked a couple of years older than me, her daughter Rita, who appeared to be in her late twenties, and her son Valentine, who was in his mid-twenties.
Rita was about 5'3", maybe 115 lbs, and had a skin tone that reminded me of coffee with a splash of Bailey's. She had a look of innocence that was almost disarming, and a beauty that definitely was.
Her brother, Valentine, was a foot taller than Rita, and rock solid. Like his sister, he had his mother's bright eyes, which I knew must drive the women crazy, along with his build and his sense of humor.
Betsy, along with running the family, ran the kitchen, Rita took care of the business end of the property, and Valentine was the handyman/driver/landscaper/etc.
The property included eight villas, four of them one bedroom and the other two were two bedroom, along with a house that Betsy and her family lived in and a main house which would be mine.
The main house was relatively small, at about 1000 sq. ft., and included a large patio that had a gate opening to a walkway down to the ocean and an outdoor shower. The house also had a small working kitchen and two bedrooms, along with one larger living/dining room. It was perfect for me.
I spent the first night having dinner with Betsy and her family, getting to know them. I also found out quite a bit about my uncle that I had never known, including the fact that he had been knighted by the Queen for his heroic actions in WW II.
That night, Betsy amazed me with her cooking, and she was just as pleased knowing that I liked the local cuisine, as well as knew quite a bit about it and the culture and history of the island.
The next few days were spent with Rita filling me in on the business aspects of the property, as well as how things really get done on the island, and she and Valentine showed me around the area, introducing me to people that I needed to know to keep things running smoothly.
The more time I spent with them, the more impressed I was. They were both highly intelligent, easy going, and had a great sense of humor, all things that carried a lot of weight with me.
On my third day there, I had a meeting with my uncle's local solicitor, a short, elderly man named Peter, who's ties with my uncle went back to when he first bought the property.
At that meting, I discovered that my uncle's "wee fund" that he had stashed away consisted of more than a two million dollars, money that he had made from business ventures back in Ireland, England, and the islands when he was younger.
He had deposited all of his earnings into various banks, letting the interest accrue, and he wanted all of it to go to the upkeep of his "get away." This was in addition to another half-million stashed away for the sole purpose of maintaining the Livingstons.
Peter also explained that while he was retired, he had a gentleman's agreement with my uncle to remain on as his local counsel, and that if I wished, he would be honored to remain so. I assured him that if my uncle trusted him, so did I, and we shook hands on our own agreement.
