The lights of the capital receded. Loretta stirred in her tote, waved her arms, and noisily filled her diaper. "Uh-oh," David said. He opened the window. The wet-dust smell of hot tropic rain filled the car. Another aroma crept under it, spicy, pungent, haunting. A kitchen smell. Nutmeg, Laura realized. Half the world’s nutmeg came out of Grenada. Real natural nutmeg, off trees. They rounded a bay—lights glittered from an offshore station, lights on still water, industrial glare on gray clouds overhead.