Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  I glared at Tara who sank in her chair confirming my worst fear. Apparently, there was a feeling worse than what I felt just hours ago.

  Ella waved frantically for my attention.

  Daddy, what is it?

  It’s okay, sweetheart. I just need a minute with your mother. Tara, I need to speak to you outside.

  I walked the hall quietly, trying to steady my heartbeat with even breaths as she followed slightly behind me. I made it to the garage barely able to handle the rattle under my skin from the rage that threatened.

  I turned on Tara abruptly and she stopped just short of hitting my chest. She was beautiful. At one point in time, I thought she was the most beautiful woman alive. At one point in time, I couldn’t imagine a life without her. At one point in time, I would’ve taken a bullet for her, no questions asked. She had been my life. She had been my purpose, my meaning, my everything. Seething, I fisted my hands at my sides and tried to hold my bite, but it was impossible. I prayed I would owe her an apology for the thoughts that surfaced.

  “I’ve always given you credit for being more intelligent than you actually are. But by the look on your face, you’re frightened about something that can’t be true.”

  Tara stared at the stripes on my necktie.

  “Look at me.”

  Her eyes shot to mine and were full of fear, tears threatening.

  “Because in order to determine paternity, it would require more than a blood test.”

  “Ian—”

  “I know my damned name. Fourteen years I was your husband, and fifteen her father. Tell me now, Tara. Right. Fucking. Now. Tell me my suspicions are ridiculous. Tell me Ella belongs to me in every sense. Tell me.”

  “Ian—”

  “Tell me!”

  Fear and trepidation marked every inch of her as all the anger dissipated out of me in one breath and devastation took its place.

  Don’t ask her, Ian. It doesn’t matter. Don’t ask her!

  I pointed behind her. “Tell me that’s my little girl in that room that calls me, Daddy, not his. Tell me I didn’t lose my life to your selfish fucking whims. Tell me!”

  Incredulous tears fell down my face as my heart bottomed out.

  “Tell me she’s mine, Tara,” I croaked, my face soaked, my heart obliterated. “Don’t do this to me. Please, I’m begging you. If you ever loved me at all, tell me she’s mine.”

  “She is your daughter,” she offered weakly.

  “But I didn’t father her, did I?”

  Chapter One

  Koti

  I don’t always feel like a failure, but as I picked up the iguana crap from the side of the pool, a small glimpse of the life I left behind hit me in a flash—sipping a designer martini with a killer view of the city from the thirty-fifth floor, a healthy bank account, and the feel of a new pair of heels.

  “Freezing your ass off in those heels,” I muttered, studying my chipped blue toenails in the flip-flops I wore.

  “Pardon?” Mrs. Osborne asked as I removed the ‘excrement’ that she had called about fifteen minutes after I thought I’d finished my day.

  Holding the warm crap in my hand, I studied Mrs. Osborne lying in a lounge chair covering herself with thick glue-colored sunblock while inside the house, Mr. Osborne scoured the five-bedroom rental opening every single cabinet and drawer. “I think we’re all set.”

  Half an hour prior, I’d been in my plush sun chair on my porch with a freshly corked pinot when I got the call.

  “At Ease Property Management, Koti speaking.”

  “Koti, this is Stephanie Osborne.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Osborne, are you enjoying your stay so far?”

  “I am, but we have an issue.” I took a well-deserved sip of my wine as I prepared for the worst. I loved my job, but there was always that one guest that could make said job a living hell. The Osbornes had only checked into their villa three hours prior. One call was typical from a new guest, even with the inch-thick notebook that was on the counter, filled with every single piece of information they would need. It was her fourth call since I left them.

  “How can I help?”

  “Well, there was a large iguana next to the pool.”

  I choked down my laugh. “Yes ma’am, it’s common on the island.”

  “I understand…” she said hesitantly, “and that’s fine. He gave us a fright, but that’s not the problem.”

  “No?”

  “Well, it seems he decided to relieve himself next to the pool.”

  I sat up in my chair. “In the pool?”

  “No, next to it.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “There’s iguana excrement next to the pool.”

  I was already downing my wine and took my final swallow before I braved a reply. “Okayyyy.”

  “I was wondering when you would be by to pick it up?”

  And there you have it. My new life in a nutshell—sans new Jimmy Choos and Christmas at Rockefeller Center—now the proud owner of an anorexic bank account.

  I threw the poop in the trash can and inhaled a calming breath as I scanned her three-million-dollar view which consisted of deep blue to aqua surf and the neighboring island—St. Johns.

  Nothing bad happened here, at least not in my private universe. The universe I created when I left my toxic life in New York and retreated to the one place I remembered being happy.

  If the island could cure me, I was sure after a few days it would work wonders on Mrs. Osborne.

  “Can I help you with anything else while I’m here?”

  With curious, crinkled eyes she looked up at me from where she sat. “Do you really make your own electricity here in St. Thomas?”

  “Actually, no, we buried a giant extension cord below the ocean from the States.”

  It was my best friend Jasmine’s line for people who weren’t smart enough to believe differently. I had never used it until I was forced to pick up iguana crap.

  Mrs. Osborne—a seven-day refugee from Long Island—sat with a magazine on her lap, mouth open, her eyes on the surf while she pressed her brows together to try to make sense of it. I bit my lip to keep my laugh hidden. She was old money and hadn’t earned a cent and it was painfully obvious. She’d clearly ignored the thousands of solar panels set up all over the top of the mountains as she was chauffeured in.

  What was even more ironic was that I used to spend hours of my life on the phone with women just like her, answering endless questions and catering to their every whim much the same as I was at that moment, but for a much larger paycheck. Watching her ungreased wheels turn was entertaining, but I had a breathing bottle to get back to. “Well if that’s all, I’ll leave you to it.”

  The announcement of my departure led to another set of questions. “Is it true we will be bathing with rainwater?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Osborne, as I explained when you arrived, we do use the rainwater since there are no real alternate water sources. The rain is captured by the gutters and then drained into a filtration system underneath the house. It’s completely safe. I’ve checked your water level and it looks good for the length of your stay but feel free to give me a call if you need some delivered.” Studying the excess amount of skin around her eyes and the sagging lady flaps underneath her arms, I was sure she wasn’t worried about the pH of the water affecting her skin. Still, she was a beautiful older-looking woman. I had to give her credit, she put in a ton of effort when other women her age wouldn’t.

  “You’ll deliver water?”

  Please, God, I just want to go to my happy place.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, well as long as we won’t run out.”

  “Have a good night.”

  I was halfway to the sliding door that led to my exit and the waiting bottle of wine when she spoke up behind me.

  “Wait. Is it safe to drink, you know, or is it like Mexico?”

  * * *

  “Get the Osbornes settled?” I could hear the smile in J
asmine’s voice—she must have known when she took the reservation they would be a pain in the ass. I drove along the mountainside enjoying the breeze and glanced over the cliff to see a cruise ship had come in while I was at the Osbornes’.

  “Shit.”

  “What?” Jasmine asked through the speakers in the cabin of my Jeep.

  “The cruise ship came in while I was dealing with shit, like literally. Now I’ll never get home.”

  “What?” she asked absently.

  “What to which part? I just picked up iguana crap. In fact, I was summoned to pick up iguana crap. Thanks, boss.”

  Jasmine’s laugh belted out while I navigated through a thousand tourists. Shipwreckers walked around like new babies with their cell phones, arms up in selfie poses clicking away at the scenery while risking their lives in the rush of traffic.

  “The ship never shows up this late. Damnit, I’m going to miss the sunset.” Routine was crucial to my well-being and the sunset was often a focal point of my day. For me, it was a finish line of sorts.

  Parked in traffic, I surveyed the sparkling water next to me. It would never get old. Even when I got gray and ceased grooming, and had grown my own pair of lady flaps, I would enjoy the same view.

  “All you do is complain, Koti.”

  I shoved a fistful of French fries from my brown-bag dinner into my mouth. “Liar. I hardly ever give you grief. I’m the best employee you have.”

  “You’re the only employee I have, so there is no comparison.”

  Swallowing my food, I laid on the horn as a van veered slightly toward the median. In the rearview, I saw a lady whose attention seemed to be on anything but driving, her phone hanging out the window to get the perfect picture of the surrounding bay.

  “Hey, lady, pay attention to the road!”

  Jasmine ignored my shriek. “What are you doing tonight?”

  I filled my mouth with more fries to keep from answering.

  “Oh… let me guess. Nothing. Again,” she chided. “Come join me, I’m at the wine bar.”

  “No,” I cut her off quickly. “No, no. No, lady, no. Last time we did ladies’ night, I ended up flashing my thong to a hundred people.”

  And it was the best night I’d spent in St. Thomas, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. If there was one thing I’d learned, it was that you can’t repeat the same good time twice. And the only reason I partook in that night was because I was half-drunk before we got to the bar.

  Jasmine’s infectious laughter was welcome amidst the chaos that surrounded me. “That was a great night. And if you would act a little more twenty-nine than eighty-nine we could have more of them. Besides, I only took one picture. One.”

  “If that picture even exists.” She was forever threatening me with evidence she never produced. “I’m fine with being a homebody. You know I prefer it.” I laid on the horn again just as an old Cadillac cut off my progress. And seconds later, as if some cosmic force decided battling traffic on a ship day wasn’t enough, a chicken—lady flaps spread wide—appeared on the hood of my Jeep and came straight for me.

  “ARE YOU KIDDING ME!” I swung my arm out in a knee-jerk reaction. “Shoo!”

  “What? What’s going on?” Jasmine asked, more amused than concerned as I took up the inch of space between me and the car in front and tapped on my brakes to try to get the bird off my hood. The stoic chicken didn’t budge.

  “A rooster just jumped on my hood!”

  “You are shooing a chicken?”

  “Is there chicken-speak etiquette?” Apparently, there was, because the chicken came toward me like it knew I had a freshly plucked, chopped, deep-fried and wrapped relative in the brown sack next to me. “It’s attacking my windshield!”

  Honking the horn, I stood on my brakes as the rooster closed in. It would have been an easy jump into the open cabin of my Jeep. I was in full-on panic mode as the bird bobbed and weaved like we were in a Tyson fight. I might as well have put hot sauce on my ear because that bastard was ready to brawl and take a piece of it.

  “What do I do?”

  “It’s a chicken,” Jasmine cackled, “Shoo it away.”

  “You are such an asshole,” I screeched, as her laughter filtered through the speakers. I rarely ever spoke on the phone while driving. Car accidents were the most notorious killer. And my Jeep just so happened to be a deathtrap as well. But the Jeep didn’t actually belong to me. It was on loan like much of the rest of my life. I had no choice but to drive it around the mountainous terrain of St. Thomas. The cloth hood made zero difference in safety. I’d checked. Being able to drive the SUV at all was my first milestone in the many I’d conquered in the last year. I wasn’t about to throw them all away for a psychotic chicken.

  I had to keep calm.

  I looked for anything I could throw at the real-life version of an Angry Bird to keep it from making the easy leap into my passenger seat, then realized all I had was my dinner. The bird seemed satisfied with intimidation at that moment until I laid on the horn. Apparently, the sound was the chicken’s trigger.

  “Oh, come on!” The light I sat at had changed three times and I was in gridlock battling a psychotic rooster. “FUCKING SHIP DAY!” I screamed, hurling the bag at Tyson who let me have round two and jumped off the hood.

  “Atta girl, blame it on ship day.” Jasmine was still laughing as a group of people next to me applauded.

  “I just nailed it with a chicken sandwich. How twisted is that?”

  “I would give my left boob to see what just happened,” she bellowed.

  “Is there something you need, boss? Because I’m off the clock, and I really don’t like you right now.”

  “No, you love me. You okay?”

  And that was Jasmine, a friend first, boss second, but that wasn’t the order we started in. She’d picked me up off the side of my quarter-life crisis and we’d been inseparable since. “Yes, I’m fine. Just really freaking done for the day. I love you too, you jerk. See you tomorrow.”

  She hung up as I battled cars, traffic, and new tourists for another half hour to get home. I managed to sip my pinot right as the sun met the water setting off an endless trail of diamonds too elusive to be captured by anything other than the naked eye.

  I inhaled and thanked the God I hoped existed for the gift of it.

  I dug my toes into the sand as Bon Iver’s “33 GOD” drifted through the speakers off of my porch and melted the rest of my day away.

  Chapter Two

  Koti

  “At Ease Property Management, this is Koti.” The next morning, I sat behind my two-inch desk as Jasmine waltzed in with a handful of coffee for us. I mouthed her a ‘thank you’ as she placed the cup in front of me and took the desk opposite of mine.

  I listened to Mrs. Osborne ranting and saw Jasmine waiting for me expectantly, a devious smile on her glossed lips, a fresh story on the edge of her tongue. Jasmine was gorgeous, from the tip of her silky long hair to her dark-skinned toes. She was a bit older than me, but you couldn’t tell because of her exotic looking features—caramel brown eyes bordering gold, a heart-shaped face, and ebony hair. She was curvy, and that day had poured herself into a loud yellow sundress that would look ridiculous on anyone else. Oversized sunglasses sat perched on the top of her head, a clothing staple for her. We were night and day in the looks department. Where she was dark, I was light. My mother had gifted me with silver-blue eyes and her body. I was the pint-size version of her. Where she had made millions with her frame, I was a bit more conservative in my dress. My mother kept her signature blonde locks even as she aged and though I’d inherited those as well, I’d razored them short after I landed in St. Thomas.

  Blair Vaughn had been one of the first supermodels and ended her reign on her own terms before she married my father. My parents’ Fifth Avenue penthouse was a shrine to her illustrious career. Every room was covered in framed magazine covers she was featured on. She had owned Manhattan in her day in the way I had hoped to in my ow
n. What she conquered with her breathtaking smile and figure, I’d attempted to master with my father’s business sense.

  My mother’s smile won, and my smile was erased by reality. So, I created a new reality, where pavement was scarce and there was always a soft place to land. A place where I didn’t have my mother’s high expectations weighing me down.

  Annoyed I was in my own headspace with my mother and even more so with the woman who’d called me every hour since seven o’clock that morning, I assured Mrs. Osborne, again, that she wouldn’t run out of water.

  “Koti, I find this disturbing,” she yapped on the other end of the phone as if she was now existing in a third-world country.

  “I’ll go ahead and send a truck.” You really need a hobby, lady.

  “I’d appreciate it. I just think with what we’ve paid for this rental we shouldn’t have to worry about necessities like water.”

  “I completely understand.” You old, flappy bat.

  Once I’d put her at ease—though I refused to assure there would be no more visits from the pesky iguana who lived there because she was ridiculous—we hung up.

  “Mrs. Osborne?” Jasmine checked her lipstick in a compact she produced from her purse. No matter the time of day, her makeup was flawless. She gathered her hair into a self-adhesive bun. “Cinco de Mayo is coming up,” I joked, as she curled her lip at me. “Should we celebrate with a margarita?”

  The first time I met her, in fact, the first time anyone met Jasmine, they assumed she was Mexican or of Spanish descent, which always led to her favorite line, “I’m half filifuckingpino.” Jasmine was raised in ‘bumfuck’—her words, not mine—Minnesota and sounded like one of the cast of Fargo. There were a lot of ya’s for yeah’s, soda was pop, etc.

  St. Thomas was an eclectic mix, even with the natives the accents were different, including the neighboring islands. Jasmine had moved to St. Thomas with an ex-fiancé and stayed after he decided he wanted to return to the States, without her.