Troubles in Paradise

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “It was your news to share,” Phil says. “We’ve been waiting for this call. Frankly, it took so long that we began to wonder if something had happened.”

  Ayers hesitates. She feels bad about ruining her parents’ happy champagne drinking. “Something did happen. Maia saw Mick kissing Brigid a couple days after he proposed. I gave the ring back.”

  On the other end, there’s silence. Who has the phone now? Did they drop it? Ayers can ever so faintly hear Fee Waybill sing, I’ll just see you around!

  “Mom?” Ayers says. “Dad?”

  “Sorry, Fred, it’s just we’re…” Phil says. He clears his throat. “The Maasai assured us killing the goat would mean a long and happy union.”

  The goat lies, Ayers thinks.

  “Darn it,” Sunny says. “I liked Michael.”

  “I liked him too, Mom,” Ayers says. “But I’m not going to stay with someone who cheats on me; sorry.” She pauses. “Anyway, I have more news, and I’m sure it will come as an even bigger shock, so sit down.”

  “Go ahead, Freddy,” Phil says. “Your mother says she needs her drink.”

  Yes, Ayers thinks. Yes, she does. “I’m pregnant.”

  “She’s pregnant!” Phil shouts.

  In the background, Sunny shrieks.

  “But wait,” Ayers says and she silently curses Mick for being thoughtful enough to contact her parents and despicable enough to cheat on Ayers two days later. “It’s not Mick’s baby.”

  “It’s not?” Her mother. “What do you mean? Whose baby is it?”

  “Mom, stay on the phone, please.” They always do this, pass the phone back and forth like they’re playing a game of hot potato. “I’ll explain it to you and you can explain it to Dad.” Ayers rolls onto her back. The spinning ceiling fan above makes her nauseated, so she closes her eyes. “While Mick and I were broken up, I met a man named Baker Steele.”

  “Baker Steele?” Sunny says. “That sounds like a name from a soap opera. Baker Steele.”

  “I liked him a lot but he lived in Houston—”

  “And you don’t date tourists.”

  “That’s right. But he has…family ties here, so he came back and I slept with him and now I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh, Freddy,” Sunny says.

  “I haven’t talked to Baker about it yet, but I…I think I’m going to have the baby, Mom.”

  Phil gets on the phone. “Your mother is crying,” he says. “Happy tears? Yes, happy tears, happy champagne tears. We’re going to be grandparents.”

  Ayers sighs. “The baby isn’t Mick’s, Dad, it’s this other guy’s—Mom will explain. Anyway, I called because I was feeling overwhelmed and alone and I wanted to hear your voices.”

  “We love you,” Phil says. “And guess what, Freddy—you weren’t exactly planned either.”

  “I know, Dad,” Ayers says. Her parents were living on Wineglass Bay in Tasmania when Sunny realized she was pregnant. They figured out the baby had been conceived a few weeks earlier at Ayers Rock, and they decided that would be the official name, boy or girl.

  “But out of all the good things we’ve experienced in our lives,” Phil says, “becoming your parents is on the top of the list.”

  “We’ll be there as soon as we can,” Sunny says. “Remember what we taught you to do when you get to the end of your rope?”

  “Make a knot and hang on,” Ayers says.

  The next day, Ayers steps out of St. John Market—she bought lemons, a knob of ginger root, a two-liter bottle of ginger ale, and white bread, hoping one or all of these would cure her nausea—and bumps into Huck and Irene.

  Irene comes right over to hug Winnie. “My granddog,” she says.

  Grandmother, Ayers thinks. My baby’s grandmother. Or one of them. The other one is probably flying over the Congo right now on her way here.

  Ayers thinks about how surreal it is that she’s pregnant with Irene’s grandchild and Irene has no idea, but when Ayers sees Huck, she starts thinking about Rosie’s journals and what they say. This makes her even queasier.

  When Ayers gets home, she pulls the journals out from under her sofa, and Winnie sniffs them, tail wagging. Ayers moves them to the center of her kitchen table to be safe. She should photocopy every page in case the FBI confiscates them as some kind of evidence and they vanish into the black hole of bureaucracy. But to copy them requires a trip to the St. John Business Center, and Ayers lacks the energy for that, plus she’s bound to see people there she knows, people who will peer over her shoulder and ask what she’s doing.

  The journals contain relevant information about Russ. Ayers will give them to Huck and let him deal with contacting the FBI.

  But…she needs to do this when Irene isn’t around. And now Irene works with Huck on the fishing boat and she lives with him. She drives everywhere with him. They’re joined at the hip.

  Ayers sends Huck a text: That thing I need to talk to you about is sensitive and confidential. Any chance you can swing by La Tapa after service tomorrow?

  Past my bedtime, Huck says. But yes, I’ll see you tomorrow night.

  Huck shows up at La Tapa at nine thirty and Ayers still has three tables lingering, so he takes a seat at the bar and orders a beer from Skip.

  Ayers goes over and tells Skip, “That’s on the house. You remember Captain Huck, Rosie’s father?”

  “Captain!” Skip says, reaching a hand across the bar. “It’s an honor to have you in. We all miss Rosie very much. We have customers asking about her every day.”

  “Well,” Huck says. He clears his throat. “Thank you. She was…yeah.”

  “I’ll get your beer,” Skip says.

  Ayers lavishes her last tables with extra love and attention—Can I get you a box for that? Would you like another decaf latte?—because suddenly, she questions what she’s about to do. The journals are private. They’re intimate. And no one except Ayers knows they exist. What if she holds on to them for ten years and gives them to Maia when she’s in her twenties, long after this whole mess has blown over?

  Her tables pay their bills and wander out to the street. Skip cashes Ayers out.

  “You look better today,” he says. “Peppier.”

  Huck throws back what’s left of his beer. “Skip was telling me what a fixture Mick has become over at Cruz Bay Landing. I hear they’re planning on having him bronzed.”

  Ayers gives Huck a weary smile. “Walk me to my truck? I have something for you.”

  When they’re out on the street, Huck says, “I must admit, my interest is piqued.”

  They walk past the Tap and Still, up by the baseball diamond of the Sprauve School, and around the traffic circle to Ayers’s truck. Ayers says, “Back when we cleaned Rosie’s room and you asked me if I found anything, I lied to you.”

  “Money?” Huck asks. He sounds hopeful. “More money?”

  “Not money,” Ayers says. “Rosie’s journals about her relationship with Russ.” She forages under the passenger seat of her truck, then hesitates ever so slightly before she hands the journals over. Is this the right thing to do? “I intended to save them for when Maia’s older. But this whole thing with the FBI has me spooked.” Ayers pushes out a breath. “They’re pretty detailed, Huck, about how the whole relationship unfolded. There’s stuff in there about Irene, and Russ’s boss, Todd Croft…”

  “Oh, jeez,” Huck says.

  “Yeah, exactly. It’s sensitive.” Ayers pauses. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you alone. Irene…she probably shouldn’t see these. But the FBI might be interested.”

  “Agent Vasco said she’d hoped there were diaries,” Huck says. “I’ll probably just call her and hand them over. I’m sure Rosie wouldn’t want me reading them.”

  “I should have told you sooner, though. I’m sorry.”

  “You did the right thing in telling me now,” Huck says. “And I’ll make sure we get them back.”

  Ayers nods. She feels as flat and insubstantial as a paper doll. Giving away th
e journals is like having an arm ripped off.

  Huck leans over and kisses Ayers on the cheek. “You handled this just right, honey. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Thank you for not being angry,” Ayers says.

  “It’s no wonder you look so worn down,” Huck says. “You have your crazy ex over at Cruz Bay Landing making a public spectacle of himself and you’ve been carrying the burden of these journals. Plus you miss Rosie. We all miss Rosie.”

  Plus I’m pregnant, she thinks.

  “Have you seen Baker yet?” Huck asks. “Apparently, he has a good lead on a rental.”

  “So he’s definitely staying, then?”

  “They’re all staying,” Huck says. “Is that crazy or what?” Huck stretches out his arms in a gesture that takes in the hibiscus bushes lining the sidewalk, the sound of steel drums wafting over from Tamarind Court, the velvet sky filled with stars above them. “Then again, who ever wants to leave paradise?”

  Cash

  He and Tilda are eight minutes late to meet Granger and Lauren at Extra Virgin Bistro for dinner, which makes Cash crazy. Tilda has changed her top three times and spent half an hour putting on makeup, including some kind of sparkly silver stardust around her eyes. Cash can’t fully appreciate the effect of the makeup because Tilda is beautiful even without makeup and because he hates being late for anything but especially for a work meeting, which this dinner technically is. Tonight, Granger and Lauren want to discuss the “exciting business opportunity” with Tilda and Cash.

  Extra Virgin is a sexy restaurant. Outside, there’s a spacious deck surrounded by tropical vegetation; in the dining room, there’s a horseshoe-shaped bar backed by a glowing wall of bottles. There are leather banquettes, huge open windows, and low lighting. The buzz is high; stepping inside feels like arriving somewhere important. Cash has eaten in plenty of fine establishments in his life, though he consciously avoids any restaurant that can be called “a scene”—he prefers a taco and a beer, to be honest. Also, he doesn’t like to eat in places he can’t afford.

  Granger and Lauren are already sitting, and a bottle of red has been decanted. (This is a phenomenon Cash has learned about in detail in the past week, how certain fine vintages of cabernet and Syrah and pinot noir need to be “aired out”—poured from the bottle into a glass carafe—so that the wine can breathe and become even more complex and sublime than it was when it was just wine in the bottle.) Granger is wearing one of his limited-edition Robert Graham shirts, another fancy thing Cash has recently been schooled on. Robert Graham designs, among other things, colorful, whimsically patterned sport shirts with dazzling contrasting cuffs. Granger collects Robert Graham shirts, registering each one like it’s a Thoroughbred horse. After he bought his one hundredth shirt, the creative geniuses at Robert Graham designed a shirt specifically for Granger, called—unsurprisingly—“the Granger.” Granger showed it to Cash the other evening at the house. It’s vivid green and embroidered on the back with a psychedelic palm tree, only instead of a cluster of coconuts at the top, there are skulls, skulls being a popular Robert Graham motif.

  The thing Cash likes about the Robert Graham shirts is that you can look dressed up without wearing a coat or tie. Cash could probably use one in his wardrobe, but again, he can’t afford it; he can’t even afford a knockoff of one. To this dinner, Cash is wearing a red polo shirt, a pair of Dockers, and flip-flops because his only other shoe options are sneakers and hiking boots. He’s worried he’s underdressed; he looks like he’s been hired to park cars.

  Oh, well—it’s the Virgin Islands.

  Granger and Lauren stand up; they’re all smiles as they greet Cash and Tilda, though Lauren says, “We were wondering what became of you two!” The elder Paynes run a tight ship; one needs to watch them for only five minutes to see why they’re successful. They do things impeccably—they get the best table at the most sought-after restaurant and then they welcome you into the place like it’s their home. Cash’s parents had money for years, but they never quite acquired the easy confidence that the Paynes exude.

  Tilda instructs Cash to scoot over so he’s across from Lauren. Maybe Tilda is trying to save Cash from an evening of tough face-to-face interaction with Granger, or maybe she would like to be her father’s focus in this discussion. Granger pours them each a glass of wine. It’s the Archery Summit pinot noir, “just to get everyone started.” Cash sees from a quick check of the menu that the Archery Summit costs a hundred and twenty-five dollars a bottle, or roughly twenty-five bucks a glass. He tries to sit up straighter.

  Granger says, “We’ll wait until Duncan arrives to order.”

  Duncan? Cash thinks. Who’s Duncan? Then he notices a fifth seat at the end of the table, between Granger and Tilda. He feels better about being eight minutes late because this Duncan is even later.

  In a moment, Granger and Lauren are back up on their feet again, beaming, and Tilda stands, and Cash, a beat later than he probably should have, also stands to shake hands with a guy—maybe Cash’s age, maybe younger—who’s wearing jeans, a Gucci belt, a Revivalists T-shirt, and a forty-thousand-dollar watch.

  “Hey, I’m Cash,” he says.

  “Hey, how you doin’, mate, I’m Duncan Huntley, call me Dunk, nice to meet you.” Dunk has an Australian accent, which puts Cash at ease a bit. Cash has never met an Aussie he didn’t like. It seems to be a country filled with friendly, outgoing, well-adjusted people.

  They all sit and pick up their menus. Granger says, “We ordered a bottle of the Archery Summit to start.” He checks the bottle; there’s less than a full glass left. “But we are definitely ready to move on.”

  “Let’s go with a couple bottles of the Penfolds Shiraz,” Dunk says. “I love a good Shiraz and Penfolds is the best in the Barossa—the best in the world, if you ask me.”

  “The Lewis reserve cab is pretty good too,” Granger says. “Lauren and I visited the estate in Napa in January.”

  “Don’t brag,” Tilda says.

  “You were invited,” Granger says.

  “I have a job,” she says.

  “You can’t compare the two—sorry, mate,” Dunk says. “Penfolds is head and shoulders above.” He waves over their server, a pretty young woman with long dark hair. “Jena, would you please bring us a couple bottles of the Penfolds Shiraz? We’ll need to decant it.”

  “The Lewis will be drinkable right out of the bottle,” Granger says. He turns to Jena. “One bottle of the Lewis reserve as well, please.” He looks across the table. “What about you, Cash? Are you more a cabernet guy or a Shiraz guy?”

  Cash would very much like to admit that he’s an Island Hoppin’ IPA guy. He has the wine list open in front of him. The Lewis cab is $240 a bottle, and the Penfolds Grange Shiraz is…Cash blinks. Is he seeing things? No; it’s $700 a bottle. Which is, what, $140 a glass? Cash has a list of things as long as his arm that he would do with $140 before he blew it all on one glass of wine.

  Dunk draws a circle with his finger. “So, Cash, how do you fit in with these bludgers?”

  Cash would like to ask Duncan Huntley the same thing. “I’m a friend of Tilda’s,” he says. He doesn’t use the word boyfriend because he is already having some manhood issues.

  “Well, then,” Duncan says. “That makes two of us.”

  The wine arrives, there’s an enormous amount of theater involved in the tasting and decanting, and then Jena runs through the specials. She asks if it’s anyone’s first time eating at Extra Virgin, and Cash admits that he’s an Extra Virgin virgin—only Jena laughs—and she tells them that they have a rooftop garden where the herbs and vegetables are grown, that they use local farms for eggs, and that they get their seafood from local fishermen.

  “The mahi for the special tonight was caught just this afternoon by Captain Huck of the Mississippi.”

  “Hey,” Cash says. That’s cool, right? Huck caught tonight’s fish? But nobody is paying attention and Jena is off describing how the pasta, the stracciatella ch
eese, and the sausages are all made in-house.

  “Would you ask Chef to do the tuna preparation I like?” Granger asks. “I don’t see it on the menu tonight.”

  Cash expects Tilda to give her father a hard time—ordering off the menu is a gratuitous flex—but Tilda seems unbothered. She orders the lamb, Cash the mahi, Lauren the gnocchi. Dunk has a bunch of questions about the short rib preparation and Cash wonders if Dunk will be the first Aussie he’ll ever hate.

  He wants to go home—and by home he means…he’s not sure where. He now lives under Granger’s roof.

  He throws back several mouthfuls of the cabernet, which is the most incredible wine he’s ever tasted. All other wine hasn’t been wine; it’s been Kool-Aid, lacking the layers of this complex liquid. No, Cash is kidding. The wine is fine, nothing special. The best thing about it is it’s getting him buzzed.

  And once he’s buzzed, he notices that Tilda is sitting with her chair pivoted toward Dunk; Cash has a fine view of the back of her shoulder. Is she into him? he wonders. Or just mesmerized by his accent, like a typical American? Tilda and Dunk are discussing something in depth, though it’s hard to tell what exactly because Lauren, gracious, wonderful Lauren, is thoughtfully asking Cash about his years skiing in Breckenridge. How does it compare to Aspen? she wants to know. Deer Valley? Jackson Hole? Cash has answers for her because if there’s one thing he knows about, it’s the ski resorts of the Rocky Mountains. Cash is probably saying too much; he’s had a large, seemingly bottomless glass of wine, and although Tilda and her mother ordered salads and Granger the hand-pulled stracciatella, Cash didn’t order an appetizer. He lifts his empty glass and says, “I’ll try some of the Penfolds. See what all the fuss is about.”

  Dunk eyes his glass, and for one instant, Cash thinks he’s going to say no, that Cash isn’t worthy of a $140 glass of wine. Dunk is going to call him out for what he is—a wine hack.