Tropical Getaway

by Roxanne St Claire

  The cacophony of French, English, Spanish, and Caribbean pigeon reached an earsplitting level in the room designed for quiet, and the posters of characters from children’s books detracted from the serious nature of the meeting. Everyone knew everyone and Ava had an outsider’s sensation of being invited to someone else’s family reunion.

  Cassie stood with Marjory Hemingway toward the back, the two women’s heads together in animated discussion. Marjory’s giant brown eyes widened in surprise at what Cassie had just told her.

  “Oh, yes, it’s time for dat! I know!” They shared a secret grin as Ava approached and greeted them.

  “Cassie, I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

  “Neither was I,” Cassie said with a smile and tilted her head toward Marjory. “Marj talked me into it.”

  The three of them folded themselves into seats near the back of the room.

  “I gonna break dis chair!” Marjory exclaimed as she struggled with her bulk in the tiny wooden seat.

  Chuckling with Cassie, Ava was suddenly aware of a presence behind her.

  “Come up front and sit next to me.” The demand in her ear startled her and she turned to see Grayson Boyd’s pale blue eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

  “I’ll stay here.”

  He wiped a drip of perspiration from his forehead and kneeled to the same height as her elementary school seat. “I need you up there.”

  “No, thank you. I’m just here to listen. Like everyone else.” She turned back to Cassie and Marjory.

  He straightened abruptly and Ava caught his quick angry look before he moved on. Marjory’s brown hand dropped onto Ava’s, and the women exchanged glances just as a young man reached their table and pulled out a chair to join them.

  “Bon soir, mes amies.”

  Ava remembered meeting him in Arnot’s kitchen, recognizing the thinning black hair and knowing dark eyes of Philippe Basille. Cassie introduced them and Philippe offered his hand and a friendly, crooked grin.

  “I was assisting in Valhalla’s kitchen when you visited,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, I remember. Hello again, Philippe. Why aren’t you on the ship in an exotic port by now?”

  He shook his head vehemently, his hands held up in mock protest. “Not me, ma’am. I don’t usually sail. I am strictly prep in the galley. I move from ship to ship before she sets sail and am happy to sleep on dry land.”

  “Why are you—who did you—” Ava stumbled over the awkward question.

  “My cousin Jacques,” he responded, gracefully saving her. “I just got him the job not five months ago. He was a sous-chef in Paris, but came here to work for Chef Arnot.” His French accent thickened with sorrow. “They kept him on as essential crew—one person to feed the other twenty. Perhaps he should have stayed on dry land too, eh?”

  “I’m so sorry, Philippe,” Ava said quietly.

  He offered a half shrug, so French and sad. “C’est la vie. But we are here to collect our blood money now, are we not?”

  Grayson Boyd began to speak before anyone could answer.

  He launched into his opening argument as though the whole jury sat in front of him. Pacing the room, sucking even more air out of it, Grayson Boyd laid out his case that the loss suffered by every person in the room was Utopia Adventures’ financial gain. And retribution was essential. He never mentioned Dane Erikson by name.

  At first they listened, rapt. But his southern drawl lost a few of them and claustrophobia got the rest. Arguments and individual conversations broke out at each table, making Ava feel more at home. Santoris always interrupted one another.

  “What if you are wrong, Monsieur Boyd?” An older man called out from one side. “How can you prove these accusations?”

  “Our firm has signed affidavits…,” Boyd began, and Ava wondered how many of them actually knew what an affidavit was.

  “What if we all get fired for doing this?” Another person cut him off before he could finish.

  “You can’t be fired. You are protected by law!” Boyd insisted, then added with a chuckle, “but who needs to work with a million in your bank account?”

  Marjory moaned, low and heavy. “Not one person in dis room can count to a million.”

  “How much of it do you get, Mr. Boyd?” A woman’s crisp American accent caught Ava’s attention, but she didn’t see who’d asked the question.

  “A percentage. For my efforts on your behalf.” Boyd leaned against a display of Clifford the Big Red Dog books and tapes, and Ava resisted the urge to laugh at the image. Instead, she glanced at Cassie, who raised her eyebrows and gave a tiny smile in response.

  “I am a sailor myself, my friends.” Boyd lowered his booming voice, perhaps deciding on a softer approach. “When I left the U.S. Navy I decided to specialize in maritime law, to protect the rights of sailors and their families. I have, in my twenty-five years of practice, recouped more than one hundred million dollars for victims’ families. No one else in the country or the world, can claim that kind of success and—”

  He was shut down by more questions.

  “What if we’ve already taken money from Utopia? Is that a settlement?”

  “What about the Death on the High Seas laws? How can you ignore them?”

  “It’s wrong to take money for the dead,” a Jamaican voice called out.

  “Yes it is, Violet,” Marjory whispered in vehement agreement. “Yes it is.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Boyd struggled to regain order. “I ask you to speak with Miss Ava Santori. She’s the sister of the poor, dead Second Mate Marco Santori. She’s from a wealthy family in Boston; her father is a celebrity who makes weekly appearances on television. She is here for justice, not money. As you all should be.”

  Ava nearly flipped the undersize desk over as she jumped to her feet. How dare he speak for her? She sensed every eye on her, but she kept her gaze locked on Boyd as she worked to control the fire in her gut.

  “I have not made up my mind about this lawsuit, Mr. Boyd.” A rumble traveled through the room in response. “I’m here with everyone else to learn more about the situation.”

  He nodded agreeably, but she felt the daggers of anger shooting from his blue eyes.

  “Dane Erikson lives in a mansion, ladies and gentlemen.” He ignored her, evidently choosing to dig deeper into his bag of lawyer tricks for his trump card. “He flies a private plane to Europe. He has millions of dollars in banks around the world and grandiose plans to expand his empire. He has—”

  “He built this school,” Cassie said, silencing him.

  “And a clinic in St. John where my mother had her first mammogram,” someone added from across the room.

  “He flew my papa in from Trinidad for his eightieth birthday,” a man offered with a deep Caribbean cadence.

  “He gave me a job after—”

  “That’s all part of his plan!” A young man stood up from a side table. “Everything he does is meant to keep us loyal and working for him and no one else. He’s no saint and someone’s gotta pay for this!”

  “And a million dollars is a small price for my son!” another man shouted.

  The room erupted in chaos, and Boyd started flipping papers onto desks, shoving the printed pages in front of every person. “This is the legal brief my firm has drawn up. It spells out the case against him and what you need to do to participate and win—be awarded—one million dollars for the loss of your loved one. Someone who can never be replaced.”

  The people in front leafed through the pages. Frustration and confusion, mixed with grief, threatened to ignite more harsh words. Boyd waved the brief in front of Ava when he reached their table.

  “I know you’ve seen this, my dear,” he said pointedly, as though they’d been meeting for weeks to discuss the subject. “I’m sure you’ll want to do right by your dead brother.”

  “His name was Marco.” She managed to keep the revulsion out of her voice. “And, yes, you can keep this. I’ve read it.
”

  He’d lost most of them by then, and Ava and Cassie left together, anxious for fresh air and the opportunity to consider what had just happened.

  “Marco would pronounce that man a grade A prick,” Cassie announced.

  “Well, he certainly left a lot of people more confused than anything,” Ava said.

  “I just hope people think before they jump on his bandwagon. It’s a lot of money, and some people might do anything to get it legally.”

  “What did you think?” Ava asked as they stepped onto the grass outside the school.

  “I wish I could get behind the quest for a million dollars. God knows, I need money right now. But I feel like Marj. It’s blood money for the dead, and I know in my heart Marco would hate the fact that Dane’s being blamed for this. Marco worshiped that man. He insisted that Dane be the—”

  She stopped suddenly.

  “What?”

  Cassie turned to face Ava, a warm glow in her eyes. “Give me your hand,” she said, reaching for Ava. Cassie guided Ava’s hand to the loose material over her midriff, pressing it harder until Ava could feel…a hard, rounded bump.

  “Oh, my God.” A thrill ran through her, warming her to her toes and springing tears in her eyes.

  “I was going to say that Marco insisted that Dane be the godfather.”

  “When are you—why didn’t you—Oh my God.” She threw her arms around Cassie in a big hug. Then she pulled away, impulsively taking the freckled face between her hands. “Oh Cassie, Marco will never see his baby!”

  Cassie put a gentle finger on Ava’s mouth. “Don’t remind me. I’m trying to accept that, luv, and not lose the joy of it. As for telling you, I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

  “Oh, what an extraordinary gift.” Ava turned her face toward the sky with a wide smile. “Forget Grayson Boyd. I feel like celebrating!”

  Cassie giggled, clearly pleased with Ava’s response. She hooked her arm into Ava’s. “Locals go to Au Port. It’s an institution in Gustavia, just a few blocks from here. The only place in this rich man’s paradise for a cheap beer and a nonvintage wine. And milk, for me.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Ava exclaimed as they fell into step together. “A baby. A baby Santori.”

  “Well.” Cassie sighed. “I guess. We didn’t have a chance to get married. I’m not sure what Junior’s last name will be.”

  Ava turned with a sudden realization. The lawsuit! She wasn’t Marco’s immediate family anymore. “Cassie! The money—the suit. If it happens, it should all be yours. For the baby. For his future. For college.”

  Cassie laughed softly. “Don’t worry about the baby, Ava. Dane will take care of him. Or her. I just wish my child had a real last name.”

  “Names don’t matter,” Ava assured her with a pat on the arm. “We will love this baby no matter what it’s called. It’s Marco’s baby. And yours.” She paused and inhaled the tropical evening air. “And I’m going to be an aunt!”

  They grinned and gossiped like old friends until they reached the patio bar of Au Port.

  Dane knew where they’d all go after the meeting and he didn’t want to be hidden in his home tonight. He wanted to be right there with his people as they mulled the attorney’s offer.

  Violet Quindlen and Marj entered the open-air watering hole together, heads close in discussion. Deirdre and Yves Galloit, who worked in his office and mourned their oldest son, Gregoire, Paradisio’s chief engineer, followed a few minutes later. They nodded to him, and a few others stopped by his table and said hello, but no one sat down. Dane kept his eye on the street, refusing to admit to himself that he was waiting for Ava Santori.

  A twist of desire coiled through him when he saw her, surprising him, since the NBC producer’s words had rung in his head most of the day. Her wavy hair was pulled partway up tonight, showing off distinct cheekbones and a slender neck. Her nose was not perfect, but the slightest patrician bump seemed to perfectly fit her face. And her eyes. Her magical, black eyes had haunted him long after she left him alone last night, and all day when he thought of her agreeing to do an interview.

  Cassie strolled right up to his table, pulled out a chair, and grinned. “You look lost, mate.”

  He laughed a little. “Just waiting for the verdict, Cass.”

  Cassie dropped into the seat across from him and Ava stood, hesitating. He pulled out the chair next to him and looked up at her expectantly. The material of her dress grazed his leg as she sat. It tickled his skin, but he made no effort to move aside.

  “Jury’s out,” Cassie said. “But we could be swayed if you buy the drinks.”

  He signaled the waitress. “What would you like, Ava? Red wine?”

  “The beer looks good.” She lifted the collar of her dress, drawing his attention to the curve of her throat, the sheen on her skin. “A short walk here is more of a workout than the hills of the North End.”

  “It’s the humidity.” Dane averted his gaze. Why the hell were they talking about the weather?

  The waitress brought beers for Dane and Ava and an ice water for Cassie. The women shared a secret smile as they toasted their drinks.

  “You gonna let a man in on this?” he asked before he took a drink from his bottle.

  Cassie had an inner glow about her and suddenly he knew why they’d been laughing on the way into the bar.

  “Ah,” he said, the beer bottle still midair. “My godchild has been announced.”

  Ava shivered with joy, an emotion he’d definitely not seen from her yet. “It’s wonderful news. I can’t wait to—” She turned to Cassie with a frown. “Can I tell my family?”

  Cassie shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know. I guess so. It’s not due for five more months.”

  Dane sensed her hesitation and wanted to help. “Cassie hasn’t told very many people, Ava. She and Marco were waiting…”

  For a wedding that isn’t ever going to happen now, he thought. Which reminded him of the reason they were together. “Full house at the meeting tonight, Cass?”

  “Full enough,” she said. “But Boyd didn’t convince too many people. I don’t think more than two or three are signed on. Ava threw him for a loop, though.”

  Dane looked questioningly at the woman to his right. She kept her eyes on the table, running a long finger over the condensation on her beer glass.

  “What’d’ya do, give him the old Santori one-two?”

  She smiled a little. “I’d like to.”

  “Really? I thought you were in bed with this guy.”

  She squared her shoulders and aimed the fire in her eyes directly at him.

  “Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added hastily.

  “I have not made a decision. And you know it.”

  He shrugged and took a sip. “That’s not what they say at NBC.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Jeff, the producer of Dateline, mentioned your interview to me today.” He’d been burning to confront her since this morning, compounded by Genevieve’s disappearance and the fact that the purser’s inventory for Paradisio was no longer in the computer system. He hated roadblocks. And he hated deception.

  “I repeat: what are you talking about?”

  He searched her face for signs of honesty. He saw them all. Clear eyes, wide and beautiful too. No quivering lips, no shifting glances.

  “I was told you were doing an interview with some TV news magazine, on behalf of the lawsuit respondents. Evidently your lawyer confirmed it.”

  She crossed her arms. “That bastard.”

  “He is a slimy one,” Cassie agreed.

  “I’m not doing any interviews, so don’t worry.” She sighed in complete exasperation. “Grayson Boyd is scum. Maybe I should drop out of the whole thing and head home.”

  He doubted she was serious, but he didn’t want her to leave. “You can’t. You’re booked on Nirvana. We sail tomorrow night.”

  Her jaw dropped, and he found
himself wondering when his guiding principles of slow and easy decided to take a vacation.

  “She’s cruising the Leeward Islands, which includes Guadeloupe, Dominica, Nevis, and Antigua. Several of the men lost on Paradisio are from those islands, and I’m going to visit their families. To discuss their future. I thought you should meet them.”

  She looked down at her beer, then up at him wordlessly.

  His chest tightened at the appeal in her eyes. “You can decide for yourself what constitutes ‘squalor.’ You can even enlist them in your cause, if you like.”

  “When did you come up with this plan?” She frowned, clearly unsure of how to take the invitation.

  He had made the plans to meet with the families in person this morning, after finalizing the settlements with his accountant. The idea of Ava joining him had barely been a seedling, yet here he was, presenting it as a full-grown fait accompli.

  “I want you to make an informed decision before you add your name to a lawsuit or go back home. Isn’t that why you came here?”

  At the pointed question, she nodded.

  “Then it makes sense for you to go. You can stay in the Owner’s Suite.”

  Cassie squealed. “Oh, Dane!”

  “Excuse me?” Ava’s look of curiosity melted into surprise.

  “It was vacated by a last-minute cancellation,” he informed them.

  Cassie stepped in to help him this time. “Ava, you’ve no idea how wonderful that is. The suite is gorgeous! It beats the crew bunks, I’ll tell you. I may come and share the room.”

  Or I might. The thought darted through Dane’s mind, along with an image of Ava in the oversize hot tub in the suite, and the king-size bed. He quashed it. He needed her trust, not her body.

  “Come on, Ava.” He touched her hand, unable to resist the contact. “You’ll love it.”