What Happens in Paradise

by Elin Hilderbrand

  I told myself it had nothing to do with Russell from Iowa City. I wasn’t attracted to him, or I hadn’t been until the incident with Oscar—but having one’s honor defended is a mighty aphrodisiac. Still, Russell was old enough to be my father (I now know he’s forty-five, double my age), but that, in a way, was also attractive because what I was looking for was someone older, someone responsible and stable, someone adult. Oscar was older than me by seven years but emotionally he was a little boy who had a bone to pick with everyone.

  I wore my white bikini and a white T-shirt knotted at the midriff and a pair of white denim shorts. White is my color.

  There was a line of cars, all rentals, parked along the road near Vie’s. There was no telling if one of them was Russell’s or if he’d taken a taxi or if he was even there at all. The East End was a hike from everywhere and he might have decided to go fishing with his buddies or cruise over to the BVIs for lunch at Foxy’s. The second I stepped onto the beach and scanned the chaises in the shade, I saw him, settled back with a rum punch in hand.

  When he spotted me, he smiled, and by smiled, I mean he beamed like I was the only person in the world he wanted to see.

  “Rosie!” he said.

  We hugged and he kissed my cheek and it was like seeing a friend, even though I barely knew him. He called over Flora, whom he already knew by name, and said he would pay for a second chaise and Flora waved a hand and said, “Rosie don’t need to pay, she’s family.” Which was actually true; Flora and Vie were second cousins of my father, Levi Small, and for that reason, they didn’t speak to my mother, so I didn’t need to worry about news of me visiting a white gentleman out at Hansen Bay getting back to her.

  I ordered a Coke because I had to work at five and Russ ordered another rum punch and then together we ordered garlic chicken with rice and beans and johnnycakes. We stuffed our faces and we talked. I told Russ the long story of my relationship with Oscar and then he told me that he was down in the Virgin Islands because he had been offered a job with a hedge fund that was owned and operated by Todd Croft, whom he had known during his college years.

  “At Northwestern?” I said, proud of myself for remembering.

  “Todd flunked out freshman year but he hung around Winnetka and we had some business dealings.”

  I laughed. “Business dealings? At eighteen?”

  Russ sighed. “I haven’t even told my wife this story…”

  “What?”

  “Todd had a contact who wanted to sell alcohol to underclassmen in the dorm. My sophomore year, I was an RA—resident adviser—and in exchange for me looking the other way, Todd gave me a cut of his profits.”

  “Russ!” I said. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a criminal.”

  “We never got caught,” Russ said. “I have a trustworthy face, I guess.”

  “So I take it Todd has moved on from the smuggling business?” I said.

  “High finance,” Russ said. “And I mean high. Todd is an impressive guy, though. He got a job working in one of those boiler rooms, calling people cold and encouraging them to invest money…and now his hedge fund is worth nearly three billion dollars.”

  “No wonder you’re going to work for him,” I said. “What an opportunity.”

  “For the past seventeen years, I’ve worked for the Corn Refiners Association,” Russ said. “But the pay is peanuts and my wife, Irene, is unhappy. She keeps a stiff upper lip. She’s from some pretty hardy Scandinavian stock, but I can tell she thinks I’m a failure. And most days I’m pretty sure she thinks about leaving me.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “She would have to be crazy to think about leaving you.”

  He stared at me a second with a look of utter amazement and something changed between us then. I felt equal parts terrible and triumphant about it, but terrible won out and I didn’t even stay for a swim. I plunked down ten bucks for the food, offered Russ my hand, and said, “I wish all visitors to our fair island were like you, Russ. Thank you for your help with Oscar. I will forever be grateful.”

  Russ held my hand and said, “Stay a little longer, can you?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I have some things to take care of before work.” My words were rushed and I tripped over a tree root as I hurried off the beach but I had to get out of there before I crossed a line. Though I knew a line had already been crossed. I had sought him out, worn my sexiest outfit, and said the words that I knew he needed to hear. I would like to say this was unwitting, but working in the service industry has given me keen people skills. I could tell that Russell from Iowa City was a people-pleaser and that his wife, Irene, made him feel like a disappointment and that hearing me say he was the opposite would all but make him fall in love.

  He was married. Irene was waiting for him back home in Iowa. There were women on St. John—Tessie among them—who thought nothing of sleeping with men who were here on vacation. Tessie routinely had one-night stands with gentlemen who were staying at Caneel by themselves; that was one of the reasons I disliked her.

  I was not going to sleep with Russell from Iowa City.

  And yet, when I got to work at five o’clock and noticed the yacht was gone, I felt something like sorrow. My hero had left, and I couldn’t remember his last name. I would never see him again.

  So imagine my surprise when, at seven o’clock, as the hibiscus-pink ball of the sun was sinking into the water and Lucinda Caruso was shooting me a smug glance from the table where her Harvard-educated ass was sitting with her Big Deal parents—a look that I could only assume meant that she had slept with Oscar after all, poor girl—Russ walked across the beach and into the restaurant. I blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the blinding light of the sun just before it set, but then he waved at me and I hurried over. “I thought you left,” I said. “The yacht—”

  “Todd and Stephen headed over to Virgin Gorda,” Russ said. “They have business. I told them I wanted to stay here and mull over their offer. They’re coming back Monday to pick me up.”

  “Stay here on St. John?” I said. I was so happy that he wasn’t gone forever that I wasn’t quite following.

  “At Caneel,” Russ said. He pulled a key out of his pocket. “Honeymoon 718.”

  “How did you manage that?” I asked. “I thought we were full.”

  “I put the general manager in a headlock,” he said.

  We laughed. I said, “I’d put you in my section but you’ll probably be more comfortable at the bar.”

  He said, “Bar is fine but I’ll miss you bringing me my conch fritters.”

  I said, “If you think I’m going to let someone else bring you your conch fritters, you’re crazy.”

  He gave me a look then that was so long and deep, my legs grew weak and my face grew hot and never in my life had I been more aware that I was a human being—powerful and fallible.

  Part Two

  Lawyers, Guns,

  and Money

  Irene

  She drives Cash and Winnie to the airport in Cedar Rapids. From Cedar Rapids, they will fly to Chicago, and from Chicago to St. Thomas. Irene is tempted to tell Cash that she received her own job offer on St. John but he’s so excited about getting back down there that Irene decides not to steal his thunder or distract from his anticipation.

  Besides, she isn’t at all sure Huck was serious.

  Still, it was nice to hear his voice.

  Cash’s departure turns out to be the impetus Irene needs to get things done. On the way home from Cedar Rapids, she calls Ed Sorley.

  “Oh, Irene,” he says. “You must have read my mind. I just dug up a photocopy of the check that Russ gave me when we closed on the Church Street house. Turns out, it was a cashier’s check drawn on a bank called SGMT in the Cayman Islands.”

  “The Cayman Islands?” Irene says. “Not the Virgin Islands?”

  “The Cayman Islands,” Ed says. “I double-checked that myself.”

  “But it cleared, right?” Irene says. “We did actually pay for
the house?”

  “Yes, yes,” Ed says. “I’ll try to see if maybe this SGMT has a phone number or a website, but even if it does, it might be difficult to track down. It’s a cashier’s check, which is almost like Russ showed up at the bank with six hundred grand in cash…but that’s obviously impossible.”

  Is it, though? Irene wonders.

  “He might have an account at this bank,” Ed says. “I’ll try to figure it out.”

  “Thank you, Ed,” Irene says.

  She hangs up and calls Paulette Vickers. Paulette is out of the office—is Paulette ever in the office? Irene wonders—and so Irene leaves a voicemail.

  “Paulette, it’s Irene Steele,” she says. “I need a copy of Russ’s death certificate. I can’t do anything without it. My attorney said that until it’s issued, Russ is technically still alive.” Irene gives a weak laugh and flashes back to her dream about the chickens. “So if you would please send me a certified copy, I would greatly appreciate it. That’s apparently what I need. You have my address and if there’s a fee, I’m happy to send a check, or maybe you can take it out of your operating account for the villa.” Irene pauses. “Thank you, Paulette. If this is an issue, please call me back.”

  Irene hangs up and thinks, Please don’t call me back. Just send the death certificate. Paulette’s husband, Douglas Vickers, was the one who identified Russ’s body and delivered his ashes to Irene. He’s her only hope of getting this documentation.

  She feels a small sense of accomplishment—really small, because she has learned nothing except that Russ apparently had a relationship with a bank in the Cayman Islands. Irene doesn’t have the foggiest idea where the Cayman Islands are. If she were to visit, would she find that Russ also has a mistress and child there? She laughs at the absurdity of the thought—and yet, it’s not out of the question!

  The road home from the airport brings Irene perilously close to the offices of the magazine Heartland Home and Style, her place of employment. Irene hasn’t been to work in three weeks. She has two voicemails from Mavis Key on her cell phone; in the second of these, Mavis announced that she “did a little detective work” and learned that Milly had passed away—which, Mavis assumed, was the reason for Irene’s “extended absence.” Mavis offered her condolences, then asked if Irene would prefer the magazine to send flowers or donate to a particular cause.

  Irene had ignored the message. She didn’t want to think about work.

  But she can’t ignore it forever. Impulsively, Irene turns into the parking lot of the magazine and pulls into her spot. Already the signage has been changed to read EXECUTIVE EDITOR. She cuts the engine and checks her appearance in the rearview. Her hair is braided, her bangs long but not ratty. She’s not wearing any makeup but she still has a little bit of color on her nose and across her cheeks from the sun in St. John.

  In she goes.

  The first person she sees is the magazine’s receptionist, Jayne. Jayne decorates the reception desk herself using the magazine’s small slush fund; she follows the lead of all the major retailers and really gets a jump on things. Now that Christmas and New Year’s are behind them, Jayne has her area decked out for Valentine’s Day. There’s an arrangement of red and white carnations on the desk and, next to that, an enormous bowl of candy hearts.

  “Irene!” Jayne shrieks. She leaps out of her chair and comes running to give Irene a maternal embrace; Jayne has five children, seventeen grandchildren, a pillowy bosom, and soft downy cheeks.

  Irene allows herself to be swallowed up in Jayne’s arms and soon the rest of the staff—bored or easily distracted, even though they should be hard at work on the April issue—come trooping out, all filled with joy (or maybe just relief) at Irene’s unexpected return.

  Happy New Year, we’ve missed you, is everything okay, we’ve been so worried, it’s not like you to take unscheduled time off, we knew something must be wrong, we heard about your promotion, and then Mavis gave us the news about Milly. God bless you, Irene, she was so lucky to have a daughter-in-law like you.

  Bets, from advertising, says, “How’s Russ handling it?”

  At this, Irene separates herself by an arm’s length. She can’t lie, but neither can she tell them the truth.

  She says, “Is Mavis in her office? I really need to talk with her.”

  Yes, yes, Mavis is in her office. Jayne takes it upon herself to personally escort Irene up the half-flight of stairs to Mavis’s office, which happens to be right next door to Irene’s own office, the door of which is shut tight.

  Jayne raps on Mavis’s door, then swings it open and announces, “Irene is here!” As though Irene is the First Lady of Iowa.

  Irene steps in. Mavis is on the phone. Jayne whispers, “Mavis is always on the phone.” As if this is Irene’s first time in the office, her first time meeting Mavis. “She shouldn’t be long. I’ll give you two your privacy.” And she closes the door.

  Mavis is wearing a silk pantsuit in what must be considered winter white. She’s not wearing a blouse under the blazer, though Irene spies a peek of lacy camisole. In an office where most of the employees are women and most of those women wear embroidered sweaters or Eileen Fisher schmattas, Mavis is a curiosity indeed.

  Mavis raises a finger (One minute!), then lowers a palm (Please sit!). She has decorated her office in eggshell suede and black leather, an aesthetic previously frowned upon as “modern” and “urban” by the executives at Heartland Home and Style. Irene helps herself to one of the Italian sparkling waters in Mavis’s glass-fronted minifridge. Why not enjoy the pretensions that are on offer?

  She decides to remain standing.

  Mavis says, “Thanks for your help with this, Bernie. I’ll circle back next week.” She hangs up. “Irene?”

  “Mavis,” Irene says. She turns back to make sure that the office door is closed and that Jayne isn’t stationed outside with her ear to the glass. “I need to talk to you. Can I trust you to keep what we say confidential?”

  The question is rhetorical. Mavis doesn’t trade on gossip like the other people in the office because Mavis has invested only her head here, not her heart. She was hired to be a problem-solver and a moneymaker. She’s an ice queen, which, under the present circumstances, is a tremendous asset.

  Irene lets it all out as concisely as possible: Russ has been killed in a helicopter crash in the Virgin Islands; Irene’s trip down to St. John with the boys revealed evidence of a second life—an expensive villa, a mistress (also dead), a twelve-year-old daughter. Russ’s body was identified and cremated before Irene arrived. Russ’s boss, Todd Croft, the apparent puppet master of this whole grotesque theater, can’t be reached, and the business’s website is down.

  “I’m…I’m speechless,” Mavis says. “Your husband is dead? He had a secret life?”

  Irene blinks.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to go into the gritty details. Who can blame you. But…wow. I thought maybe you were angry about your new role here.”

  “Oh, I was,” Irene says. “But then all this happened and…” She studies the bottle of fancy water in her hands because it gives her something to do other than cry.

  “Irene,” Mavis says. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’m giving you my notice,” Irene says. “I can’t come back to work. I thought maybe, with time…but no.” Irene sighs. “I’m not even sure I’ll stay in Iowa City.”

  “What?” Mavis says. “What about your house?”

  Irene shrugs. Three weeks ago, leaving behind the house would have been unthinkable. That house took six years of her life to complete; it’s a work of art. Now, of course, Irene sees how blindly devoted she was to the project, how she sweated over the details and completely ignored her marriage. It’s entirely possible that Irene had been standing at her workspace in the kitchen poring over four choices of wallpaper for the third upstairs bath and Russ had come to her and said, Honey, I have a lover in the Virgin Islands and I’ve fathered a daughter, and Irene had said, Tha
t’s great, honey.

  What Russ did was wrong. But Irene is not blameless.

  “You know, I’ve been to St. John,” Mavis says. “I stayed at the Westin with my parents. It’s beautiful.”

  “I’d like you to pass my resignation on to Joseph,” Irene says. “I’ll call him myself eventually, but right now…”

  Mavis waves a hand. “I got it. Consider it handled.”

  “And would you smooth things over with the rest of the staff?”

  “I certainly will,” Mavis says. “They’ll all miss you, of course. And they’ll assume it’s my fault you’re leaving. The good news is I don’t think they can hate me any more than they already do.”

  “They’re midwesterners,” Irene says. “A bit resistant to change.”

  “You think?” Mavis says. “I tried to win them over with team building—lunches at Formosa, happy hour at the Clinton Street Social Club—but I’m pretty sure they talk about me behind my back the second I pick up the check.”

  “At least they see you,” Irene says.

  Mavis cocks her head. She’s not pretty, exactly, but she’s young, strong, and vibrant. She has presence. But someday, Mavis Key, too, will find herself leaving less of an impression. She’ll be overlooked, shuffled aside, forgotten.

  Or maybe Irene is just bitter. She tries to regain the feeling she had as she stood on the bow of Huck’s boat, but it’s gone. She wants to go back down to the islands, she realizes then, if only so she can feel seen again.