They did not understand. Ayers was my confidante but I hadn’t even told her the truth. I feared she would tell Mick, and Mick would tell someone who worked at the Beach Bar, and the next day, the whole island would know. Ayers thought Maia’s father, someone I called the Pirate, had come in on a yacht one weekend and then left, never to return.
Ayers hadn’t given a second thought to a yacht called Bluebeard.
By the time I got to Caneel, it was very late. I still knew people who worked there—Estella, Woodrow, and Chauncey, the night desk manager. I knew that Chauncey had grown complacent at his job. Absolutely nothing happened at Caneel between the hours of midnight and five a.m. Chauncey slept in the back on a cot.
I parked in the lot and sneaked across the property in the shadows, going past the Sugar Mill, the swimming pool, and tennis courts, across the expanse of manicured grass, to a string of palm trees that lined the beach.
Bluebeard was anchored offshore.
Honeymoon 718. I stood in front of the room trying to summon my courage. If I knocked and it wasn’t Russ’s room, whoever was in there might call security—and what would they think, seeing me there? They’d escort me off the property or they’d call the police or…Huck. Maybe someone would know me and realize I’d just lost my mother. They would chalk it up to grief.
The worst outcome would be if Russ did answer the door and he had a woman in there.
Irene.
Someone other than Irene.
I knew it was naive, but for some reason, I didn’t think Russ would take Irene or another woman to our room.
I stepped up and knocked.
Nothing. No rustle, no voices, no footsteps.
I knocked again, louder—and then I turned to look at the boat. Bluebeard. I could swim out to the boat, climb up the ladder at the back, ask for Todd Croft. I laughed. I was losing my mind.
The door to 718 opened.
It was Russ standing before me, blinking, befuddled.
“Rosie?” he said.
“Hi.”
“You’re real? I’m not dreaming?”
“My mother died,” I said. “Today was her service.”
“Oh, Rosie,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.” His voice was thick with sleep.
I peeked behind him. The room was dark, the bed empty. “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” Russ said. His eyes filled and I could see my own emotions reflected back at me. For eight years I’d told myself that staying away was for the best, that denying what we’d shared was for the best, that sacrificing this man was for the best.
I had lived with agony, with sadness, with longing.
I had been such a fool.
I stepped inside.
Part Four
Christmas Cove
Irene
Lydia sends Irene a text asking how things are going.
Irene replies: As well as can be expected.
This is a flat-out lie.
Things are going far better than could have been expected. It’s unsettling, almost, how well Irene is adjusting to life in the islands.
To start with, she loves her job on the Mississippi. She loves being out on the water; she loves the clients; she gets a rush every single time someone gets a bite. She has mastered stringing the outrigger and using the gaff. Huck has promised to teach her how to read the GPS and drive the boat. Irene bragged about her ability to fillet a fish, though Huck isn’t ready to relinquish that duty yet. Still, Irene tried to buy a proper fillet knife on Amazon but her credit card was declined and a call to Ed Sorley confirmed that now that Russ was “officially dead,” her account at Federal Republic would be frozen until they sorted out his estate. Her account at First Iowa S & L in her own name is still active, but it has less than three thousand dollars in it. Just as Irene was about to fret, she received an e-mail from Mavis Key asking where Irene would like her final check and year-end bonus sent.
Year-end bonus? Irene thought. They never received bonuses at the magazine.
“It’s a gift from Joseph Feeney,” Mavis said. “As a thank-you for all your years of hard work. You built Heartland Home and Style from the ground up.”
Irene asked Mavis to send the check to St. John. It was twelve thousand dollars! Irene still had seventy-two hundred of the eight thousand in cash she’d brought from Iowa City, plus a check from Huck on her dresser. She decided to open an account at FirstBank next to Starfish Market—with the Lovers Lane address printed on her checks.
“I’m becoming a local,” she told Huck.
“Can’t be a local if you don’t show your face around town,” Huck said. “Come to dinner with me tonight at Extra Virgin.”
Irene declined. She wasn’t ready.
Against all odds, Irene loves the villa. She has locked the door to the master suite where Russ slept with Rosie, even though it’s the best-appointed room with the most dramatic views. Frankly, Irene would like to lop it right off the house, though this isn’t an opinion she shares with the boys.
The boys—Cash, Baker, and Floyd—have all chosen bedrooms and Irene is comfortable at the opposite end of the hall, next to Maia’s room.
She thinks about redecorating the entire house. The décor now is functional but uninspired. It needs brighter colors, some original and surprising elements; it needs personality. Once Russ’s estate is settled and she has access to some funds, she plans on turning the house into a tasteful, tropical dream home.
Maybe when it’s done she’ll pitch it to Mavis Key for the magazine’s Escapes feature. Irene Steele, editor emeritus of Heartland Home and Style, opens up about redecorating the St. John villa that her late husband, Russell, shared with his mistress and love child.
Irene also toys with the idea of turning the house into an inn, just as she’d considered with the Iowa City house in the minutes before she found out Russ was dead. What if she “rented” rooms free of charge to women who, like herself, had discovered a husband’s infidelity or who, like her cousin Mitzi Quinn, had lost a husband and were having a challenging time bouncing back. Irene and these women could bond over iced coffee, papaya smoothies, and wine. They could gain strength from one another here in paradise, make it a sort of emotional convalescent home.
Irene loves the idea, though she knows it will never come to pass. She enjoys having the boys here. They have developed an easy routine and the house is big enough that they can all do their own thing without stepping on one another’s toes. Irene is still Mother Alarm Clock; she rises before the sun and makes sure Cash is up in time for his charters. When Baker and Floyd went back to Houston, Irene was sad to see them go, but Baker assured her they’d be back the following week.
Overall, Irene is far happier than she should be. It’s not lost on her that, ultimately, this is because of Huck. He’s a wonderful, kind, supportive boss and he’s becoming a better friend each day. Irene assumes that they share the same emotional space; they’re still in mourning, still dealing daily with the shock of their situation. But because they are also mature adults, they soldier on.
And then on Monday, the beginning of Irene’s second week of work, things fall apart.
It starts with the text that Irene receives Sunday evening about the next day’s charter. It says: 1 adult, 2 children, last name Goshen, New York, NY—D!
Irene texts Huck. What does “D” mean? She wonders if it was just a typo or maybe Destiny’s new sign-off.
Huck texts back: “D” for difficult. She must have been a real humdinger on the phone because Destiny is tough.
Great, Irene thinks. D for difficult.
She starts the day with a positive attitude. The Goshens are from New York City. Possibly, they’re caught up in the rat race that is Manhattan. The father works in finance or advertising, maybe the mother is a fashion editor. Do people in New York have other kinds of jobs? Irene tries to think of characters in movies she’s seen—architect, elite private-school headmaster, museum curator, bohemian artist, editor in chief, publicist, res
taurateur, Broadway actress.
Irene gets two coffees and two sausage biscuits from Provisions. Meredith, the owner, has seen her enough times that she now waves. Irene stops there as a show of kindness toward Huck—he makes breakfast for Maia every day but many times forgets to eat himself—and besides, the sausage biscuit is delicious. Irene is starting to gain back some of the weight she lost.
The boat is tied up at the dock before Irene arrives, which has never happened before. Huck is watching her as she approaches. She figures he’s here early because of the difficult clients. He takes the coffee and biscuits from her, then helps her down into the boat.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says.
Something about the clients? She raises her eyebrows.
“My friend Rupert called over the weekend to tell me that Paulette and Douglas Vickers have been taken into custody by the FBI.”
“What?”
“They were on St. Croix with Doug’s sister,” Huck says. “The FBI tracked them down and arrested them.”
“On what charges?”
“Real estate fraud,” Huck says. “Financial fraud.”
Well, yes, Irene thinks, of course. She wonders if the Vickerses were somehow responsible for the helicopter crash. Was Paulette Vickers the kind of person who could kill three people, then pick up one of the men’s widows at the ferry and describe the delights of the island?
“They’ll find out what she knows,” Huck says. “She’ll likely lead them to Todd Croft.”
“Real estate fraud,” Irene says. She thinks about the dummy driveways on the way up to Russ’s villa. “Financial fraud.”
“I didn’t want to tell you anything until I heard back from Agent Vasco,” Huck says. “She left me a message late last night, after I was asleep. I thought it might be time to start worrying…”
“Is it?” Irene says. Her wheels are spinning. Of course it is! Real estate fraud, Todd Croft, the money in Rosie’s drawer. Paulette knows far, far more than she’s saying, although likely she’s just a pawn manipulated by Todd Croft and maybe Russ as well.
“No, AC,” Huck says. “No. Agent Vasco told me it’s an ongoing investigation and if she has any other questions, she’ll be in touch.”
“So there’s nothing we should do?” Irene says. She wonders if the FBI knows she’s working with Huck. And if so, what do they think about that? Does it seem suspicious? Does it seem like Huck and Irene are part of the conspiracy with Russ and Paulette Vickers? Should Irene quit? She doesn’t want to quit. She takes a breath of the morning air and tries to calm down. She has done nothing wrong; Huck has done nothing wrong. The FBI agents know this.
“Nothing we should do, nothing we can do,” Huck says. “We just have to wait until they find Croft. But I wanted you to be aware.”
“Yes, thank you,” Irene says. She takes Huck’s left hand, the one with the missing pinkie, and squeezes it. “Please tell me everything you know. Don’t spare me because you think I can’t handle it. I’m tough.”
“That you are, Angler Cupcake,” Huck says. “But I’m happy to give you today off if you want to go home and mull this over.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Irene says. “If I do go home, I will mull this over, and what good will that do? I’d much rather be on the boat.”
“I feel exactly the same way,” Huck says. “Even if these people are difficult.”
Irene holds the ropes, smiling, as the Goshens approach. What she told Huck is true: She is tough. This family can’t throw anything at her that she can’t handle. But when she sees them, her heart sinks. There’s the mother, a pretty but sour-looking woman—blond, thin, midforties. She’s followed by a teenage daughter, a younger, prettier, angrier version of the mother. Trailing behind them with a bounce in his step is the son. He’s maybe thirteen or fourteen years old and he’s completely bald.
The mother’s name is Galen Goshen, the daughter is Altar, and the son is Niles; Niles, Galen announces, has just finished eighteen rounds of chemo. He has leukemia, Galen informs Irene, and this last round of chemo is either going to put him in remission or it isn’t. She says this right in front of Niles, who shrugs.
“I want to catch a fish,” he says. “A big one. Something I can hang on the wall.”
“He’s frail,” Galen says.
Yes, Irene can see that. He’s white as chalk and his arms and legs are like sticks. His blue eyes are sunken on his face but they’re bright and lively and he hasn’t stopped smiling.
Huck says, “Four to six feet today.”
Four to six feet isn’t terrible, but going into the wind, it will be a jarring ride. Even Irene hasn’t gotten used to the teeth-rattling that occurs when the boat smacks the trough of a wave. More than once she has gone home sore from tensing her muscles for so long. She can’t imagine this kid surviving the ride to the drop-off six miles south. He’ll be broken into pieces by the time they’re ready to cast a line.
But if they stay inshore, they won’t catch a big fish. Nothing big enough to mount, anyway.
“Four to six feet is too big for an offshore trip,” Irene says. “We’ll stay inshore today and catch plenty of fish.”
Niles seems happy with this and Galen and Altar look like they couldn’t care less.
Galen says, “Certainly you have a life preserver for Niles?”
“Life preservers are under the seat behind me,” Huck says. “We have one to fit the boy, though for an inshore trip, we won’t go faster than ten knots, so he probably won’t need it.”
“I was clear with the woman on the phone—” Galen says and before she can finish her sentence, Irene is pulling out a life preserver for Niles. D is for difficult.
Niles sits next to Huck at the wheel as Huck explains the dash, shows Niles the fish finder, and points off the port and starboard sides, identifying the other islands. Irene checks the light tackle rods, then sits on the stern bench next to Galen and Altar, who are whispering angrily back and forth. Irene doesn’t want to eavesdrop—as Huck told her early on, family drama rarely stops because people are out on a fishing charter, and it’s absolutely none of their concern. However, it’s impossible not to overhear. The daughter, Altar, is turning eighteen sometime after the family returns to New York, and Altar wants her mother to allow her to throw a party in the—house? Apartment?—for a hundred people with a DJ and a keg.
“No, no, and no,” Galen says. “It’s me saying no but it’s also building security saying no. A DJ won’t work, a hundred kids dancing to a DJ won’t work. We’ll get evicted.”
“What about Pineland?” Altar says. “She had that exact party on the fourth floor two years ago.”
“Pineland’s father bribed Mr. Soo,” Galen says.
“So there’s the answer,” Altar says. “You bribe Mr. Soo.”
“I have neither the desire nor the spare cash,” Galen says. “Your brother’s treatment.”
“I knew that was the real reason,” Altar says. “It’s Niles’s fault I can’t have a party.”
“Well, what exactly are Niles and I supposed to do while you throw this party in our home?”
“I don’t know,” Altar says. “Check into a hotel?” She laughs. “Niles will probably be in the hospital anyway, and you’ll be at his bedside, so what does it even matter?”
Irene can’t stand to hear another word. She moves to the captain’s seat. Niles is now on his knees on the bow banquette, earbuds in. He’s as still and majestic as a figurehead.
The earbuds, she supposes, are useful for blocking out his mother and sister.
Irene leans in to Huck. “They’re fighting back there.”
Huck nods to let Irene know he’s heard her, but he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe he’s thinking about Agent Vasco. Or, more likely, he’s trying to pick a good spot to anchor and cast. The engine noise makes most conversations impossible and yet the mother and daughter’s discussion has escalated to a screaming match. It’s impossible to ignore them.
“I’ll just ask Dad to pay for it, then!”
“Be my guest! See how far that gets you!”
“…bitter because Misty is way cooler than you…”
“Misty is twenty-six years old. She should be cooler than me…”
“I’m calling him now and telling him to book me a plane ticket home. I don’t want to be here! The only reason we’re here is because of Niles!”
“…selfish little…”
“…I have children, I’m going to love them all equally…”
“…sick, Altar…”
“I don’t care!” Altar screams. “I hate you and I hate Niles!”
Finally, Huck leans over to Irene. “I know it’s difficult, but you have to let them go. They obviously have things to work through.”
Irene wipes away the tears that are rolling down her cheeks. She’s crying for them but also for herself and for all families that have been broken.
Turns out, she’s not as tough as she thought.
When it sounds like Galen and Altar might actually come to blows—Galen grabs Altar’s phone and holds it over her head, threatening to throw it overboard—Irene moves up to the bow with two light tackle rods. She touches Niles on the back.
When he turns to see Irene holding both rods, his face lights up. Irene feels more tears building behind her eyes but she’ll be damned if she’s going to cry in front of Niles.
This last round of chemo is either going to put him in remission or it isn’t.
It’s going to put him in remission, Irene thinks. And right now, she’s going to put this kid on a fish.
A higher power must be with them because on his third cast, Niles gets a bite, and Irene can tell just by the bow of the rod that it’s something big—but what? There aren’t too many big fish to be found inshore, at least not that Irene has experienced firsthand.
Niles has a natural instinct for what to do. He reels with surprising tenacity and lets the spool go when the fish runs. He keeps the rod tip up and the handle pressed into his jutting hipbone. “What’s it gonna be?” Niles asks.
What Happens in Paradise Page 22