The numbers danced in her head day and night, threatening to drive her insane.
Why hadn't she stopped at one hundred thousand?
Why had she agreed to do this at all?
Love was a strange thing. Love made you do shit you wouldn't normally do. And she had loved him, had loved him more than she loved herself, and he had fucked her over—used her and thrown her away like a piece of stale bread.
And he'd made her look like a fool. Like a goddamn fool—and not only that. He'd turned her into a criminal!
He would pay. She didn't know how, but he would.
Mildred kept replaying what Geneva had said about karma. But sometimes, Mildred thought to herself, karma took too long to step in.
Sometimes karma didn't jump into action until the next life, and Mildred needed retribution yesterday.
“Oh, you're going to suffer, Anthony Landry!” she screamed out, and shook her fists in the air. “You're going to suffer in the worst way!”
CHAPTER
Thirty-nine
Well, this certainly is a surprise,” Mr. Henderson began as he folded his hands on his desk. “An unpleasant surprise.”
“Yes, sir, I'm sorry.”
Mildred's eyes swept the floor.
“My . . . um . . . husband wants me to stay at home, and we, well, we want to start a family immediately.”
She'd become such a good liar. Such a wonderful actress!
“I see,” Mr. Henderson said thoughtfully. “Of course, I hate to see you go. But I do appreciate the thirty-day notice—”
“And”—Mildred took a step forward and interrupted him—“I will make sure that my replacement is properly trained.”
“Well, thank you,” Mr. Henderson said.
“It's my pleasure.”
Mr. Henderson looked closely at Mildred. There was something different about her.
“You, um . . .” Mr. Henderson wanted to be careful not to offend her, so he fluttered his fingers in front of his mouth. “Something different?”
Mildred smiled broadly, exposing her new set of tooth implants. That's how she'd spent her two-week vacation, not beneath the blue skies of Bora Bora, but in a dentist's office.
Mr. Henderson squinted. The straight teeth made a world of difference in her appearance. She really wasn't so hard to look at now. Now only if she lost some weight . . .
“Very nice, Mildred. Very nice.”
“Thank you, Mr. Henderson.”
Mildred would use the next few weeks to bury, as much as possible, any paperwork that would link her to the crime. During that time she found out that Tony had handed in his resignation two weeks before they were to be married.
“He never had any intention of marrying me!” she wailed over the phone to Geneva. “He just wanted the money—”
Mildred caught herself, but not in time for Geneva to have missed the implication.
“What money?” Geneva asked.
She couldn't tell Geneva the truth. If she did and the crime was discovered, the FBI would question everyone who worked at the firm, and Geneva might crack under the questioning and then she could be considered a co-conspirator.
“I-I gave him some money out of my pension fund.”
Mildred felt her recovery was brilliant.
“Oh, Mildred,” Geneva groaned. “How could you?”
“I know, I know. It was a stupid thing to do.”
“How much did you give him?”
Mildred bit down hard on her bottom lip and then whispered, “Ten thousand dollars.”
Geneva went silent.
“Geneva? Geneva?”
“I'm still here,” Geneva breathed. “Well, that's a lot of money, but money can always be replaced. He could have taken something more precious.”
“Like what?”
Geneva sighed. “Your spirit, sweetie. Your spirit is the most precious thing you own, and he could have taken that away from you.”
It was Mildred's turn to be quiet.
“You've got to start putting yourself first, Mildred. Take this experience as a lesson. Use this lesson to move your life forward, to begin again.”
Mildred nodded and said she would do just that.
The weeks inched by and Mildred didn't know what it was she was going to do with herself once she left Greene Investments. As she and Geneva strolled down Broadway, Geneva suggested that she move away.
“Like to Queens?” Mildred said.
“No, like to another city. How about Atlanta or Los Angeles?”
Mildred didn't know about any of that. But she did agree that she needed a change.
“Maybe a vacation?” Geneva suggested.
A vacation. Traveling the world had been a lifelong dream of hers. Maybe that's what she would do.
“I have a friend,” Geneva started as she dug into her purse and pulled out her cell phone, “who's the assistant manager at this boutique hotel in Barbados. It's the slow season now, and I'm sure she'll be able to give you a good deal on a room.”
“Really?” Mildred said hopefully.
“Yeah. I think a little sunshine and seawater is all you need to help get you off to a new start.”
Geneva dialed the number, waited a minute, and then said, “Hey, Chevy, this is Geneva. I need a favor . . .”
Part Two
CHAPTER
Forty
Tony stood at the water's edge, a Banks beer in one hand, while the other shielded his eyes against the bright rays of the setting sun.
There were still a few tourists on the beach, slowly gathering their belongings as they prepared to make their way back to their rented beach homes and hotel rooms to prepare for dinner.
He waved to them as they moved past him. Most he knew by name. Some of the newer faces he would know by the week's end.
Tony was the man they all had to come to sooner or later.
He owned three of the fastest personal watercrafts on the island: Matlock 6000s—illegal to operate on the island of Barbados, but he'd paid off the right people and so it had cleared customs quicker than a soda through a straw.
A week into his operation and he was being harassed by a few of the guys who were angry due to all of the business Tony had stolen away from them. Again, Tony greased a few official palms, some threats were made, a few heads were cracked, and that was the end of that.
Now Tony was king of the beach. Or at least that's the way he felt.
“Is that it?” A tall, coal-colored fellow with blond locks and gold teeth strolled up beside him.
“Yeah, that's it for the day.”
The man was born Miguel Braithwait but went by the nickname Bon Jovi—Bon for short.
It seemed to Tony that everyone on the island had a nickname; no one seemed to be known by a birth name.
Bon owned a Toyota 4×4, which he used to tow boats and Jet Skis. He also had a large backyard where he stored cars and Jet Skis, all for a fee.
Bon stared out at the now dark blue horizon. “Good day?”
“It's always a good day in Bimsha.” Tony laughed and slapped Bon hard on his bare back.
Bimsha, Little England . . . Barbados itself had a number of nicknames. He loved being back home, loved the bright sun-filled days and the long, dark, warm nights. It was a sexual place filled with brazen, beautiful wide-hipped women, and men gathered outside the rum shops arguing about who had the biggest dick and how many virgins they'd slain in their lifetime.
Tony had been on the island for two months. The house he had started to build wouldn't be ready for another six to nine months, so he was renting a small two-bedroom, two-bath bungalow in Paynes Bay, across the street from the beach.
Life was good. Shit, life was great!
He had fresh food, clean air, and more women than he knew what to do with.
Now as he stood on the beach, the warm water lapping at his toes as the first few stars made their appearance in the dark sky, he felt untouchable. Invincible. He felt like God himself.
/> CHAPTER
Forty-one
Dressed in a blue and yellow tracksuit, dark glasses, and wide-brimmed straw hat, Mildred clomped toward the gate in her white espadrilles, her massive thighs rubbing loudly together as she went.
She'd arrived at the airport three hours early and now settled herself down in a chair situated right in front of the door that would lead her and the other passengers onto the plane.
She'd stopped in the magazine shop and bought loads of reading material, but now as she flipped anxiously through the magazines, she found she couldn't concentrate on anything but the adventure ahead of her.
Twenty minutes to boarding, Mildred had to pee, but she was afraid to move. Afraid she might miss the boarding call for her flight.
She sat perfectly still, her passport and ticket clutched tightly in her right hand, willing the pressing need to urinate to disappear.
But the more she wished it away, the more urgent it became.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she jumped from her seat and bolted down the corridor, searching frantically for the bathroom.
Upon her return, she found to her dismay that her seat had been taken. The young, blond-haired boy looked up from his video game and stuck his tongue out at her.
“Flight seventeen eighty-five to Barbados is ready for boarding.”
Mildred stared down at her ticket. Her heart began to flutter.
“American would like to welcome their first-class passengers and elite card holder members to board at this time.”
Mildred was a first-class passenger. She figured her first trip abroad should be special and so had forked over the extra grand it cost to go top of the line.
The little blond boy was screaming, “Let's go, let's go!” as his mother tried in vain to calm him down.
“Not yet, honey. We're not in first class,” the woman said as her face turned three shades of red.
As Mildred moved past them, she caught the eye of the little boy, who was glowering at her. Mildred discreetly gave him the finger.
“Good morning,” the gate agent greeted her as she took Mildred's ticket and slipped it through the machine. “Have a wonderful flight.”
Mildred's ticket stated that she was in seat 2B.
A window seat.
She slipped in. The seat was too small: the armrests cut dangerously into her fleshy waist and to make it worse the seat belt refused to clasp over her large stomach.
Mildred tugged and tugged. She tugged so hard, her hand slipped from the strap and banged into the wall.
The boarding passengers giggled behind their hands as an embarrassed Mildred shrank into her seat.
A smiling red-headed flight attendant approached and immediately saw what the problem was. She raised her finger, winked, and walked away.
When she returned, she was holding another belt in her hand.
“This is an extender belt,” she said as she leaned over Mildred and fumbled around her waist for a moment before standing up and exclaiming, “Voilà!”
Mildred looked down; she was now strapped safely in.
“It's a miracle,” she heard herself say.
Twenty minutes later, flight 1785 climbed into the blue yonder.
Mildred swallowed her screams, squeezed her eyes shut, and clutched the armrests with all of her might.
When the plane leveled and the Fasten Seat Belt light went off, the flight attendant, whose name Mildred had learned was Julie, came around and offered her a beverage of her choice.
“Champagne?”
After three glasses of champagne, a hot towel, a bowl of exotic nuts, and a steak dinner followed by a bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate fudge, Mildred began to feel her nervousness slip away.
She donned the headset and settled back to watch the in-flight movie. Before she realized it, Julie was gently shaking her shoulder, advising her that they were about to land and would she please bring her seat back into the upright and locked position.
Mildred raised the shade and looked down. The island loomed below them and she could see the plane's shadow hovering over the lush greenery.
Her heart caught in her throat. The water was the exact same color as it was in her beloved travel magazines!
The heat gripped her as soon as she stepped down onto the tarmac. Holding tight to her hat, she fell in line with the other passengers as they began their ten-minute-long hike to the receiving hall.
“First time here?” The immigration officer eyed her.
Mildred nodded nervously. Maybe he knew what she'd done back in New York. Maybe she was a wanted woman and didn't even know it.
The immigration officer bowed his head and scrutinized her paperwork and passport.
“Where are you staying?”
Mildred's mind instantly went blank. It was a strange name.
“I, uh . . .” Mildred stalled as she dug into her massive canvas bag in search of the hotel voucher.
“Never mind, never mind,” the officer said impatiently as he handed Mildred her passport and waved her away.
Mildred hoped they all weren't as rude as the immigration officer.
Taking her place alongside the carousel, Mildred thought that maybe the champagne and the excitement of traveling for the first time was taking a toll on her imagination, because the redcaps were walking slowly behind, pushing their dollies and staring at her ass!
“Nice,” one murmured.
“Dat ding there look good for ridin',” another said.
Mildred casually looked over her shoulder and checked out her behind. One of the redcaps saw her looking and said, “Yeah, it's nice, all right.”
Mildred smiled in spite of herself.
CHAPTER
Forty-two
Mildred stood beneath the shaded area alongside the taxi stand, people-watching. She was still very nervous, but she was also thrilled and giddy with excitement.
A tall, slim, bronze-complexioned woman with long, straight black hair approached.
“Mildred?”
Mildred nodded her head.
The woman leaned dramatically back on one leg and spouted, “You're a big old girl, huh?”
Those few words sent Mildred plummeting back to earth. She turned and looked back at the door she'd just exited from. Mildred wanted to be back in there among the luggage carousels and the flattering remarks about her ass.
“ 'Scuse me?”
“Geneva said you were a big girl . . . but damn . . .” the woman exclaimed as she started a slow stroll around Mildred.
“Oh, you must be Chevy?” Mildred said when they were face-to-face again.
Geneva had warned her about Chevy's sharp tongue.
“Yes, I am, and you are definitely Mildred Johnson,” Chevy said. “Follow me, please.”
Mildred followed Chevy across the road toward the parking lot. The sun was intense, and Mildred found herself breathing heavily as she struggled to carry her suitcase.
“Nice car,” Mildred commented as she climbed into the passenger side of the silver Mercedes-Benz.
“Yes, it is,” Chevy sang. “It belongs to my boss.”
“Oh,” Mildred breathed as she unzipped her jacket.
As Chevy threw the car into drive, she scrutinized Mildred out of the corner of her eye. In her opinion, Mildred looked a hot mess. Who ever heard of pairing a tracksuit with espadrilles?
“You'll feel the air in a minute or two.”
Mildred was fanning herself with her hands.
“So, your boss, does he own more than one hotel?”
“Yeah, there's Chimbarosa here in Barbados and Bougainvilla over in Bequia.”
“Be-who?”
“Bequia. It's a small island south of here. But anyway, Oswald Heath, my boss, is a doctor. This is just his side gig.”
“Doctor of what?”
“He's a plastic surgeon,” Chevy said, and then mumbled, “Maybe I can get you a consultation.”
“I'm sorry, did you say somethi
ng?” Mildred said, leaning sideways.
“No, nothing.”
Chimbarosa was a former slave plantation located in St. Joseph Parish. The doctor had purchased the four-bedroom stone home and its surrounding ten acres, lush with palm and fruit trees, fifteen years earlier. Then he had added one story to the original structure, increasing it to eight bedrooms. He also added a pool and a small open-air restaurant as well as a spa. It had been voted one the best luxury boutique hotels in the world byTravel+ Leisure on two separate occasions. From what Chevy told her, the hotel had just undergone a multimillion-dollar renovation and had installed a new health program.
A young man dressed in a starched white uniform greeted them at the top of the driveway. Opening Mildred's door, he did a little bow and said, “Welcome,” before gracing Mildred with a wide smile. Mildred couldn't remember ever seeing teeth so bright.
The interior of Chimbarosa looked like something out of the movie Casablanca, with its dark wooden plank floors and slow-whirling ceiling fans. The shuttered windows were thrown open, allowing the soft breeze to gently stir the sheer white curtains.
As Chevy and Mildred moved toward the front desk area, Mildred allowed her hands to glide across the curved backs of the plantation chairs.
“Welcome, Miss Johnson,” the young woman said as she handed her a large bronze skeleton key. “You're in the Calabash Room.”
Mildred followed Chevy up the stone steps and down a narrow hallway. There were just four guest rooms on that floor, hidden behind wooden doors that were painted in cool Caribbean colors. The Calabash Room's door was painted foam green.
When Mildred stepped inside, she was sure she heard the theme to Gone With the Wind in her head. “Oh my,” she proclaimed.
The room was simple elegance. A large plank bed floated in the middle of the room, suspended from the ceiling by coiled pearl-colored rope. There was a small wrought-iron table painted white and then distressed, complete with a vase of tropical flowers. Pale peach walls, mahogany plank floors, a wooden ceiling fan, and a white wicker dressing table with matching chest of drawers completed the room. The bathroom was small but beautiful with its glass tiled walls and claw-foot tub. A terrace overlooked the hotel grounds, but beyond that, Mildred could see the sparkling blue Caribbean Ocean.
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