Victoria swerves onto the curb at international departures, nearly running over an Indian family, who jump back in alarm.
“God, Victoria!” I cry out as I clutch at the door handle and scramble out of the car. Victoria doesn’t get out, but pops the trunk for me, and I remove my suitcase and come around to thank her. “Drive home safe,” I say, hoping she’ll get the hint.
“Have a lovely trip, darling. Come home rich!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, and Lane?”
“Yeah?”
“Update me often, because if I don’t hear from you, I’ll alert the police in St. Bart’s.”
“It’s St. Lucia, Victoria. St. Lucia.”
“Lucia, like lucky. Okay, got it.”
I stand back from the door, and she waves her hand and blows kisses as her car crunches off the curb with a lurch and speeds away.
Okay. This is it.
Both my flights are delayed, so we touch down in Hewanorra Airport, St. Lucia an hour and forty-six minutes behind schedule. They finally clear the cabin, and we disembark directly onto the tarmac. The warm gust of tropical air caresses me like a gentle welcome, and I inhale deeply.
This almost feels like a vacation—except it isn’t. I have some aspects of my plan in place, but the other parts will have to be improvised. I just hope I can pull this off. As I wait for my luggage, my mind drifts to the girls and then—for the millionth time since I saw him last—to Liam. The sorrow I feel from losing him is all encompassing. And I don’t know what’s worse—losing him or hurting him. I guess I should say hurting him, but for once I’ll be selfish. I’m hurting more than he is. So there! (That’s what Margo would say.)
I grab my phone and turn it on to find it searching for a carrier—but there’s no service. Shit. Now I’ll have to make do with sending updates on the hotel computer. I shove my phone back into my bag and tap my foot, eyeing the various suitcases as they parade along the conveyor belt. When I spot mine, I heave it onto the floor, pull up the handle, and drag it outside. Again, the warm tropical breeze swirls, and my hair billows across my face.
I slide into a taxi, give the address of Micky’s new resort in the town of Soufrière, and gaze mesmerized as we begin our travels.
“Sa ka fete, ma’am? Mean, ’ow are ya?” the driver says with a thick Creole accent that sounds almost Jamaican.
“Oh, fine thanks,” I say. “This place is stunning,” I add, as I peer out the window.
We drive on the left-hand side of the street—which of course is different than in North America—and make our way along a wide highway with sparse traffic. After about ten minutes, we turn onto a narrow, winding road. There’s green foliage and an abundance of palm trees everywhere I look. As we mount and descend monstrous hills, the road twists and turns so often I almost feel sick as I sway to and fro in the backseat.
The driver gives a good-natured chuckle and checks something on his taxi computer. “Dat is some ’otel where ya go.”
“So, I’ve heard.”
“Der only done da first stage; more building for year to come.
“Oh yeah? You know a lot about it?”
“Oh, ya. It’s da big news on da island; ’as islander torn.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
The driver keeps his eyes on the road but glances at the rear-view mirror every so often to make eye contact with me. He has dark sanpaku eyes with the white visible under his irises, giving him a sad puppy-dog look.
“Some local support da project for tourism. But da resort will be so big, wit da gulf course too; dey have to chop da rainforest.”
“I see.” Well, it seems Micky’s already done a fine job making enemies in St. Lucia too.
“We’re ’ere, Ma’am,” the driver says eventually, turning onto a private drive that meanders up a lush steep hill.
The wig! I almost forgot. I rummage through my bag and produce a wig made of shiny, long, black human hair, which I pull on carefully. Good, I have the wig in place and my sunglasses on. He shouldn’t recognize me. I just need my oversized black sunhat from my suitcase, and I’ll be perfectly incognito.
We’ve pulled up to an exquisite building. It’s a white stucco structure with pillars; and set against the aqua ocean like this, it looks more Greek than Caribbean. Palm trees galore, gingers, birds of paradise and gardenias bloom all around—I feel like I’ve arrived in Heaven.
“’Ow ya wanna pay?” The driver turns in his seat and his eyes widen when he looks at my new hair.
I pay him and emerge from the taxi gripping my luggage, then stand for a few minutes, taking in the buildings, the grounds, and the sensational views.
Well, Lane Carson, this is your big acting chance. Break a leg!
This place is stunning. My room is all airy, with white linens and billowing white curtains that are so sheer they’re translucent. Beyond my french doors is a private terrace with an enchanting potted garden and breathtaking, sweeping views of the Caribbean Sea and the volcanic Pitons. I even have my own sunken infinity pool! St. Lucia is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. My room has all the amenities I could ever want, but with a tropical, minimalist flavor. This place is spectacular!
I change into a black one-piece swimsuit and sarong, careful to reposition my wig and pull on the massive hat. I regard myself in the mirror, then switch the sarong for a full-length beach dress. Better to keep my body hidden as much as possible, lest Micky recognize me. I grab my beach tote and swing it over my shoulder; and I’m ready to check out the scene.
Outside, I follow a white spiral staircase all the way down to the beach. Even these grand winding stairs with tropical gardens and waterfalls cascading down to the beach alongside them are enchanting.
Once on the beach, I check my cabana number, and then sink my feet into the glorious white-powder sand.
It still baffles me to think Micky has been here in paradise, while his abandoned family struggled—unbelievable.
I feel a new resolve, a deep sense of determination to make this happen, even though some of the details are still up in the air. Sun worshipers are lounging, playing, laughing, and splashing. I miss my girls just thinking how much they would enjoy being here. Look girls, this is where Daddy’s been all this time.
I find my cabana, which resembles my guest room in décor, and sink into my chaise as a server comes forward for my drink order. Pretty much anything with rum and an umbrella will do!
The server brings my drink and slips away discreetly as I sink back into my chaise. Come on, Lane. You shouldn’t be relaxing at a time like this! But I can’t help it. Plus, I need to be refreshed to think clearly.
I pull my phone out of my bag and flip on the Wi-Fi mode. And sure enough, there’s a guest connection. I connect and send emails to Billy, Juliet, and Victoria, updating them on my trip. Then, I take a picture of my view and send it to them for fun. Take that guys; enjoy the Vancouver rain. Ahhh, this is the life.
The rum fills me with warmth and laziness, and I settle back into the cushions, satisfied. I half doze and am mildly aware of a couple making their way past my cabana. The man laughs at something the woman says, and my heart lurches into a somersault.
I’d know that laugh anywhere—it’s Micky’s! I half expected to run into him, but now that it’s happening, I’m stunned! After a beat, I scramble to my feet, chuck my belongings into my tote, down my drink, and dash out of the cabana to follow them. I hang back a bit—lest I draw their attention—but close enough to hear snippets of their conversation. Micky’s strolling along with some short woman, but I can’t make out her face. Seeing him again, or at least his back, is incredibly surreal. After all this time apart, he’s still my husband for God’s sake! Well, not for long of course.
Another woman with a clipboard in hand jogs over to Micky’s side. I actually recognize her from Micky’s office, but I don’t know her name. I can hear her going over some questions for the big Investors Gala, which takes place the day after tomorr
ow. And I’m on the guest list, thanks to Victoria. She was able to book me using the name of one of Paul’s acquisition lawyers. I have a ticket tucked away in my wallet with the name Hillary Stewart on it.
“Ask Bethany to do it,” Micky says in reply to something I didn’t hear. Who’s Bethany? I keep my head down but pick up the pace to hear better.
“Bethany’s not in today.”
“Then get the other event manager, Sarah, on it.”
“Sari.”
“Whatever!” Micky barks. The girl takes a few more instructions from him, and then races away toward the resort building, red ponytail swinging.
I pop my phone out of my bag and type: Bethany and Sari, event managers. They just may be my ticket. I hit Save, toss the phone back into my bag, and glance up, just in time to see Micky lay a casual arm around the woman’s waist and pull her close. I stop mid stride and observe them, feeling numb and empty. She raises her face to his and smiles. There’s something about her up-turned nose that strikes me as somewhat familiar; but for the life of me I can’t place it.
He teases and pulls her hat off, to her giggling protests, and I regard her mousy hair and pixie-like cut. I’m totally baffled!
This is who he’s with?
This is who he left me for?
My eyes harden as I glare into the backs of their heads. As if sensing this, the woman turns around, and I lower my head not a moment too soon. Yep, it’s her all right.
Faye fucking Fenwig.
32
“Victoria, it’s Lane.”
“Lane! I thought your phone didn’t work?”
“It doesn’t. I’m using Skype.”
“Well, it’s great to hear from you, darling. How is the spying going?”
“Pretty productive. I already saw Micky, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, but that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, I was wondering, do you know who might have access to the guest list for the Investors Gala you got me the ticket for?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask Paul. His assistant called one of Micky’s companies and was transferred to the right person. Why?”
“Can you send me an email with the contact name?”
“Sure, Lane, I’ll call Paul now.”
“Great, thanks!” I hang up. Now, to find out about those event managers. I access the St. Lucia resort website, but can’t find anyone named Sari or Bethany.
Oooh, I know. I pick up the hotel phone receiver in my room and call the front desk.
“Front desk.”
“Hi, I’m attending the Investors Gala for the resort on Saturday and wondering if you can please give me the name of your event manager. I’m interested in booking a conference for our company, and your resort would be ideal.”
“Of course,” the front desk attendant purrs. “You can actually send your conference request through our website if you click on ‘meetings.’”
Hmm. “Yes, I’m on the site. But I would like to send a personalized note,” I say, then add for good measure, “And maybe a gift basket too.”
“Unfortunately, we’re not at liberty to receive incentives.”
“Right.” This is like pulling teeth. “An associate of mine has worked with your event manager before, and highly recommended her,” I say, trying a new approach. “Uh, I think it was Bethany something. But unfortunately, I can’t remember her name for the life of me.” I try a little giggle, in hopes of winning her over.
“Well, her email address is Bethany at St. Lucia Shores dot com.”
I could scream, really. “Great,” I say through gritted teeth, “and her last name would be…?”
“Portier.”
“Can you please confirm the spelling?” I say, breaking into a grin.
“Sure, p-o-r-t-i-e-r.”
“Wonderful, you’ve been so helpful.” I hang up, access the Gmail website from my phone, and create a fake email address—[email protected]. Ha! I add her name as Bethany Portier, and even add the country of origin—St. Lucia. This is so easy, I almost want to laugh.
My email pings, and sure enough Victoria gives me the contact information for one of Micky’s assistants. I don’t recognize her name, which must mean she’s new. Even better!
I dial the number through Skype and check the time. It’s just after 4:00 p.m. (PST). After a single ring, someone picks up.
“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of Bethany Portier,” I ramble quickly, trying to sound rushed and anxious. “We’re working together here in St. Lucia in preparation for the big Investors Gala, and, well, actually we’re having a bit of a crisis.”
“Oh?” says the girl, sounding alarmed.
“Yes. All our computer systems have crashed, and everyone is freaking out. Especially Mr. Capello.”
“Oh, God!” she says, the panic in her voice rising.
Perfect.
“It’s a total nightmare, and Bethany is asking that you re-send the most up-to-date copy of the guest list to her personal email address because the company one is down. Mr. Capello wants a welcome email going out to all attendees within the hour, so he needs this ASAP!”
“Yes, of course. I’ll do it this second.”
Oh yeah! I give the new Gmail address, then pretend to have to hang up because of all the commotion. The Gmail account sits open in front of me, and I dial front desk once again. This time I ask to be transferred to room service and order a bottle of champagne. It may be early, but I have the sudden urge to celebrate!
When the guest list is safely in my inbox, with copies forwarded to both Victoria and Billy, I hurry to shower and get ready for my meeting. I blow-dry my hair with a round brush so it falls in soft luscious locks, apply my evening make-up, and choose a white, floor-length goddess dress and strappy gold sandals. Exquisite! I spray on my Coco Chanel Mademoiselle scent and grab my purse. I’m feeling pretty confident, but as the elevator descends and I think about actually seeing Micky, my stomach starts doing backflips.
Okay, breathe. In. Out. You can do this Lane; do it for the girls!
The elevator stops and I slip out, hoping he’ll already be seated and I won’t have to risk seeing him in the lobby.
Breathe.
The most important thing to remember is to not show fear; he’d smell it and I’d be done. Calm and strong. I cross the expansive lobby, careful to keep my chin up and my face serene. The resort’s fine dining room is beyond a massive, marble-arched corridor. As I approach the entrance, I take one final deep breath. Here we go!
I give the hostess my bogus name and follow her to the table. This was the only way of getting a last-minute meeting with Micky. Actually, it was pretty easy. I looked up some billionaire hotelier on the Forbes website, and then booked a meeting with Micky’s assistant, claiming to be one of the billionaire’s VPs.
As we’re approaching the table, I can make out the back of Micky’s head.
But, wait—what if it’s not him?
What if he sent one of his associates instead?
My panic rises, until I spot Micky’s hand—and know it’s him. The hostess beams as Micky rises and turns toward me, hand outstretched to greet the illustrious VP.
Only it’s me.
Everything slows and time is suspended. Micky’s expression—usually so hard to read—passes from shock, to disbelief, to confusion. The color drains from his face and his mouth drops open. He gapes at me as though I’m a phantom apparition.
You have the upper hand, Lane.
For this moment, I know I do. Though just seeing his face makes me sick to my stomach. What a creep! I give him a hard look, and then slide into the seat across from him. Still stunned into silence, he lowers himself into his seat, as though mirroring my actions. I grab my napkin and snap it open before placing it on my lap.
“Lane?” he says, having found his voice. “Lane? What the fuck are you doing here?”
I pick up my menu and pretend to read it, as though this is a completely ordinary dinner. Do
n’t cave in, Lane. Be strong.
“Actually, I was asking myself the very same question of you.” I skim the menu before turning the page. “Because,” I continue, glancing up thoughtfully, “I could have sworn you were on some quest to become a better person, to sort out the financial crisis, and then come home to your family.”
Micky eyes me with obvious trepidation and takes a panicked sweep of the room lest—God forbid—someone overhear us. What a dick, all he cares about is money and his image.
I lower my eyes to my menu again and turn to the next page, this time more quickly and with more intensity, my anger and hurt overflowing. “But of course, there was no financial mishap. No.” Glaring into his eyes, I snap the menu closed and place it on the table. “In fact, financially, things look better than ever!” I gesture to the elaborate dining room, all ebony beams, succulent plants, and crystal fucking stemware.
Micky leans in, and his eyes meet mine with a patronizing stare. “Lane, you need to leave. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not so fast, asshole. You deserted your family without a care, left us for dead as far as you were concerned. Lied, and cheated. And schemed your way to St. bloody Lucia, of all places.” My voice rises, and Micky rings his hands frantically.
“Keep your voice down!” he hisses.
“Is this a good time for drinks?” The server has appeared and his eyes dart back and forth between Micky and me.
“No,” Micky barks at the same time I say “Glass of Sémillon.” I’d like to order a double shot of anything on the rocks, but Micky would know I’m attempting to calm my nerves. Better to play it cool. Micky grits his teeth and orders a gin and tonic. When the server disappears out of ear shot, I lean forward, lower my voice, and speak very slowly and clearly.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I say. “You owe your daughters and me. You’re going to pay, then I’m going to sign your precious divorce papers after you give me full custody. And then, you snake, I’m going to take the first plane back to Vancouver and I never, ever, want to see your face again as long as I live. You. Are. Nothing.”
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 27