Moon Over Montego Bay

by Jane Graves

  So, yeah. There had been a few times in his life years ago when he’d rattled his family’s cage just because he could. But when nothing he did was ever good enough and he always went down in flames, why not turn up the heat?

  Nick put his ball on the tee. Just as he started his backswing, Randall said, “So…seen the inside of a jail cell lately?”

  Nick's swing collapsed. Bastard.

  It had been kid stuff. Juvenile misdemeanors, and all of it was over and done with. But of course, Randall would bring it up until the day they died. Randall, on the other hand, had been the golden boy who shone so brightly he scorched every bit of the earth around him. Nick had hated living in those ashes, hated the feeling that he just wasn’t good enough.

  He backed away from the tee, centered himself, then addressed the ball again. “Nope. No jail time lately. Apparently the Park City cops are overworked. They can’t catch everyone.” He pretended the ball was his brother's head and took his swing, whacking it at least three hundred yards down the fairway. Ahhh. That felt good.

  "So tell me about Sarah," Nick said.

  Randall pulled out his three wood. "She's gorgeous, of course. Smart. Driven. Works for a nonprofit."

  That much Nick knew, but Sarah had never given him any specifics. "Yeah? Which one?"

  "Uh…hmm. Can't remember right now. Some after school thing with kids."

  He couldn't remember? Seriously? "Sounds like a worthwhile cause."

  "She's the hands-down favorite to take over as Executive Director in a few years. She has her MBA, so it's about time. But the pay sucks. If she worked that hard at a for-profit corporation, she'd be making twice the money."

  "Maybe she likes working for a good cause."

  "Maybe she needs to live up to her potential."

  "Sometimes it's not about the money."

  "The only people who say that are ones who don't have any."

  Nick had held out hope that Randall had become slightly less mercenary in the past few years. No such luck.

  "Executive Director," Nick said, as Randall lined up his putt. "That's still an impressive accomplishment. She seems young for that kind of promotion."

  "It's not about age. It's about ability. Some people put their God-given talents to good use." He glanced at Nick. "Some don't."

  Asshole.

  Randall turned back to his putt, took it, and missed by inches. He scowled at the ball, then walked over to tap it in. Nick approached his twelve-foot putt, lined it up, and knocked the ball cleanly into the cup.

  They played a few more holes in dead silence. Their caddy got tired of getting nasty looks from Randall when he offered advice about the course to either one of them, so he simply trudged along, saying nothing and waiting on his tip, probably hoping Randall wasn't both an asshole and a tightwad.

  "So where's Dad? Busy at the office annihilating the competition?"

  "We're in the middle of a big reorganization. He's flying in the day of the wedding."

  Last minute, as always. Nick remembered how his father had caught the last fifteen minutes of his school play in the fifth grade, well after his character was off stage, and showed up just in time to miss his son's game-winning basket in the state basketball playoffs. Nick fully expected their father to arrive just as Randall and Sarah were coming back down the aisle after saying, "I do."

  "Mom's looking good," Nick said. “The botox seems to be working."

  "Nothing wrong with wanting to look younger."

  Actually, there was, if "wanting to look younger" was synonymous with "injecting your face with botulism."

  Randall sank his putt. "She's done a great job with the wedding plans."

  "Why is she handling the wedding plans?"

  "When you pay, you get to call the shots."

  "Yeah? How do Sarah's parents figure into this?"

  "They're farmers. Blue collar. Rural. Backward. If they were paying, we'd be getting married at the First Baptist Church of Big Fork, Texas."

  "So Mom took over?"

  "What else could she do? Sarah's mother obviously couldn't help. Sarah has risen above her upbringing, but sometimes she still has a hard time. Mom said she's catching on, though. Learning to do things properly."

  So that was how Randall saw Sarah. A work in progress he and their mother intended to mold into their idea of the perfect wife. Just the thought of that made Nick shudder.

  "Will her parents be here for the wedding?" Nick asked.

  "Yes. They arrive tomorrow afternoon. Mom has never met them." A tiny smile crept across his lips. "That should be interesting."

  Nick knew exactly what that was going to be like. No pompous, blue-blooded Chicagoan could look down her nose at somebody better than Mona Baxter. Nick hadn't even met Sarah's parents and he already felt sorry for them.

  "So how does Sarah feel about playing second fiddle?" Nick asked. "Long hours, conference calls, phone ringing in the middle of dinner. That kind of thing."

  "She knows the score."

  "The score?"

  "If you want a certain lifestyle, you have to sacrifice for it."

  "Is it really such a sacrifice for you?"

  Randall tossed him a sly smile. "No, but don't tell Sarah that."

  Nick was beginning to get the picture, and he didn't like what he saw. "What's her favorite color?"

  Randall's face twisted with confusion. "What kind of question is that?"

  "Just wondered." Nick swung his five wood, sending his ball sailing straight down the fairway. "I'm thinking red."

  "Red? Sarah?"

  "Sure. Think about the dress she had on last night. It was fire-engine red. Looked great on her."

  "You sure have a lot of questions about Sarah," Randall said, his expression turning suspicious.

  "She's going to be my sister in law. Is there something wrong with getting to know her?"

  Randall turned to Nick and gave him a look as cold as ice. "If you get to know her too well, I'll make you sorry you ever stepped foot in Montego Bay. Are we clear on that?"

  Nick met his brother's glare with one of his own, then turned away. They played the final two holes in silence, and he could feel the moment Randall knew he was beaten. Tension radiated from him like heat off a wood stove, and he got that stonefaced look of annoyance.

  “My swing’s off,” he said as he put his putter away. “Pulled a groin muscle last week playing racquetball.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And these damned rental clubs. Too much stuff to pack for the wedding to bring my own.”

  "Yeah."

  "And the glare off the ocean this time of day is hell. I forgot my Oakleys, so I had to pick up these sunglasses at the airport. They're crap. Next time I play here—"

  “Or maybe I’m just a better golfer,” Nick said.

  Randall shot him a look that could have curdled milk. Nick had been the natural athlete Randall wished he’d been, and Randall had never gotten over it. Nick knew just how unfair his brother thought that was. If he was going to one-up Nick in every other way, why couldn't he also beat him at golf? Nick was convinced the reason Randall had always belittled his snowboarding talent was because he didn't have any himself.

  The car picked them up and returned them to the resort. As they were getting out, Randall called out to Nick.

  "Just a minute. I want to make sure we have an understanding."

  Nick turned back. "An understanding?"

  "I'm not sure why you suddenly decided to show up, but I'm warning you. I won't allow you to do anything to disrupt this wedding. Do you understand?"

  Nick gave Randall a phony smile. "Sure, bro'. We understand each other perfectly."

  With that, Nick left the car and walked into the lobby, trying to keep his anger at bay. Was what Randall said true? Did Sarah really know the score, or was she about to be blindsided by a life that was going to make her miserable?

  He was convinced she didn't know. She couldn't know. In only a year of being with Randa
ll, she couldn't possibly know the depth and breadth of the Baxter experience, how anyone with a soul would be crushed before they realized what hit them.

  Nick still couldn't believe that the same day Sarah had left him, she'd met Randall. The same day. If only Nick had woken up that morning before she disappeared, simply opened his eyes and grabbed her before she could leave, then made love to her until she forgot all about returning to Houston, she never would have been on that plane. She never would have met Randall. And she wouldn't be at this resort right now, getting ready to make the biggest mistake of her life.

  Now there was no question about it. He had to convince her just how wrong this wedding was, and he had only seventy-two hours to do it.

  5

  When Sarah caught sight of Randall across the atrium heading for the restaurant where she already sat, her heart started beating like mad. He'd changed out of his golf clothes to a shirt and casual slacks to come to lunch. She hoped if he'd taken the time to do that, he probably wasn't seething over any distressing news Nick might have shared with him.

  No. Wait a minute. She knew that walk. Longer than normal strides, with his feet hitting the ground a little harder than usual, and his arms swinging.

  He was pissed.

  As he entered the restaurant and strode to the table, she held her breath, particularly when the first thing he did was flag down a waitress. "Jack straight up," he told her.

  Oh, God. Hard liquor at noon. Here it came.

  He sat down and picked up his menu without a word, looking it up and down. Finally she couldn't stand the silence.

  "So…how was golf?"

  Randall's frown deepened. "Too much wind coming off the ocean."

  Okay, they were actually talking about the game. She allowed herself to take a breath. "Who won?"

  Randall gave her a look so caustic it could make a redwood tree wither and die. "Nick."

  "Oh."

  More silence.

  "I'm pretty sure he knocked off a stroke or two here or there."

  "He cheated?"

  "I can't be sure. But I wouldn't put it past him."

  All at once Sarah realized Randall was pissed at Nick about a few things, but sleeping with his fiancee didn't appear to be one of them. She felt as if the governor had just given her stay of execution.

  "Well," she said, "you did pull that groin muscle when you played racquetball last week."

  "Exactly! How am I supposed to play my best game after that?"

  "Well, you can't, of course."

  "Rental clubs. They're so bad I don't even know why I bother playing."

  "Absolutely. They're junk."

  "And that glare off the ocean." He yanked his sunglasses off. "Look at these. They're airport kiosk crap. I couldn't see a damned thing."

  The waitress set Randall's drink down, and he swallowed three big gulps.

  "So did you talk to Nick?" Sarah asked offhandedly as she picked up her menu. "You know. About the behavior you expect while he's here?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you think he listened to you?"

  "If he knows what's good for him, he better have."

  So at least for now things were fine. But until she and Randall were married and everyone else left the island, she had to stay on her toes.

  "After lunch I thought maybe we could go to the beach," she said. "Get a cabana for two. Just relax. How does that sound?"

  "My mother wants to go shopping."

  "What does that have to do with us going to the beach?"

  "My father's not here, so I have to go with her. She says it's not safe for a woman to be alone in a foreign country."

  Where Mona was concerned, Sarah didn't buy that. Just one of her haughty, holier-than-thou looks would annihilate anything from a pickpocket to a Jamaican drug lord to a flesh-eating zombie in under ten seconds flat.

  "Why don't you come along?" Randall said. "She says the merchandise is really good at the upscale shops. Jewelry, perfume…all that stuff."

  Sarah wanted to ask Randall the last time he saw her wearing expensive jewelry or perfume of any kind, but what good would it do?

  "No," she said. "You go. Have a lovely time with your mother."

  "You're pissed."

  "Not at all."

  "No, I know you. You twist your mouth funny whenever you're mad."

  "It's just that since we've been here, you've spent more time with your mother than you have with me."

  "After the wedding, it'll be just the two of us," Randall said. "Then we can spend all the time together you want to."

  Unless something comes up at the office, she almost said, then thought better of it. Getting into an argument right then wouldn't accomplish anything.

  "I'll tell you what," Randall said. "You get the cabana. When we get back, I'll join you."

  Sure. That was great. If he had time after catering to his mother's every whim, they could spend some quality time together.

  Sarah spent the next few hours lying on a lounge at the beach, shielded from the strongest rays of afternoon sun by the slatted top of the cabana. She watched jet skiers and kids playing in the surf, welcoming the calming heat that seemed to seep right into her bones. She read for a while, then put her book back in her bag, closed her eyes, and nodded off.

  Unfortunately, she dreamed that the officiant at their wedding ceremony asked if anybody knew just cause why she and Randall shouldn't be married. Nick took the opportunity to announce that he'd had sex with the bride, detailing every nuance of the experience, which prompted Mona to pull a gun from her thousand-dollar Coach purse and shoot Nick. Randall announced that the wedding was off, then left to take a conference call. As he walked away, Sarah looked down to see that her ivory wedding dress had melted into a bright red, and then a scarlet "A" popped out on her forehead. When Mona started picking up stones, Sarah awoke with a start. It took a few seconds of post-dream paralysis to realize it hadn't been real, because frankly, right about then most of it didn't seem that terribly far-fetched.

  "Can I bring you a drink, milady?"

  Sarah turned to see a tall, statuesque woman with long black dreadlocks. She wore the resort uniform of a black skirt and bright floral shirt and had a tray tucked beneath her arm. Her nametag read, "Kiki."

  "Sure," Sarah said on a sigh. "Alcohol can't hurt. And you might as well throw in some sugar for good measure."

  "Pina colada?"

  "Perfect."

  A few minutes later, Kiki brought her the drink. Sarah took a sip, then let out a long, weary breath.

  "You seem a little down," Kiki said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No. Everything's fine. Or it's going to be." She sighed. "I hope."

  "Problems?"

  "Just one. But it's a big one."

  "You're here for your wedding, aren't you? Brides should be smiling."

  "I will be once the wedding is over. I just don't know what's going to happen between now and then."

  Kiki nodded knowingly. "You're in for a little rough sailing, that's true."

  Sarah blinked with surprise. "How do you know that?"

  Kiki gave her a sly smile. "I know a lot of things, milady. But don't you worry. Come the night of the full moon, you'll be in the arms of the man who loves you, and everything will be good again."

  Sarah had heard about all kinds of spooky Jamaican stuff—ghosts, voodoo, sixth sense, all that—none of which she believed. But it didn't hurt to play along.

  "Yeah?" she said. "That sounds wonderful. So when is the next full moon?"

  "Saturday night."

  Saturday. Her wedding day. Thank God. At least there was a light at the end of this tunnel.

  "The full moon, milady," Kiki said with a smile. "Watch for it."

  As she walked away, Sarah took a long drink and closed her eyes again, still anything but relaxed. Then all at once she remembered something that sent a shiver of woo-woo right down her spine.

  There had been a full moon over Pa
rk City the night before she left Nick.

  He'd told her to make a wish. She laughed and told him you didn’t wish on moons. You wished on shooting stars. He told her they were fresh out of shooting stars, so he’d bought her the moon instead, which, by the way, had been much more expensive.

  So she’d made a wish. She’d closed her eyes and thought…I wish I could feel like this forever.

  How could she possibly have forgotten that?

  All at once she heard a commotion next to her. She looked up to see Nick duck under the cabana and sit on the lounge next to hers. She jackknifed to a sitting position.

  "Nick! What are you doing?"

  "Relaxing."

  She looked left and right, then dropped her voice to an angry whisper. "You shouldn't be here!"

  "Beautiful sun, beautiful surf, beautiful woman…I can't think of a single reason I shouldn't be here."

  "Will you stop? Randall will have a fit if he sees you with me."

  "Only if he suspects we met in Park City and had a three-day affair."

  "Will you keep your voice down?"

  Nick laughed. "Will you take it easy? Nobody can hear us."

  Sarah sighed with frustration. Yeah, she was in for some rough sailing, all right, and Nick was clearly at the helm.

  "Randall didn't say anything to me when he got back from playing golf," Sarah said, "so I assume you didn't tell him."

  "That's right. I didn't tell him. But don't worry. There's still plenty of time to spill the beans before you walk down the aisle."

  "You know what? Go ahead. Tell Randall whatever you want to. When you and I were together, I hadn’t even met him yet, so I did nothing wrong.” She raised her nose a notch. “He’ll understand.”

  Nick laughed. “Really? The most domineering, territorial man on earth is going to understand that his reprobate of a brother knows his fiancee in ways he probably never will?” He shook his head, still smiling. “No, Sarah. Trust me. He will not understand.”

  Sarah had the most awful feeling that Nick was right. If Randall found out, all hell would break loose.