He had dim hopes for today’s rendezvous. If this encounter didn’t go well, he was not inclined to make himself available for a fourth.
Charlie walked over to a nearby picnic table and pulled out his return plane ticket. The paper’s top edge was crumpled from his constant fiddling. He had a seat reserved on the first flight back to St. Thomas the following morning. From there, he would take the ferry over to St. John and be home by early afternoon.
Soon, this would all be over. He would finally be able to put this sad chapter of his life behind him.
He gave the front end of his baseball cap another reassuring thwack.
At least, that was his plan. Where Mira was concerned, he’d learned to expect the unexpected.
• • •
IT HAD STARTED out so promising, the recent thaw in their relations.
The first contact had come in the form of a phone call. After all their time apart, it had taken Charlie several seconds to process the identity of the woman on the other end of the line. The number was blocked, and her voice hadn’t immediately registered—the stranger had sounded only distantly familiar.
Would he like to meet up with her and the kids on St. Croix for the Thanksgiving holiday week, she’d asked pleasantly.
“Mira?” he’d replied incredulously. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Charlie, of course it’s me.”
He was completely thrown by the request. She’d spoken as if they had the type of healthy relationship common to many divorced couples, the kind in which the parental exchange of children happened routinely and without much hassle or difficulty.
He let out a short cough, trying to clear his head. There was something odd about Mira’s voice. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The pitch seemed a little off. But as she repeated the question, he quickly dismissed his concerns.
“Ab . . . absolutely,” he’d stuttered in disbelief. “That . . . that would be wonderful.”
The kids, he’d thought with elation. I’m finally going to see the kids.
•
MIRA COULD NOT have thrown out a more tempting lure. The severed relationship with his children was Charlie’s greatest regret, his life’s unending shame.
In the ten years since Mira’s departure, his only exchanges with his ex-wife had been through tersely written letters and, more recently, the occasional e-mail. In that correspondence, the child-custody arrangement was the only matter they had discussed.
Charlie had soon regretted his quick signing of the divorce settlement. The terms severely limited his ability to negotiate for access to the children, and Mira had made it clear he was not allowed to communicate with them by phone. It was a detached, sparing relationship, one that held him apart, firmly at a distance.
Up until her recent Thanksgiving offer, Mira had steadfastly refused to bring the kids back to the Caribbean. The onus was on Charlie to travel up to the States to see them.
And therein lay his complicity in the deplorable matter.
Perhaps it was an inherent reluctance to return to his hometown or the fear of the difficulties he might encounter once he got there, but despite purchasing several airline tickets to Minnesota over the course of the past decade, Charlie had never managed to board a departing plane.
Some excuse, it seemed, always got in the way. Construction emergencies cropped up at the last minute; inclement weather generated a string of flight cancelations; or a perfect day at the beach won out over twelve hours in a cramped airplane seat.
Eventually, the slew of missed opportunities piled up, higher and higher, until the time lapse itself became an additional, overwhelming impediment.
•
CHARLIE WAS A failure as a father, and he knew it.
He had heard his friends and neighbors on St. John whisper about his parental shortcomings. It happened in bars, busy restaurants, the grocery store—places where the speakers probably thought the surrounding ambient noise would drown out their voices.
“He’s a nice guy,” the line would go, always followed by the same damning commentary. “But it’s a shame about his kids. He just abandoned them . . .”
In Charlie’s opinion, the situation was far more complicated than that summation implied. To his credit, he had never missed a child support payment. Even when he experienced occasional cash-flow problems, he made sure the check went out, registered mail, in plenty of time to reach Minnesota by the first of each month. Financially speaking, he had checked all the boxes for fatherly responsibility.
But the physical separation was a crime all the same, an unintended and yet wholly foreseeable consequence of his actions—or lack thereof.
For that, he bore the burden of his full share of the guilt.
•
SO, WHILE MIRA’S invitation to meet up for Thanksgiving had caught Charlie completely off guard, he had immediately jumped at the offer.
After all this time, he’d thought, he would have a chance to make amends.
Of course, he had known the visit might go badly, and that his children, now teenagers, might hate him or, worse, refuse to come at all. In the weeks leading up to that Thanksgiving trip, he had worried nonstop about the holiday get-together: where they would stay, what restaurants he would take them to, what activities would be best suited for the group.
Most of all, he was terrified of how the kids would react in their initial meeting.
Charlie had no idea what he was in for.
He’d been totally unprepared for the ambush that took place.
•
“SANTA CRUZ,” CHARLIE muttered bitterly as he stood in the gravel courtyard, remembering his fateful Thanksgiving adventure on St. Croix.
He glanced down at his cutoff camo shorts, hairy shins, and beat-up combat boots. He was dressed far differently for this journey than the debacle last November.
Gone were the pressed khaki shorts, the crisp white T-shirt, and the new leather sandals he’d purchased in the hopes of making a good impression. He’d ditched those tourist-mimicking clothes in the back of his closet when he’d returned home from the first errant trip to St. Croix.
Today, he’d gone for the familiar comfort of his workingman’s armor. This was not meant to be a cordial visit. He was prepared to do battle.
He gripped the shoulder straps of his backpack, feeling the reassuring weight of the contents he’d packed inside. Gripping the brim of his cap, he shoved it firmly down onto his head. He was focused, alert, and resolute.
This time he was ready for whatever Santa Cruz—or Mira—had to throw at him.
~ 15 ~
The Room at the Top of the Stairs
GLOWERING WITH DETERMINATION, Charlie set off on the path to the hotel. Looking up over the pavilion’s roofline, he could see the row of windows on the fourth floor of the hotel’s main building and the corner room where he and Mira had met the previous Thanksgiving.
The event was still burned in his memory. Details from the November encounter flooded his head, even as he tried to focus on the rendezvous ahead.
•
THE SEAPLANE HAD made a relatively uneventful landing in the Christiansted harbor that day. The spear-fishing snorkeler had just begun his battle for control of the runway, and the arriving aircraft had avoided the errant swimmer with only a minor swerve.
Charlie had stepped out onto the seaplane’s concrete pier, full of hope and optimism. He could hardly believe that after ten long years, he was at last going to see his children.
He had invited Mira and the kids to stay at the rental villa, which he’d cleared of tenants for the week. There would be plenty of space for each of them to have their own room, and, he’d reasoned, it would provide a nice private location for the reunion.
When he’d landed in Christiansted, however, Charlie had found a message on his phone from his ex-wife asking
him to instead meet her at the Comanche Hotel.
It was an odd choice, he’d thought. If she’d changed her mind about the villa, there were several full-service resorts on the island that would have been a better fit in terms of room size and amenities for the kids.
Nevertheless, he had dutifully trotted down the boardwalk to the sugar mill bar and taken the right turn along the concrete path that circled the gravel courtyard.
Trusting Mira, Charlie now realized, had been his first mistake.
As he continued down the same path, each step bringing him closer to yet another confrontation, he vowed not to repeat that error.
•
AFTER SKIRTING THE lower side of the raised swimming pool, Charlie traversed the line of paving stones that led to the covered walkway beneath the second-floor pavilion. Passing through to the opposite side of the short tunnel, he turned onto the narrow alley that ran in front of the entrance to the Comanche Hotel.
Seconds later, he paused outside the reception area. Reaching for the glass door’s brass handle, he steeled himself for entry. He glanced at the wood paneling of the storm covers propped against the building’s stone walls, sucked in his breath, and pulled back on the handle.
The man sitting behind the reception desk looked up as Charlie marched sternly inside.
“Mister Baker,” he said with rigid formality. “Welcome back. We’ve been expecting you.” He slid a pair of keys across the dark surface of the mahogany desk. “In case you don’t remember, the green one is for the second-floor access to the guest area. The brass one is for the room.”
The clerk nodded at the ceiling. “She’s waiting for you upstairs in number seventeen.” With a curious smile that Charlie tried to ignore, he added, “It’s the one all the way at the top of the stairs.”
“I remember. I remember,” Charlie replied warily as he snatched up the keys. It was the same room as before, he thought nervously. Shifting his backpack on his shoulders, he asked, “Did she have any kids with her?”
The man’s dark face was frustratingly oblique.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.”
Grumbling, Charlie turned and began the long climb to the top floor. Halfway up the first flight of steps, he stopped and looked down over his shoulder—not at the desk clerk, but at the statue standing on the far side of the room.
Charlie stared for a long moment at the Comanche’s wooden figure and shuddered.
“I always feel like that crazy bugger is watching me.”
•
CHARLIE CLOMPED THE rest of the way up the stairs to the second floor and took a left down the exterior balcony. Using the green access key, he navigated through a locked door into the secured guest area.
The hotel’s upper floors were decorated in a nautical theme. Oil paintings depicting ocean landscapes hung from wainscoted walls painted in light yellow and cream. Refurnished side tables with intricately carved legs displayed glass light fixtures fashioned out of inverted hurricane lamps.
It was a pleasant, comforting scene, if a bit rough around the edges. Here and there, nicks marred the wooden furniture; the occasional crack or chip could be seen in the glass mirrors mounted onto the walls. A small seating area overlooked a tropical garden that was overgrown and in need of a good pruning. The hotel, like many businesses in downtown Christiansted, was struggling for its economic survival.
Charlie rounded a corner and continued up a wide staircase to a similarly furnished third floor. Midway down yet another hallway, he approached the last flight of stairs, this one so steep and narrow that the steps resembled those of a ladder.
“All the way to the top,” Charlie said with a grimace as he gripped the railing and began the final ascent.
•
A MOMENT LATER, Charlie reached the fourth floor, the attic level. The curving roof above him cut in on either side, creating a tight, claustrophobic space.
The rubber soles of his worn combat boots creaked across the wooden floorboards as he proceeded to the end of the main corridor and a pair of doors, which were positioned diagonal to one another in a triangular-shaped corner.
A square placard affixed to the facing of the door on the left marked it as number seventeen.
Charlie didn’t need the signpost. Over the last six months, he had stood in this same spot before—more times than he now cared to count.
Whipping off his backpack, he dug inside its main compartment and pulled out a painter’s respirator mask. Stretching the mask’s back strap over his baseball cap and around the base of his skull, he positioned the plastic centerpiece over his nose and mouth. Short disc-shaped canisters protruded from either side of the contraption, each one containing a filter designed to capture toxic particulates in the air.
Grimly sucking in his breath, Charlie slid the brass key into the lock.
“Here goes nothing.”
•
CHARLIE PUSHED OPEN the door, poked his masked face inside, and glanced around.
Like the rest of the hotel’s attic level, the room had a steeply sloped ceiling that rose at its center to a series of sharp points. Windows cut into the roofline provided a view over downtown Christiansted and, beyond, a small blue slice of the harbor.
There was a double bed, fitted with a cream-colored spread that had been overlaid with a dainty lace detailing. A flowered rug lay across the open space just beyond the door, and a wardrobe had been positioned against the tallest wall.
Charlie’s gaze briefly skimmed over the furnishings. He took only a quick glimpse out at the exterior vistas. His primary focus was trained on the woman standing in the center of the room.
“Hello, Mira.”
~ 16 ~
Mira
MIRA STOOD IN the middle of room seventeen on the top attic floor of the Comanche Hotel, watching as her ex-husband edged tentatively through the doorway.
Oh, Charlie, she thought, feeling momentarily sorry for him. Why do you keep coming back here?
She had received confirmation from the seaplane operator that he’d been booked on that afternoon’s flight, but she was still surprised that he had actually shown up. Given the outcome of their last two meetings, not many men would have risked making a third appearance.
But there he was, all five foot two inches of him, valiantly pursuing the search for his children—ten years too late.
•
TILTING HER HEAD, Mira cast her gaze over the man whose stocky figure had once been so familiar. Their last two encounters had been brief, and she hadn’t taken the time to study him closely.
He was dressed in his regular construction clothes. The wardrobe was the same as the day she’d first met him at a little truck-stop diner up in northern Minnesota: a plain white T-shirt, ragged around the edges, and cutoff camo pants, fitted loose around the waist.
There on his feet were the beat-up combat boots. She let out a barely audible sigh. How many identical pairs of those boots had he worn through the years?
She turned her attention to the painter’s mask that Charlie had strapped over his face. Presumably, he thought this precaution might prevent a repeat of the outcome of their two previous meetings. He had concluded—erroneously—that it was some noxious component of her perfume that had rendered him unconscious.
That won’t help you a bit, she thought, trying not to laugh at his stern expression.
Charlie Baker. You always were such a stubborn man.
•
MIRA TOOK A few steps toward her ex-husband, carefully measuring her stride as she decreased the distance between them. She stared at his masked face, taking in the details. There were little signs, here and there, of the wear ten years of aging had done to his body.
He still wore his hair long and tied back in a ponytail, but touches of gray had started to lighten the strands near his temples. Crow’s-feet had begu
n their inevitable march across his upper cheekbones. His shoulders, while still sturdy, curved ever so slightly inward.
Overall, she thought, sizing him up, he’d held together well. Such a shame things hadn’t worked out between them.
It had ended so suddenly, his usefulness to her.
•
MARRIAGE, MIRA REFLECTED, was a fragile balance, a teeter-totter of give and take, a symbiosis between benefactor and provider. Her relationship with Charlie had grown shaky long before they left Minnesota; the move to the Caribbean had only widened the expanding gulf between them.
Every day on the island, it seemed, her husband had drifted farther from her grasp. She had worked for weeks to regain his attention, all the while fearing she might never reel him in again.
Just as the marriage reached a tipping point, Mira met someone else—a better-funded suitor, flattering and attentive, who promised a return to the stability and quality of life she had once enjoyed.
The blowup over Charlie’s endless snooping through her closet had been the last straw. That was the point where she had shifted her allegiance.
It was a sad affair, but in the end, she’d had to dispose of him.
Like a worn out pair of shoes.
~ 17 ~
Beware the Woman in the Green Shoes
MIRA CONTINUED HER slow measured approach, sauntering across the room toward her ex-husband. The flowery fog of her perfume swilled the air as she reached up and pulled out her hair clip, releasing her long mane to drop down past her shoulders. With every step, her silk dress creased against the curves of her slender figure. The soles of her green heels tapped seductively against the wooden floor, a hypnotically repeating cadence.
“The shoes,” Charlie gurgled beneath the mask. He pointed indignantly at her feet. “You’re wearing the shoes.”
Mira nodded a silent confirmation, continuing her steady pace until she stood mere inches away from him. With her sizeable height advantage, she towered over her ex-husband. It was a mismatched standoff, the Amazon and the troll.
Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) Page 7