by Carrie Doyle
“I didn’t? Oh, well, I know very little.” Lucia gave Plum her blandest expression and put on a fake smile.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I only know that she is the older sister of Carmen Rijo.”
“What?” gasped Plum with astonishment. “Wow. And I thought he was in love with Carmen.”
“He is protective of her. And he feels guilty because it was through him that Emilio Rijo was introduced to Carmen.”
“It’s all making sense now.”
Plum was about to ask Lucia more questions, but then she heard laughter across the restaurant and saw Juan Kevin’s date had her head back and appeared very amused at something he was regaling her with. Forget him, thought Plum.
“I guess it is time to go,” said Plum.
It took every ounce of her willpower, but Plum did not look at Juan Kevin when she exited the restaurant. She felt foolish for having harbored romantic dreams of him when it was evident he thought of her merely as someone he worked with to solve a crime. Oh well. In fact, she felt embarrassed that she had asked him to take her to the animal shelter at all. How could she have been so naive?
That night, Plum lay awake in bed for a long time, preoccupied with Juan Kevin and their relationship as well as her future. Was he the reason in the back of her mind that she wanted to stay in Paraiso? That was absolutely preposterous, she decided. She could not allow her future to be swayed by the possibility of love. She tossed and turned, clutched her pillow, threw off her blanket, unable to sleep. Finally, she picked up her phone and quickly sent Juan Kevin a text:
Can’t do dinner tomorrow, friends from out of town arriving.
Then she switched off her lights and went to bed.
***
Plum was surprised at how excited she was to see her off-and-on nemesis Gerald Hand. Perhaps it was the connection with the past and her “real world,” or maybe it was nice to meet up with someone she had known for years, even though it was often rancorous. Her new outlook on life was to be positive, and she wanted to forget her acrimony with Gerald and treat him like a beloved brother, albeit one you verbally spar with and ungraciously dismiss from employment.
Gerald and Leonard exited the airport with a porter pushing an absurd amount of monogrammed luggage, as if they were setting off on a round-the-world voyage on the Queen Elizabeth circa 1950. They were a funny pair: Gerald was short, balding, somewhat pointy, with a hint of a stomach, and Leonard was tall, lithe, with dark skin, broad features, and the poise of a dancer. Plum embraced them both.
“Welcome to Paraiso! We are thrilled to have you here!” she squealed.
Gerald looked at her askance. “Are you on drugs, Plum?”
“Me? No, what are you talking about?”
“You seem so…happy,” said Gerald incredulously.
“Yes, I’ve never seen you smile,” added Leonard.
“I suppose I am happy. Happy to see you, happy to be here. I’m living in paradise—what is there to be unhappy about?” she asked.
Gerald and Leonard exchanged skeptical looks. “Whatever you say,” said Gerald. “We are thrilled to be out of New York, although the plane ride was from hell. Screaming babies everywhere!”
“Why would you bring babies on a plane?” asked Leonard.
“It’s just rude. They need an adult section at the very least,” said Gerald.
“And airplane food should be illegal.”
“Who even eats it?” asked Leonard.
“No one. But the scent of boiled beef wafting through the cabins…”
“And the rows of people getting on in wheelchairs. They just want to cut the lines and go first. Then they have a miracle on board and regain the ability to walk. And not just walk but run. They are first off the plane,” said Leonard.
“They’re fakers,” agreed Gerald.
Plum listened to them bitch and moan with amusement. Not so long ago, she had been exactly like them. It was strange to realize that her cynicism was slowly slipping away. During the van ride to the resort, Plum chattered on about the island. She pointed out flora and fauna that she had learned the names of and described the mystery of why the woodpeckers only pecked on the south side of trees. She could tell that Gerald and Leonard were becoming somewhat bored, but her enthusiasm was blooming.
When they entered the gates of Las Frutas, both men perked up and began burbling about all the arrangements they had for lounging on the beach. Leonard would have to rehearse with his troupe and perform for two nights, but they wanted to make sure they swam and rode Jet Skis. The entrance to Carmen Rijo’s villa further impressed them, and when they alighted from the van, they gazed around her estate with admiration.
“Plum, you have outdone yourself!”
“Villa Platano is the most coveted residence on the island of Paraiso.”
“Fabulous,” said Leonard.
He strolled through the capacious house and marveled at the pristine views and tropical gardens. Plum and Gerald followed, the latter plopping himself down on a chaise by the sparkling pool, allowing the bright sunlight to caress his Vitamin D–deprived body.
“This is the life,” said Gerald, after a maid brought them all Paradise Fairy drinks.
“I agree,” said Plum, lying down on the chaise next to him. There was no longer any remnant of the coconut cookie massacre, everything having been cleaned up to immaculate perfection by the staff.
Plum’s phone pinged, and she glanced at the screen. It was a text from Brad Cooke.
The in-laws are a go for renting out the house. I hope you will represent it for us. Thanks! Brad
Plum couldn’t believe it. She was about to write him back and tell him she was out of the business, but then she decided to wait. She took a sip of her fruity cocktail and kicked off her sandals.
“For the article, what do you want it to say, that rentals are available through Jonathan Mayhew Caribbean Escapes?” Gerald asked.
“Yes,” said Plum.
“Sounds good. I’m going to do a fabulous article.”
Plum’s mind drifted. A gentle breeze blew softly through the air. She could smell the mango trees. She felt content. And relaxed.
“No,” said Plum.
“No, you don’t want me to do an article?” asked Gerald, surprised.
“No, I mean, don’t say that rentals are available through Jonathan Mayhew Caribbean Escapes. Tell them to refer to me for rentals. Plum Lockhart Luxury Retreats.”
“For real?” asked Gerald.
“For real,” said Plum. “I’m here to stay.”
“I didn’t know you were starting your own agency! When is this happening?”
“Mañana,” said Plum.
Please turn the page for a sneak peek of Something’s Guava Give, the next book in the Trouble in Paradise! series.
Chapter 1
Plum Lockhart stepped through the narrow door and felt heavy gray cobwebs wrap around her shoulders. As she squirmed to brush them off, she inhaled a strong stench of mildew. The air was stifling, heavy with heat and ripe with neglect. She squinted through the darkness, afraid someone might be lurking in the corners, but could see only murky shadows. Her heartbeat quickened.
She spun around, unable to see the person who was behind her.
“Hello?” Plum asked, her voice echoing around her. “Anyone there?”
“Yes,” came the whispered response.
“What godforsaken place have you taken me to?” Plum demanded of her colleague Lucia, who had accompanied her into the dilapidated villa. “I can’t see a thing, and if I hadn’t known you were following me I would have assumed I was being hunted down by a serial killer.”
“Cálmese,” retorted Lucia, who flicked on the light switch. “There. Better?”
Plum blinked and glanced around the foyer, which had a grimy
linoleum floor and mushroom colored walls that might have originally been a cool white. The light fixture above them was coated with a dense layer of dust and a cracked mirror hung over a small console table that had a broken leg.
Plum shook her head at Lucia, who was giving her an assured look from behind the thick lenses of her glasses.
“Decidedly not better,” said Plum. “This place is horrible.”
Lucia clucked and broke into a wide grin. “We both know that if anyone can improve and renovate this villa it’s you. And besides, you always love a challenge.”
Plum didn’t disagree. She was incredibly competent. But she had always considered this a secret strength, like a superpower, and yet this small sixty-year-old grandmother had discovered it despite the fact that they had only been acquainted for four months. Perhaps Plum was more transparent than she had realized.
Plum sighed. “All right, show me around.”
Lucia smiled mischievously. “I thought you would never ask.”
As the tall redheaded American followed the short gray-haired Paraison through the unkempt villa, Plum marveled at how much her life had changed. At this time last year she had been Editor-in-Chief at the glamorous Travel and Respite Magazine, jet setting around the globe on fabulous trips to five star hotels, and based in New York City. When that all came crashing down, she made what she assumed would be a temporary move to the small Caribbean Island of Paraiso, taking a job at Jonathan Mayhew’s eponymous travel agency at the Las Frutas Resort. But life wouldn’t stop throwing curveballs, so the previous month she had ultimately (and impulsively) launched her own villa broker agency, Plum Lockhart Luxury Retreats.
“This place is a dump, Lucia,” marveled Plum, peering out a filmy bedroom window that overlooked an overgrown courtyard. The shaggy ground was littered with rotten guava that bore deep brown spots. The neglected gum tree’s bark sported a creeping fungus and the drooping leaves were curled in an anemic way.
Lucia shrugged. “We need inventory. It’s April, one of the busiest months here. We have three new clients very eager to find a place for Easter break.”
A splashy article in the Market Street Journal by Plum’s former coworker and on-and-off friend Gerald Hand had generated hundreds of queries, and she was now furiously working to secure more properties to manage, hence the visit to the squalid house, marketed as Villa Tomate.
“I suppose it is a good problem to have,” said Plum, taking in the fractured surfaces and peeling paint.
“It is,” insisted Lucia. She pulled out a notebook and began jotting down a ‘to do’ list.
“The name is kind of pathetic,” said Plum. “All of the villas have fruit names and this one has tomato?”
“Tomato is a fruit.”
“Technically. But most people consider it a vegetable.”
“I consider myself a twenty-five-year-old blond with an hourglass figure, but that doesn’t make it true,” replied Lucia.
Plum smiled. When she started her agency last month she had been thrilled that Lucia agreed to join her (especially since it riled their former unappreciative employer, Jonathan Mayhew, and his deputy, Damián Rodriguez, who was Plum’s nemesis.) She had even offered to make her a full partner, but Lucia had owned a hardware store for years and had no interest in incurring the headaches that came along with running a business. Instead, she accepted a role as “Director” (Plum was big on titles) and would work for a salary with commission. The arrangement suited both of them perfectly, as Plum did enjoy the glory of being the boss. But she also fervently admired her colleague’s clarity of thought, decisiveness and clear outlook.
“We’re going to need to send in those people who clean up crime scenes in order to get this place ready,” said Plum.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Never dramatic, always practical.”
“Hurry up and tell me what you think you will need. We have a three o’clock meeting with Giorgio Lombardi back at the office.”
“What?” yelped Plum. “Why is that at the office? We’ve only just moved in, the place has boxes everywhere, it’s like we are living out of it…”
“You are living out of it.”
“I know that, but it’s about images and perception,” explained Plum. “We need Giorgio Lombardi to support our agency, and if he thinks we are some Podunk low-rent operation run out of a townhouse, he will be dissuaded.”
“We are a low-rent operation run out of a townhouse,” said Lucia. “But don’t worry. He knows it is temporary, that you lost your housing when you left your previous employment and that this was all we could find for both office and residence at such short notice.”
“Why couldn’t we meet him at a restaurant?” moaned Plum. She folded her arms.
“Because we don’t have the budget for all these fancy meals right now,” Lucia admonished.
“That’s what people do in New York.”
“We’re not in New York.”
“No, we are certainly not,” lamented Plum. “And the townhouse is a disgrace.”
“Don’t worry, he’s a man. He won’t even notice the decor.”
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Acknowledgments
I’m very grateful to the team at Sourcebooks: Anna Michels, Jenna Jankowski, and Shauneice Robinson. Thank you to my literary agent, Christina Hogrebe, and my film/TV agent, Debbie Deuble Hill. Vas, James, Peter, Nadia, Mom, Dick, May, Laura, and Liz for the support and distractions.
About the Author
Photo by Tanya Malott
Carrie Doyle is the bestselling author of multiple novels and screenplays that span many genres, from cozy mysteries to chick lit to comedies to YA.
A born and bred New Yorker, Carrie has also lived in Russia, France, England, and Los Angeles. A former editor-in-chief of the Russian edition of Marie Claire, Carrie has written dozens of articles for various magazines, including countless celebrity profiles. She currently splits her time between New York and Long Island with her husband and two teenage sons.
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