by Elle Kennedy
It’s then that I glance down and see the stark white handprint left behind on a very red canvas.
“Well, shit.” Guess I forgot too.
Sabrina looks like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by a commotion from the water’s edge. Our attention shifts to Bruce and Kevin, who are examining something on the wet sand.
“Tuck!” Bruce shouts when he catches my gaze. “Sabrina! C’mere! You are not gonna believe this!”
Exchanging a wary look, we walk over to the men to see what all the fuss is about. When we reach them, Bruce is peeling strands of seaweed off some item I can’t quite make out.
When he flings the last of the seaweed off, I suck in a breath. Jesus fucking Christ.
“How remarkable is this?” Kevin says, eyes wide. “It just came in with the tide and floated right up to our feet.”
A curious Sabrina steps forward before I can stop her. “What is it?”
Then she sees Alexander and starts to cry.
29
Sabrina
Day 5
This trip is one indignity after another. The day after Alexander forces himself back into our lives, Tucker and I both wake up feeling like pieces of fried chicken. We spend the morning slathering aloe on each other while putting towels down so we don’t ruin the expensive white couch in the living room. We alternate between that and lying on the cold marble floor.
“Maybe we should just call it,” I tell Tucker.
“Call it?”
“Accept defeat and go home.”
“You want to leave?” Plastered to the floor, he turns his face to look up at me where I lie facedown on the couch because even the air touching my back feels like a million fire ants feasting on my flesh.
“We’re halfway through this trip, and at this rate we’ll end up dead before it’s over. And I miss Jamie. A few minutes on the phone isn’t enough. And who knows what your mom is feeding her.”
“I miss her too, but they’re fine.” He sits up, wincing when the side of his thumb accidentally brushes his sunburnt stomach. “I know there’ve been a few bumps, but we’re not going to get another chance at this for a while once you start your new job.”
“Don’t remind me.”
It’s the constant thought that’s stalked me every day since graduation. I’m no closer to a decision while the stress of making the wrong choice mounts like my throat is filling with sand. And, frankly, I don’t appreciate Tucker piling more guilt on me for our much-delayed honeymoon going to hell.
“What’s that look?” he demands, because he can read me like a book.
“Nothing.”
“Sabrina.”
I sit up too, trying to stop the words biting on my tongue. But they spill out anyway. “I’m sorry my career is ruining everything for you.”
“Hey. That’s not what I said. But for what it’s worth, having to choose between two pretty great opportunities isn’t an awful problem to have. At least you’re excited about both jobs.”
“Unlike you, right? You, who couldn’t be bothered to tell me you were unhappy with your job.”
He gets to his feet, whiskey-brown eyes narrowing. “What do you want to hear? That I’ve barely got anything to do at the bars? That they run themselves and I’m bored shitless?” His jaw tightens. “I collect the checks, yeah, but I feel useless.”
“And you should’ve told me all that months ago,” I say, my tone a tad sharper than I intend.
“Well, I’m telling you now. I’m dying of boredom, but I don’t say anything because I’m trying not to put more pressure on you.”
“So now it’s my fault you’re miserable?”
“Is there a draft in here?” he says with bitter sarcasm. “Where are you hearing this, because those aren’t my words.”
“Whatever. I guess it’s all in my head, right?”
I go upstairs, which effectively tables the discussion. But the can of worms we’ve opened can’t be unopened. We only skirted around the issue, dipped our toes in a pool of resentment I hadn’t realized was there.
It’s only later, once the sun’s gone down, that shit gets real. We decide to take a walk on the beach, because we’re both going stir crazy and neither of us want to admit what’s been coming since we woke up cranky this morning. The lid rattling on the boiling pot, water threatening to spill over the edge.
“I mean it,” I say while staring straight ahead. “Let’s just change our tickets and fly home early. If we’re just going to sit around the house, we might as well do it at home with our daughter.”
The moon is bright and full over our heads. The sun, having just dipped below the horizon, finally giving way to a cool breeze to offer some relief from the thick humidity and our throbbing sunburns.
“Christ, Sabrina, just once can you make us a priority?”
I stop in my tracks, spinning to face him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. School, work, Jamie, even a goddamn last will and testament takes precedence over me. Somehow, I always fuckin’ end up at the bottom of your priority list. Do you remember why we came here?” Tucker huffs an angry breath. “It was to get some time together. I never see you at home. We can’t get five minutes alone. And that’s not gonna get any better once you accept that stupid ninety-hour-a-week job.”
“Oh, so that’s how you really feel, huh? You were the one telling me to take the offer from the bigger firm.”
“Because I know it’s what you really want,” he snaps back, raising his voice.
“So you lied.”
“Give me a break, Sabrina.” He drags his hands through his hair, yanking. As if I’m not justified in my frustration. “You’d hate practicing civil law. It’d bore you silly.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
I almost scream. “Oh my God. Stop being Mr. Agreeable and all supportive and, like, Don’t worry, darlin’, you do whatever you need to do and I’ll be A-okay over here. Just one fucking time, why don’t you tell me what you want?”
Exasperation floods his expression. “I want to have my wife home more than a couple hours a day!”
I rear back, stunned.
Tucker looks equally startled by his uncharacteristic outburst. He draws a breath, his arms dropping to his sides. “But I bite my tongue because I want to support you, no matter what you choose.”
“Is this about Tucker’s Bar? Do you think me taking this job means you’re, what, stuck there?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about the bar. I care that you’re happy.”
“How am I supposed to be happy if you’re pissed off at me all the time?”
I’m not interested in one of those resentful marriages where we’re both suffering in silence, enslaved by our choices until we grow to hate each other. I certainly don’t want that for Jamie.
“How am I the bad guy for trying to be supportive?”
“Being passive-aggressive doesn’t feel supportive.” My frustration reaches sky-high levels. “And what the hell am I supposed to do if you’re not being honest with me? You encourage me to prioritize everything but you, and then get mad at me when I take you at your word? How is that fair? I need to be able to trust what you’re telling me, damn it.”
“Fine.” Tucker throws his hands up and turns away. “I give up.”
“Where are you going?” Gaping, I watch him stomp in the direction of the house.
“Into town for a drink,” he barks over his shoulder. “I’m taking the Jeep.”
Of course. This disaster of a honeymoon wouldn’t be complete without a fight erupting into a major tantrum. Tucker leaves me there with the waves and moonlight. Sand between my toes. It’s at least the prettiest place I’ve ever been abandoned.
“Lover’s quarrel?”
I’m startled when Kevin and Bruce emerge from a nearby cluster of palms, approaching with a flashlight.
I bite my lip. “I think the he
at’s finally gotten to his head.”
“Forgive us,” Kevin says. “We happened to overhear you from the terrace and walked down to make sure everything was all right.”
Embarrassment warms my cheeks when I realize we’re in front of their property. “Sound really carries out here, huh?”
He offers a sympathetic shrug. “It really does.”
“Sorry about that,” I tell them. A tired sigh slips out. “Turns out we packed all our problems but not enough sunscreen.”
Kevin glances over and lightly touches Bruce’s massive biceps. “See if you can catch up to him? Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.”
“Would you?” I ask, relieved.
I’m not thrilled about the idea of Tucker running around a strange town alone. Especially if he’s drinking. With our luck, he’d end up driving the Jeep off a pier or something. I’d go after him myself, but I get the feeling Bruce will have better luck talking him down from bad decisions. I’d probably accidentally push him to make more.
“No sweat.” Bruce gives me a reassuring nod before jogging after Tucker.
Kevin invites me up to their villa for a glass of wine to calm the nerves while we wait for our men to return. Sitting by the pool, I find myself unloading all the pent-up stress of the last several days on this poor, unwitting man.
“It’s nothing special, I guess. I’m sure all couples constantly fight about work and time and figuring out the future. And yeah, I know we’re pretty fortunate to be in literal paradise complaining about people throwing money at us. I just mean, as a couple, as parents, this stuff matters, right?”
“It does,” he says patiently.
“I just wish he would tell me what he was actually feeling instead of pretending like it’s all good, all the time.”
Kevin chuckles. “In his defense, a lot of men have trouble sharing their emotions. The entire romance self-help industry would crumble if that were not the case. Men are from Mars, remember?”
“I guess. But I didn’t realize Tucker was one of them. He’s always been so candid with me, or at least I thought he was.” I gulp down some more wine. “I’m not a mind reader. If he doesn’t feel like he’s a priority for me, he needs to tell me. How am I supposed to change my behavior if I don’t even realize I’m behaving badly?” A groan slips out. “And now I feel awful. You know what? I should just accept the second job offer. It’s less exciting work, but the hours are much better and the money is still good. And then I can be home with Tucker and Jamie more.”
Honestly, it’s not like Tucker hasn’t been accommodating. All through law school and the pregnancy, he never once complained about making dinner or cleaning the apartment. Changing diapers or getting up at four a.m. to rock Jamie back to sleep. Just so I wouldn’t have to stop studying. And he did it all with that easy smile of his, taking it in stride.
“He’s not so out of line to want me to give a little reciprocation,” I admit. “So he has the space to figure out what’ll make him happy, find a new business to set up. Whatever it is.”
“Sounds like you two care very much about each other’s wellbeing,” Kevin remarks, smiling. “That’s a good place to start.”
“It still feels like this trip has been a total bust. At this point we’re not even speaking.”
“You owe it to yourselves to try salvaging something out of it. I can’t deny you’ve had some bad luck, but it can’t last forever. A few good days might be worth the bad, if you give it time.” He laughs again. “You want to know what a total bust is? Let me tell you about the first vacation Bruce and I ever took. We were on the Amalfi coast and—”
His phone rings, lighting up. Since it’s sitting between us on the pool deck, I clearly see Bruce’s photo flashing on the screen.
Kevin wastes no time answering. “Everything—” He barely gets the word out before he’s cut off by Bruce on the other end. He listens, then asks, “Where?” His eyes flick to mine.
A knot forms in my gut.
“How much?”
It tightens, stretching against my insides.
“We’ll be right there.” Kevin ends the call and takes a breath before setting his face in a neutral expression.
“What happened?” My fingernails dig into my palms, bracing.
“Well, here’s the thing… Your husband’s been arrested.”
30
Sabrina
Night 5
At the jail in the municipal complex, people loiter outside on phones while taxis roll through the parking lot, unloading and picking up a steady stream of haggard, stumbling tourists. Kevin and I jump out of his Land Rover and hurry across the cracked, uneven pavement toward the front entrance. It doesn’t take long to spot Bruce inside the lobby, looking frantic next to a potted palm and a rotating fan.
“What on earth happened?” Kevin asks his stricken partner.
“I’m not sure I understand.” Bruce looks to me, sweat beading on his forehead. “My French sucks.”
“You had one job, sweetheart. You two were barely gone an hour,” Kevin chides. “How did this happen?”
“We were sitting at the bar. That spot by the marina with karaoke on Thursday nights and the strong mai tais,” Bruce rushes to explain. “Short little man comes up and starts shouting at us out of nowhere. No idea who he was or where he came from. Couldn’t understand a word he said. He’s fuming, pointing his finger at Tucker’s chest. I step in and get him to walk away. Then about twenty minutes later, two cops walk in, put Tucker in handcuffs, and walk out. I paid a guy on a scooter thirty bucks to let me hop on and follow them here.”
“That’s it?” I ask in dismay. “He didn’t talk to anyone else? On the street? Sideswipe someone on the road? Tap a bumper?”
“Nope, not a thing. He didn’t even get up to use the restroom.” Bruce fans a hand over his forehead. Poor guy looks like he ran here from the other side of the island. Face red and shirt damp against his skin. “I’m so sorry, Sabrina. I don’t get it.”
“We’ll get it sorted,” Kevin assures me.
With his help translating, we find an officer to escort me back to general holding to see Tucker. He’s in a cell with about twenty other men. Mostly young, drunk, and American. Plus the loud Irish guy slurring at the guard, who ignores him while reading a cooking magazine at a small desk against the wall.
When he sees me walk in, Tucker jumps to his feet and hugs the bars. “Sabrina, I swear—”
“Two minutes,” the officer barks with a thick accent.
“Don’t worry, I know,” I tell Tucker. “Bruce filled us in.”
He releases a long sigh and slumps against the bars. “Hell of a vacation, huh?” He manages a weak smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have walked away in the middle of the conversation. That wasn’t fair.”
“It’s okay. We both got worked up.”
“I don’t want to fight anymore.” He shakes his head a few times, as if reprimanding himself. “I’m sorry I managed to make this trip worse.”
“Time’s up,” the guard announces from the doorway.
I glance over with narrowed eyes. “That was not two minutes.”
The uniform-clad man just smirks.
Turning back to Tucker, I give him a reassuring grin. “Baby, I didn’t spend three years at Harvard Law to let my husband rot in jail on my honeymoon. Watch your woman work.”
With Kevin’s assistance again, we get the shift supervisor to come out front to speak with us. Apparently he’s the only one around here who’s fluent in English.
I’m fired up before the man even says hello, demanding to see the charging documents and whatever evidence they have against Tucker.
In return, he tries blowing us off. “You have to come back tomorrow,” he says with a shrug.
“Absolutely not. You’re wrongfully holding an American citizen, and I’m not leaving until I know what he’s been charged with.”
We go around like this a few times until I make myself enough of a p
ain in the ass that he stomps off to collect the paperwork just to get rid of me. The report ends up being in French, so Kevin translates it for us. Essentially, it says the man who apparently accosted Tucker and Bruce waved down the cops to accuse Tucker of shoplifting from his store and causing some vandalism and destruction of property.
“There’s no way,” Bruce insists. “I caught Tucker before he left the house, and we drove straight to the bar. We didn’t stop anywhere else.”
I frown. “And Tuck and I haven’t left the house except to go to your place, the beach, or your fishing trip. We’ve literally been trapped inside since we stepped foot on the island. They’ve got the wrong guy.”
Once more, I tell the officer at the reception desk that I need to speak to the shift supervisor, who is trying to make himself inconspicuous while watching us from the other side of a door behind the desk.
“Listen, you’ve got my client locked up back there.” I narrow my eyes at the desk jockey. “If someone doesn’t come talk to me, I’m going to come back here with ten more lawyers and the U.S. Ambassador, and you’re going to explain why you’ve locked up an innocent man without evidence and refused to give him access to his attorney.”
The officer reluctantly gets up. An animated conversation takes place behind the door before the shift supervisor again approaches the three of us. And again he tries to shove us off, insisting they have to hold Tucker until his arraignment in the morning.
I cock my head in challenge. “You searched him, right? Were the supposed stolen goods on his person?”
The man’s silence is answer enough.
“Did you find them in the Jeep?”
Again, just sullen silence.
“No. Because your plaintiff fingered the wrong man. Now, if you’d like, I can get security camera footage from our house, GPS data from his Jeep and cellphone, plus a dozen witnesses who saw him sitting on a barstool, and then bring a lawsuit against your department for false imprisonment. Or, you can admit your mistake, let him go, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
