“A two-story pool?” Lillibet says.
Maia feels like her heart is being stung by a swarm of bees. She has confided a lot to Shane, but the things she told him were private, and here he is, telling everyone.
Maia shrugs. She isn’t about to admit that the villa has been seized by the FBI. She can’t afford to be any more “famous” at Antilles than she already is.
Colton and Bright are watching a YouTube video of surfing in Portugal on Bright’s phone, and Joanie joins them. Maia nearly says, I thought we said no phones, but she doesn’t want to sound like a teacher or a parent.
“I have no service,” Maia says—to no one, because Shane is now telling Lillibet the gory details of getting his braces off. Maia could join in and say, That sounds like medieval torture, but she knows three’s a crowd. She takes a minute to study Shane and Lillibet together. They’re just two kids talking, right? Or does Shane like Lillibet? They move on to the topic of their math teacher, then to something that happened at morning meeting the day before, and then Shane relates all the near-death experiences he’s had taking the shuttle to Antilles from the Red Hook ferry. Maia smiles to herself, pretending to be deep in thought. If Lillibet is here because she wanted to meet Maia, then why is she talking only to Shane? Maia doesn’t go to Antilles. She wants to, but her mother said not until ninth grade.
Maia wonders if there will be enough money to pay for Antilles, or college—Irene had said she’d handle it, since Russ was gone, but now Irene has no money. What if Huck hasn’t saved enough and Maia can’t go to college in the States like she wants to?
She feels like demanding everyone’s attention so she can bring up this monumental issue—her entire future hangs in the balance—but looking around, she realizes no one will care. Colton and Bright are engrossed in the video; Joanie is shamelessly hanging over Colton’s shoulder (later, Maia will suggest Joanie stop being so obvious). Lillibet and Shane are talking, and maybe they’ve inched closer together, maybe Lillibet is flipping her hair for Shane’s benefit.
Here is the group the five of them created because they had no one to talk to about the important stuff, and Maia still has no one to talk to about the important stuff.
She sits unnoticed for five minutes, ten—then the boys’ interest in the video ends and Colton says, “This clubhouse sucks. There’s nothing to do.”
Maia can’t help herself. “We were supposed to talk,” she says. “Remember?” Remember crying on the beach about your parents and remember who was there to listen?
Lillibet checks her phone. “I’ve got to go,” she says. “My dad’s coming to get me in our boat in twenty minutes and I have to get down to the beach.” She looks at Shane. “Do you want a ride back to Chocolate Hole? It’s on our way.”
Shane raises his eyebrows. He seems like a different person without his braces. Older. Out of Maia’s league.
“Can you take…” he starts, casting his eyes around.
“I live in Coral Bay,” Joanie says. “Wrong direction.”
“It should probably be just you,” Lillibet says. “My dad knows you.”
Say no, Maia thinks. She and Shane can hike back up to the Centerline together. She’ll share her sandwich with him, her banana. They can help each other up the steep parts. It’s frightening how bad she wants this.
“Okay,” Shane says. He stands up and gives the rest of them a wave. His eyes linger on Maia and she looks down into her lap. She knows it’s unreasonable to expect Shane to turn down a boat ride home. It’s a ten-minute walk downhill to the beach—Lillibet will be fine in her flip-flops after all—and then he’ll be back in Chocolate Hole ten minutes after that. But still, it feels like Shane is choosing Lillibet over Maia.
There are goodbyes but they don’t pick another day and time to meet. Shane and Lillibet race each other down the trail, with Lillibet, predictably, shrieking. Maia’s insides have become crumbling ruins. Ahhh—but just like Par Force, she has a sturdy foundation. It’s a nice thought that doesn’t make her feel any better.
“I’m leaving too,” Maia announces.
“Well, wait for us,” Joanie says.
“Yeah,” Bright says, and he tugs on Maia’s ponytail. “Wait for us.”
Maia backhands Bright against the chest. She dislikes anyone touching her hair. Bright grabs her arm and pokes her in the ribs, then tries to tickle her. She shoos him away.
“My mom can probably give you a ride home,” Bright says to Maia. “It’s not that far.”
Bright lives on Gifft Hill, across from the school. It’s not that far but it’s not close either. Bright probably has a crush on her. He used to like Posie Alvarez, but that’s over. Maia thinks about how easy it would be if she could just transfer the feelings she has for Shane to Bright. Bright is in her grade and he goes to Gifft Hill. He’s tall and he’s good at sports and his parents own a rental-car company, which is cool because he gets driven around in all these brand-new Jeeps in juicy colors. But Maia likes Bright only as a friend. Probably because she knows him too well; she remembers when he threw up during library time in second grade.
Colton and Bright run up ahead, leaving Maia and Joanie to eat their dust.
“Hey, wait up!” Joanie says. “Cole!”
Her mother was right, Maia thinks. Love is messy and complicated. And, most of all, unfair.
Irene
Because she no longer has a vehicle of her own, Irene joins Huck on his errands after their fishing charter. This means going to a few places:
Starfish Market for (most) groceries. It’s BYOB—bring your own bag. Huck keeps a stash of reusable shopping bags behind the driver’s seat of his truck, which Irene finds charming. Russ rarely (if ever) shopped for groceries, and the idea of him remembering reusable shopping bags is laughable.
Papaya Café and Bookstore for a Vietnamese coffee and a browse through the stacks of used books. Huck is a particular fan of the coffee (he has turned Irene on to it as well) and of Michael Connelly. He’s patiently waiting for some tourist to turn in a copy of Dark Sacred Night. In the meantime, he buys a James Patterson novel, one of the Women’s Murder Club series, which he says aren’t half bad.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Irene says.
“Why don’t you pick out a book?” Huck says. “My treat.”
It’s kindnesses like this that make Irene emotional. She thinks back to New Year’s Day, her dinner at the Pullman Bar and Diner with Lydia followed by a trip to Prairie Lights, where Irene thought nothing of buying whatever books struck her fancy. Now it feels like an unreasonable luxury to spend ten or twelve dollars on a used book. Irene shops carefully. What will help her escape? She finds a well-loved copy of The Vacationers by Emma Straub for six bucks. She hands it to Huck. She wishes they were merely vacationers.
“Thank you,” she says.
Huck studies the cover. “Maybe I’ll read it when you’re done. Do you want a coffee too, AC?”
She has stopped trying to get him not to use the nickname. She likes it more than she cares to admit. “Please,” she says.
Pine Peace Market for beer, wine, and a fresh bottle of Flor de Caña. Best prices.
St. John Market for anything they didn’t have at Starfish. St. John Market is right across from the Westin resort and time-shares, so it’s heavily populated by fish-belly-pale tourists buying groceries. (It’s to be avoided at all costs on Saturdays, when families arrive for the week; Irene learned this the hard way.)
A few days earlier, Irene bumped into her own son at St. John Market. Baker was buying a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of white bread, for Floyd’s school lunches, Irene assumed. He had been too busy considering the ingredients on the peanut butter jar to register any surprise at seeing Irene. (Maybe he wasn’t surprised, Irene thought. It was a small island.)
“This isn’t organic,” he said. “And it has a lot of sugar.” He held up the bread. “This isn’t sprouted whole-grain spelt or whatever. If my school wives from Houston saw this, they’d stage an i
ntervention.”
“They’ll never know,” Irene said, and she and Baker shared a smile for the first time in what felt like forever.
Irene and Huck had also bumped into Ayers Wilson at St. John Market. They were walking in while Ayers was untying Winnie from the railing outside.
“There’s my granddog!” Irene said, crouching down to rub Winnie’s silky butterscotch head. Winnie’s tail was going nuts. Winnie was happy to see Irene—but Ayers seemed to be another story.
“Hey,” Ayers said flatly. She didn’t look good. Her hair was unbrushed, her eyes puffy, her skin sallow. Cash had told Irene that Ayers had taken a leave of absence from the boat and also that her engagement had ended, leaving her free to care for Winnie.
“I owe you a huge thank-you for helping Cash out,” Irene said. “I’m not sure what would have happened otherwise.”
“It’s no big deal,” Ayers said. “I like having her around…good distraction and all that. It gets me outside a couple of times a day, anyway.”
“Are you okay, honey?” Huck asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look like death on a stick.”
“Huck!” Irene said.
“It’s okay,” Ayers said. “I’m just…going through some stuff right now.” She frowned at Huck. “And I’ve been meaning…there’s something I need to talk to you about. Later. I’ll call you later.”
“Anytime,” Huck said.
Irene wanted to ask Ayers if she knew that Baker was staying at the Westin or if she knew Baker was moving to the island permanently if he could find a suitable rental, but she couldn’t get into everything that had happened while they were all there at the store, so Irene said, “We’re on the hunt for mangoes for Maia,” and Ayers led Winnie back to her little green truck.
Huck said, “Did she seem off to you?”
“Yes,” Irene said. “But you should never tell a woman she looks anything less than radiant.”
“Oops,” Huck said.
St. John Business Center. This is where Huck picks up his mail. There’s always a long line of people who need to scan or make copies or ship something back to the States. Last time, Irene went inside with Huck. Candice, the woman in charge, asked Huck if Irene was his new lady friend, and Huck said, “Irene is my business partner,” and Candice said, “Okay, if that’s what you want to call it.”
This time, Irene stays in the truck. She has now been living with Huck for nearly two weeks, and everyone on the island must think they’re a couple. Irene has far bigger worries than what other people think, but she has decided it’s best to maintain a bit of distance by letting Huck get his own mail. There are still condolence letters about Rosie that arrive, and there are bills for the house. Irene has tried to contribute to the household but Huck says, Absolutely not.
And, frankly, Irene is relieved.
Huck emerges from the business center holding a square, flat package and grinning. He’s got his sunglasses on and his visor; he wears a navy bandanna around his neck. He’s handsome when he smiles, Irene thinks. He’s handsome all the time. He’s strong, he’s kind, he’s trustworthy, he’s honest.
But she’s not ready.
He comes to her window and hands her the package. “For you.”
“Me?” She studies the package. It’s from M. Key in Iowa City.
Mavis Key has sent Irene…what?
Milly’s picture! Irene opens the box, slides out the bubble-wrapped bundle inside, untapes it, unfolds it, and yes—there’s Milly’s portrait. Irene’s eyes fill with tears. Mavis got it back. Amazing. Simply amazing.
“Look,” Irene says, showing the picture to Huck. “This is Russ’s mother, Milly, back in 1928 in Erie, Pennsylvania. Who does she remind you of?”
Huck takes the picture. “Goddamn,” he says. “Maia is her spitting image.”
Irene leans back against the seat and closes her eyes. “I’m going to give that picture to Maia. Thank God Mavis got it back.”
“There’s a note here,” Huck says.
Irene opens her eyes and Huck pulls a card from a corner of the frame.
Call Nat! the note says. There’s a number.
Irene already has Natalie Key’s number—Mavis texted it to her back on day one of the Destitution—but Irene hasn’t called her yet because…well, because she can’t afford a lawyer, especially not a big fancy lawyer in New York City. And yet Irene knows she has to do something. She has been so busy trying to make it through each day—working on the boat, helping out around Huck’s house where she can, checking in with Cash and Baker and Floyd—that she has been able to avoid thinking of all her worldly possessions in the custody of the FBI. If she ever wants to see them again or figure out what the hell is going on, she needs to do exactly what this card says and call Natalie Key.
“I think we should celebrate,” Huck says. “What do you say we go to Candi’s for some barbecue?”
Irene places the photograph in her lap. It does feel like a victory, having Milly back. Maybe Milly will be good luck. Maybe Milly will help them.
“Yes, please, and thank you,” Irene says. She’ll call Natalie tomorrow, she decides. Tonight, she’s going to eat some ribs, pasta salad with peas, and coleslaw with raisins and pretend she’s a vacationer.
“Before we get started,” Natalie says, “I want you to know that a guardian angel of yours has already sent me a retainer for ten thousand dollars.”
“What?” Irene says. “Who did that? Was it Mavis?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you, but I don’t play games,” Natalie says. “It was your former boss, Joseph Feeney.”
Joseph Feeney, Irene thinks. The big boss at Heartland Home and Style. “Mavis must have told him what happened,” Irene says.
“No doubt—and she probably strong-armed him,” Natalie says. “Mavis is tough, as I’m sure you know.”
“Mavis told me that you were tough,” Irene says.
“Ha!” Natalie says. “I guess we’re both tough. We had three older brothers who were state champion wrestlers, so we learned how to get out of a headlock and a half nelson at a very young age. Now, normally I charge nine hundred dollars an hour, but for you, I’m dropping my fee to three hundred—again, that’s at Mavis’s request, and I always honor her requests when I can—so I’m really hoping, Irene, that we can get this done without any out-of-pocket expenses on your end.”
Irene is so relieved, she feels dizzy. Thank you, Joseph Feeney, she thinks. You underpaid me for twelve years and essentially demoted me when you hired Mavis, and I called you all kinds of ugly names in my head. But when I needed you, you came through.
Thanking him should be done by phone but she can’t risk the follow-up questions. She’ll e-mail. “Wonderful,” Irene says.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Natalie says, “I need you to tell me everything.”
Irene expects that, because Natalie is charging only a third of her usual fee, Irene will receive a third of Natalie’s usual attention. But in only a matter of days, Natalie calls and gives her some answers.
The helicopter that Russ and Rosie took to Anegada was privately owned by Stephen Thompson, the third principal in Ascension. This particular helicopter had no black box, so there’s no voice recording of the ride or the moments before the crash. Irene is relieved. There’s a limit to what she can handle.
The people from VISAR—Virgin Island Search and Rescue—told the FBI that they had reason to believe the helicopter was not struck by lightning but rather exploded due to an electrical issue or, possibly, foul play. They are still investigating. The helicopter presently belongs to the British authorities because it went down in British waters.
“In theory,” Natalie says, “the Americans and the Brits work together, but after talking to both sides, my guess is that there’s an intentional withholding of information by the Brits, which always has to do with money. The Brits will hold the copter hostage until they get some kind of recompense.” Natalie pauses. “Hard to know if thi
s is all aboveboard or if there’s bribery going on.” She chuckles. “Actually, there’s definitely bribery going on. Just so you know, even the good guys aren’t good all the time.”
Todd Croft had been arrested north of Trinidad and Tobago the same day that Irene lost the villa. There are a lot of charges against him, but the only one that they’re presently holding him on is resisting arrest. Apparently, he gave the Feds quite a chase. The other charges, Natalie says, might not stick. Most of the paper trail that ties Ascension to money laundering and tax evasion has Russ’s signature only; a few documents also include Stephen Thompson’s name. Although Todd is the founder of the company and the last remaining principal, without any concrete evidence tying him to the illegal activity, he might soon go free, and, if his lawyer is good, he’ll avoid jail time.
“He’s telling the FBI that it was your husband and Mr. Thompson who ran the illegal business dealings, that he was involved only in the legitimate side of things—the soccer stars and casino owners who used Ascension to avoid taxes by residing in legal gray areas. He claims he didn’t learn that Mr. Thompson and your husband had ‘ventured to the dark side’ until September. Ascension is, technically, Mr. Croft’s company and he says those two threatened to take it down if Mr. Croft contacted the authorities. He cited the fact that Russ and Mr. Thompson were scooting off to Anegada without him as proof. And yet the FBI found him heading for Venezuela, where there are no extradition laws. Among Ascension’s clients are entities that are into, among other things, narcotics trafficking, human trafficking, explosives, cybercrime, underground gambling, organ trafficking, and good old-fashioned counterfeiting. According to the paper trail, these entities gave their money to Russ, and Russ created shell companies at offshore banks in the Cayman Islands. He then invested that money in legitimate businesses on St. John and in the BVIs, where regulations are looser than they are in the U.S. They bought and sold a lot of land over on Anegada. They used SGMT, an offshore bank with a reputation for secrecy. That’s the bank your personal finances were drawn on. Stephen Thompson joined the company only a year before Russ. Now, I did a little poking around on him. He was a British citizen, worked for Barclays out of law school, then disappeared for a few years, only to resurface down in the Caymans. But Mr. Thompson also held a passport from Suriname.”
Troubles in Paradise Page 8
