What Happens in Paradise

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “You might want to cool your heels there,” Jay said. “And try coming out in March when everyone else gets cabin fever and leaves.”

  Cool his heels in Iowa for two months? In winter? There’s no way he can do it, can he? And yet, what choice does he have? Living with his mother is free, the house is comfortable and plenty big enough, and she gives him twenties and fifties every time he goes out. She would probably make his car payment in exchange for him doing some simple handyman work.

  But would his morale survive? He fears not. Earlier that day, his mother pressed two hundred dollars into his hand and sent him to the Hy-Vee for groceries, which he didn’t object to as he needed dog food for Winnie and some shaving cream for himself. And who should he run into at the deli counter but his high-school girlfriend Claire Bellows, the one who went to Northwestern and promptly slept with Baker?

  “Cash?” Claire said, blinking like he was an apparition. “Cash Steele, is that you?”

  Cash forced a smile while he cursed his truly terrible luck. And yet, this was what happened when you returned to your hometown: you bumped into the people you used to know. Claire Bellows looked basically the same, maybe a little older, maybe a little washed out; her face was wan, her hair colorless and pulled back into a sad little bun. She was pushing a cart that held two children, a toddler who was standing up among the groceries—his left foot perilously close to a carton of eggs—and a baby in a bucket seat that snapped onto the front of the cart. The toddler was a boy; the baby was swaddled in a pink fleece sack, her face obscured.

  “Hey, Claire.” Cash said it casually, as though he’d just seen her the week before. He felt like he’d just seen her the week before because he and Baker had spent so much time talking about her. The good news was that the bad mojo of Claire Bellows had been exorcised. Cash felt nothing when he looked at her. He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “How are you?”

  “This is like that song!” Claire exclaimed. “Met my old lover in the grocery store, the snow was falling Christmas Eve!”

  Cash nodded along, trying to be a good sport. The lyrics rang a distant bell—Gordon Lightfoot, maybe? Simon and Garfunkel? Cash was reminded that Claire used to be a lyrics wizard, especially when it came to the music of their parents’ era, because Claire’s mother, Adrienne Bellows, was a disc jockey on the local easy-listening station. When Cash and Claire were in high school, Adrienne worked the evening six-to-ten shift; she was eastern Iowa’s answer to Delilah. While Adrienne Bellows was comforting the heartbroken and lovelorn who called in with their requests and sappy dedications, Cash and Claire were making out and, eventually, having sex in Claire’s bedroom.

  “And who do we have here?” Cash asked in an attempt to be gallant. He was trying, he really was.

  Claire looked confused until she realized he meant the children. “Oh!” she said. “This is Eugene and the baby is Mabel.”

  Cash tried not to grimace. Claire had followed the trend of naming her children as though they’d been born a hundred and twenty years ago. “Nice,” he said. “Hi, guys.” The toddler turned to look at Cash, missing the eggs by a fraction of an inch, and Cash couldn’t help himself—he moved the carton to safety. “So you’re back in Iowa City?”

  “Temporarily,” Claire said. “For the next five or six years. My husband is doing a fellowship in endocrinology at the university.”

  Cash nearly said, And you? But he was afraid Claire would tell him that she’d given up her job as a marketing executive with Colgate-Palmolive in Chicago in order to follow her husband back to Iowa and then add that she was “okay” with it or else openly express bitterness. To extract himself from that awkward topic, Cash would then ask about her mother, and Claire, realizing that she was doing all the talking, would take the reins and say, What about you? Why are you in town? Cash could then say he was visiting his parents, which would be half a lie, although lying would be preferable to telling Claire that Russ was dead. Claire had loved Russ. She and Russ had had a thing where they told each other knock-knock jokes, which Cash had found annoying even at the height of his passion for Claire.

  Knock-knock.

  Who’s there?

  A broken pencil.

  A broken pencil who?

  Never mind, it’s pointless.

  He might be able to successfully evade the topic of his parents but there would undoubtedly be follow-up questions about where he was living and what he was doing—and then finally, as if it had just occurred to her for no particular reason, Claire would ask about Baker.

  To avoid that inevitable moment, Cash smiled at Claire and said, “Well, at least Iowa City is a good place to raise kids. We learned that firsthand. See you later, Claire.”

  “But—wait,” Claire said.

  Cash did not wait. He sacrificed the half a pound of sliced turkey on Irene’s list and sauntered off in the direction of the bakery. Claire had always been socially awkward in a sweet way. When Baker hit on her at that frat party at Northwestern, it must have been like taking candy from a baby.

  But, really, what did Cash care? He was over it.

  Thinking about it now in the Pullman Diner, he can’t imagine spending two to three months here in Iowa City dodging land mines like his ex-girlfriend Claire.

  To Irene he says, “I’m going to stay a few days longer. At least.”

  She gives him a tight smile and Cash wonders if maybe she wants him gone.

  “Let’s order,” she says.

  He’s nearly asleep, sprawled across the massive acreage of the guest-room bed, when he gets a text on his phone.

  Who would be texting him so late? Cash figures it must be Dylan again, telling Cash that he left his one-hitter behind the counter or complaining because he’s still owed for a day and a half of work. The first thing Cash notices when he picks up his phone is the time. It’s not late at all; it’s only ten o’clock. It just feels late because it gets dark at four thirty in the afternoon and there’s nothing to do in this town after the dinner hour. The second thing Cash notices is that the text is from Ayers.

  Ayers.

  Cash stares at the phone, wondering if it’s a trick. Did Baker somehow figure out a way to send Cash a text that looks like it’s from Ayers? Cash hesitates a moment, then swipes to open. The text isn’t a text but rather a link, and when Cash clicks on the link, it opens to the website for Treasure Island Cruises—Day Trips to the BVIs, St. Thomas, Water Island, and Beyond!

  Beyond? Cash thinks. Beyond must be that place you visit in your mind after nine or ten painkillers.

  This section of the website starts with Join the Treasure Island crew! In smaller print beneath that is We are currently seeking a first mate for our BVI routes. Must possess strong administrative skills and CPR and lifesaving certification; must enjoy working with people. Valid passport required, boating experience preferred. To apply, contact Ayers Wilson, ayers@treasureislandcruisesvi.com.

  Did Ayers send this to him for a reason? Cash wonders. Does she think he should…apply? He has been boating exactly once in the past ten years—when he went on Treasure Island as Ayers’s guest. Yes, he’d enjoyed it, and yes, Ayers had asked him if he wanted a job. But that had been a joke. Right? And yet now, apparently, they were looking for someone.

  CPR certification he has; lifesaving, not a chance—unless you considered avalanche-rescue certification “lifesaving.” Well, it was, but it wouldn’t help him save someone who was drowning. Cash is an okay swimmer and he does have years of experience working with people, but in his heart, he’s a mountain boy.

  His thumbs hover over the keypad. It doesn’t matter why Ayers sent this; it only matters that she’s reaching out. She’s thinking of him.

  He lies back in bed and tries to lasso his bucking bronco of a heart. Ayers had been so angry the last time he saw her, so indignant that two people she’d befriended had deceived her about who they were and what they were doing on St. John. In retrospect, Cash doesn’t blame her. They—meaning Baker—should ha
ve told Ayers who they were at Rosie’s funeral lunch. But okay, let’s say that would have been in poor taste. Fine. Cash should have told her who he was when he bumped into her on the Reef Bay Trail. No excuses; he should have and he hadn’t, and then once he’d spent the day with her aboard Treasure Island, he’d become infatuated with her and didn’t want to ruin his chances. The same had been true for Baker. And guess what—they both lost out. Ayers told them she had gotten back together with her old boyfriend, Mick.

  Cash reads the link she’d texted him again. She must have sent it to him because she thought it would be a good fit. Right? Right? Or maybe it was a joke. For all Ayers knows, Cash is back in Colorado, skiing the bowl on Peak 8.

  But he’s not. He’s in Iowa City without a job, without prospects. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine a life on the water.

  With Ayers. He would agree to live in the space station if it was with Ayers.

  He decides not to respond to the text right away. He wants to sleep on it.

  In the morning, the text is still there and Cash is proud of himself for exercising restraint and not sending a knee-jerk response.

  Winnie is asleep at the foot of the bed. When she feels Cash stir, she lifts her head.

  “You liked St. John, right?” Cash asks. “Wanna go back?”

  Of course, it’s not Winnie’s permission that he needs. Cash pads down to the kitchen in his pajama bottoms and a decade-old Social Distortion T-shirt he found in the bureau in his room. Irene is juicing oranges the old-fashioned way—by crushing the hell out of the buggers with a galvanized-steel juicer that had belonged to her own mother. Cash watches her as she presses and twists the orange under her palms. All of that energy for a dribble of juice. Though it’s probably not the worst way to release pent-up frustration.

  “Mom,” he says. “I’m not going back to Colorado.”

  “You’re not?” she says, relaxing her death grip on the orange in her hand and then tossing the rind in the sink.

  “With your permission…” he says. His voice sticks. Asking her this is harder than he thought it would be. “I’d like to go back down.”

  “Down?” she says, though he can tell she understands.

  “To St. John,” Cash says. He clears his throat. “I have a lead on a job there. And I was hoping I could just stay in the villa.”

  Irene abandons the juice project altogether in order to stare at him. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, but then, his mother’s expressions have always been inscrutable. Against all odds, they had both sort of fallen in love with St. John—at least, Cash did. He knows Irene had warmed to it as well; she went out fishing with Huck once in an attempt to get information, but she also took a second boat trip with him before she and Cash left. He supposes it’s possible that her feelings have changed since they’ve been back home and now the whole Caribbean represents an enormous, ugly deception that she doesn’t want to revisit. And maybe she’d prefer that Cash not revisit it either.

  It’s the idea that Irene might say no, might ask him nicely not to go or forbid him to stay in the villa, that makes Cash realize how badly he wants to return and give life down there a shot. He won’t stay forever. Maybe just until summer.

  “Is this about the girl?” Irene asks.

  “What?” Cash says. He can feel his face turning red. “No, of course not.”

  “Oh,” Irene says. “That’s too bad. I like her for you, you know.”

  “So…is it okay?” Cash asks.

  “Yes, honey,” Irene says. “It’s fine. The villa is just sitting there empty. Someone should use it. Let me buy your plane ticket and give you some money to get started.”

  Cash wants to tell her she doesn’t have to—he’s too old to be taking handouts from his mother—but the fact is, he’s flat broke. Broker than broke.

  “Thank you, Mom,” he says. “Thank you so much.”

  Irene gives him a sad smile. “I’m jealous,” she says.

  Huck

  One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars; this is how much cash Huck and Ayers discover in the bottom drawer of Rosie’s dresser. It’s all banded up in neat bricks, just like in the movies. After they count the bricks, they count them again, announcing the amounts out loud as they go so they don’t lose track. Then Huck says, “Come into the kitchen.”

  “I don’t think I can eat,” Ayers says.

  “I’m not talking about barbecue,” Huck says. “I’m talking about rum.”

  Ayers shuts the drawer, and the blue Benjamins disappear; Huck ushers her down the hall. In the kitchen, he takes two shot glasses out of the cabinet and brings his trusty bottle of eighteen-year-old Flor de Caña—useful in most emergencies—down from the shelf.

  He pours two shots and gives one to Ayers. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits, raising his own glass.

  “Me either.”

  They clink glasses and drink. He notices Ayers eyeing the barbecue spread out across the counter. She grabs a drumstick dripping with comeback sauce. Huck follows suit. No matter what the circumstances, Candi’s is too tempting to resist.

  After Ayers leaves, taking one yellow dress and three pairs of white jeans with her—the rest of the clothes they should let Maia go through, Ayers said, as soon as she’s old enough—Huck picks up the money, armful by armful, and stashes it under his bed. He’s aware that it has remained undetected in Rosie’s room, but he figures it’s only a matter of time before Maia goes snooping. Maia will never voluntarily enter Huck’s room. He’s messy, and Maia has declared on numerous occasions that, despite Huck’s valiant effort with the laundry, his room smells like fish guts, rotten fish guts.

  After the money is beneath the bed, he stacks all the issues of Field and Stream and National Geographic that he’s collected over the past twenty years around the bed so that if Maia does come poking around, she will see only that Huck is a packrat.

  Money hidden, he feels a little better. He drives to Gifft Hill to pick up Maia from school.

  A hundred and twenty-five grand. In cash. In a dresser drawer.

  It’s a lot of money, but it’s not enough to kill two people over; that’s Huck’s thought as he pulls into the school parking lot.

  Maia is lingering by the gate with her friend Joanie and two boys Huck recognizes but can’t put names to. All four kids have their phones out and they’re laughing at something on the screen. Huck knows Maia sees him and he also knows enough to be patient and not tap the horn or, God forbid, call out to her. That would be so embarrassing.

  Maia runs over to his window and he cranks it down.

  “Hello there,” he says. His voice sounds normal to his own ears, gruff, grandfatherly. All of his internal panic about having so much cash hidden under his bed is, he thinks, undetectable. “Are you not getting in?”

  Maia bites her lip. “Would you take me and my friends into town so we can walk around?”

  “Walk around and do what?” Huck asks. Cruz Bay is a small town consisting mostly of bars. Three o’clock is when happy hour at Woody’s starts, luring people off the beaches in the name of good, cheap rum punch, and at four o’clock, all of the excursion boats pull in and disgorge people who have been drinking all day, most of whom are interested in continuing their drinking on land. This is all well and good for the island economy—Cruz Bay in the late afternoons is one of the most festive places on earth—but it’s not exactly a wholesome environment for a bunch of twelve-year-olds.

  Maia shrugs. “Get ice cream at Scoops, walk around Mongoose, maybe listen to the guitar player at the Sun Dog. He knows some Drake songs.”

  Huck is pretty cool for a grandpa; he, too, knows some Drake songs. “All right. Pile in, I guess. What time should I plan to pick you up?”

  “Joanie’s mom will bring us home,” Maia says.

  “Fine,” Huck says. If Julie is on board with the kids going into town, then Huck figures it must be all right. Joanie climbs into the truck, giving Huck a fist bump, but the boys offer h
im scared sideways looks, like he’s Lurch from The Addams Family. This actually cheers Huck up a bit.

  “Hey, fellas,” he says. “I’m Captain Huck. Remind me of your names.”

  “Colton,” says one.

  “Bright,” says the other.

  Colton and Bright—Huck has definitely heard both names before, so that’s good. The four kids wedge themselves into the back seat of the truck’s cab, leaving Huck to feel like very much the chauffeur. He nearly asks Maia to move up front, but he doesn’t want to embarrass her and he supposes that part of the fun is being smushed up against a boy. This is how it all starts, Huck thinks. One minute you’re leg to leg with a boy in your grandpa’s truck during a ride into town, and the next minute you’re hiding a hundred and twenty-five thousand of that boy’s illegally gotten dollars in your dresser drawer.

  Huck heads up the hill to Myrah Keating, then takes a left on the Centerline Road. At every curve and dip, the kids hoot as though the thrill of the ride is brand-new, even though they’ve all grown up driving on this crazy road. When they descend to the roundabout and Huck signals to go right toward Mongoose Junction, Maia says, “Actually, Gramps, can you drop us off at Powell Park? We’re waiting for some Antilles kids to get off the ferry.”