“I’m not sure,” Irene says.
Huck comes to check on them. “Tarpon, from the looks of it,” he says. “Big one.”
Sure enough, a little while later, Niles Goshen reels in a tarpon that is a big fish by anyone’s standards.
“I didn’t think it was the season for tarpon,” Irene says.
“It’s not, really,” Huck says. “But once in a while, the universe throws you a favor.”
They’re going to take the tarpon home. Huck gives Galen the card of a taxidermist who can stuff and mount it. Galen looks relieved and defeated. Altar is either asleep or pretending to be asleep behind her sunglasses.
Galen pulls Irene aside. “You have a good man there,” she says, nodding at Huck. “It’s clear how much he cares about you. I hope you don’t take that for granted.”
Irene can’t think of how to respond. He’s not my man? We’re not together? I’m just the mate on his boat? What if Irene were to tell Galen that, back on the first of the year, she had been a married magazine editor living in Iowa City, but then her husband was killed in a helicopter crash, and his secret life was revealed. Galen wouldn’t believe it. But if she did believe it, she might understand that everyone has her baggage and her sad stories. What differentiates people is how they choose to deal with them. Irene has done pretty well, she thinks, assuming the FBI aren’t waiting on the dock when they get back.
“I take nothing for granted,” Irene says.
On the way back to Cruz Bay, the sky darkens and there’s one loud thunderclap, followed by a torrential downpour. Irene hands the Goshens a couple of waterproof ponchos to hold over their heads; they are squeaking and squealing like they’re going to melt. As Irene stands under the canvas Bimini with Huck, she catches sight of Niles kneeling on the bow. His arms are open, his head back. He’s embracing the earth and all of her aspects.
It’s just rain, he seems to be saying. I will survive it.
The Goshens disembark early—they’ve barely been on the water for two hours—and Irene feels a strange melancholy, watching them go. She realizes she’ll never know what happens to the Goshen family. Will Altar have her birthday party? Will Niles live to be an adult? Will he hang the tarpon he caught off the coast of St. John in his home and gaze on it with pride in his fifties, in his sixties? Irene will be forgotten, lost, as soon as tomorrow or the next day. He will never know how hard Irene was rooting for him.
“Wow,” she says to Huck. She’s wet—and cold for the first time since she’s been here.
“D,” he says. “For difficult.”
“There’s no charter tomorrow, correct?”
“Correct,” Huck says. “You get a day off, unless something comes up at the last minute, which has been known to happen.”
Irene nods and wraps her arms around herself. She’s shivering.
Huck notices and holds his arms open.
She stares at him.
“I’m just offering you a hug,” Huck says. “That was tough on you and the news I greeted you with was no picnic either.”
Irene takes a tentative step toward him. He wraps his arms around her. It has been…well, a long time since a man held her like this. Russ, before he left for his “business trip” after Christmas? Had he hugged Irene or kissed her goodbye?
No, she remembers. She had been in Coralville returning some Christmas presents for Milly. She had been angry at Russ for leaving over the new year, and as punishment, she had denied him a proper goodbye.
She tries to remember what Christmas had been like. It was just the two of them in the morning in front of the tree, opening gifts. They had talked to each of the boys on the phone and they had joined Milly for the Christmas lunch served at Brown Deer.
Had they been intimate? Had they hugged and kissed? They’d held hands, she remembers, during the Christmas Eve service at First Presbyterian.
That had been nice, Irene supposes, but it hadn’t offered the comfort or the rush of this hug. Irene fits into Huck’s arms perfectly. His body is solid and warm. Can she trust him? She feels like the answer is yes—but she would have said exactly the same thing about Russell Steele. She would have said Russ was beyond reproach.
“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” Huck says in her ear. “Maia is with Ayers and I have an idea. We’ll go over to St. Thomas.”
St. Thomas is bigger, and they can be anonymous. For some reason, this suits Irene better than being seen out in Cruz Bay, where everyone knows Huck and might guess who Irene is.
“Okay,” she says.
Irene meets Huck back at the dock at six thirty. He told her to dress up and so she’s wearing a spring-green linen sheath with a belted middle, a dress she bought for Baker’s high-school graduation thirteen years earlier—right around the time that Russ met Rosie, although she tries to put this thought out of her mind.
Huck is wearing a blue button-down shirt, ironed khakis, and if Irene isn’t mistaken, there’s a navy blazer folded across the back of the captain’s seat.
This is a real date.
Huck has wine on the boat. He pours her a glass of Cakebread chardonnay—she can’t believe he remembered what kind of wine she likes—and he opens a beer for himself.
“We aren’t going far,” he says. “Just over to the yacht club in Red Hook. Fifteen minutes.”
They cruise out, nice and easy, across Sir Francis Drake Channel as the sun sets. Irene considers sitting in the bow and letting the wind catch her hair—it’s out of its braid tonight—but instead, she sits next to Huck where she can listen to the music, Jackson Browne singing “Running on Empty.” The sky glows pink and blue and gold; Huck is humming; Irene’s wine is crisp and cold. There is nothing wrong with this moment.
The world is a strange and mysterious place, Irene thinks. How is it possible that Russ’s web of deceit and his secret second life led Irene here? She laughs at the absurdity of it. Huck never met Russ but Russ certainly knew that Huck existed. What would Russ think if he could see Huck and Irene now? It turns Irene’s mind into a pretzel just considering it.
They pull into a slip at the St. Thomas Yacht Club and a cute young man in white shorts and a green polo hurries over to help with the ropes. He offers Irene a hand up to the dock.
“Captain Huck,” he says. “Good to see you again, sir. It’s been a while.”
“Good to see you, Seth,” Huck says. “Are we all set inside?”
“Yes, sir,” Seth says. “They’re ready for you. Enjoy your dinner.”
Huck offers Irene his arm and walks her down the dock. He’s wearing his blazer now and Irene is soothed by how at ease he seems and how gentlemanly he is as he opens the door to the club and ushers Irene inside.
The hostess, a stunning young West Indian woman, greets Huck with a kiss and introduces herself as Jacinda to Irene, then leads Huck and Irene to a table by the front window that overlooks the docks and the water. Irene can see the twinkling lights of St. John in the distance.
Theirs is the only table set. They are the only people in the dining room.
“Is it…always this empty?”
“The kitchen normally isn’t open tonight,” Huck says. “But they owe me a favor.”
So they are having a private dinner. The whole club, all to themselves.
“The prime rib is very good here,” Huck says. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of fish.”
They eat like royalty: Warm rolls with sweet butter, organic greens with homemade papaya vinaigrette, prime rib, baked potato with lots of butter and sour cream, and, for dessert, sabayon and berries. Huck and Irene drink wine with dinner, then end with a sipping rum, a twenty-five-year-old El Dorado that is even better than the Flor de Caña, Huck says.
They do not talk about the Vickerses’ arrest or what it might mean. They don’t talk about Russ or Rosie or real estate fraud or Todd Croft or frozen accounts. Irene pushes all that away, though during the natural lulls in the conversation, it feels like she’s holding an unruly mob b
ehind a door. It feels, as they finish up dinner, like Agent Vasco has just taken a seat at the table; that’s how badly Irene wants to talk about it.
Instead, she says, “The mother on the boat today thought we were married. She said, ‘You have a good man there.’ She said she could tell how much you cared for me.” The instant these words are out, Irene feels her cheeks burn.
“I hate to break it to you, AC,” Huck says. “Everyone who gets on that boat thinks we’re married.” He reaches for Irene’s hand. “And everyone can see how much I care for you.”
They head back to the boat, hand in hand. There are stars overhead and it feels like there’s a bright, burning star in Irene’s chest. What is happening?
Huck helps Irene down into the boat. Before he turns on the running lights, he takes Irene’s face in his hands and he kisses her. The kiss is sweet but intense—and there is no room for thoughts of anything or anyone else, not even Agent Vasco.
Ayers
There’s no such thing as a clean breakup, Ayers thinks.
When she and Mick hashed it out, Ayers told him exactly how she felt—his infidelity with Brigid was insurmountable. Mick said that he had bumped into Brigid on the ferry and Ayers believed that—but she still didn’t trust him, with Brigid or with anyone else.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.
Deep down, she acknowledges that the fault is not entirely Mick’s. Ayers wanted a chance to be with Baker and she refused to sleep with him while she was still with Mick. She had only gotten back together with Mick as a way to exact revenge on both Baker and Cash for withholding the truth about who they were, and then once she and Mick—and Gordon—were back in their routine, Ayers was comfortable, if not particularly happy.
Now that she has slept with Baker—and without protection, like an irresponsible idiot—and now that Baker has left to go back to Houston, Ayers is neither comfortable nor happy.
She had meant to take it slow and steady with Baker. She had vowed to wait until he came back from Houston to consummate their relationship. But passion and high emotion had ruled and although their night together had been unforgettable—at least for her—now the anticipation is gone. Baker might decide Ayers isn’t worth returning for.
Monday morning, there’s a knock on her door. Ayers is in bed. Mondays she’s off from both jobs, though she has Maia tonight. Ayers is picking Maia up in town at six and they have plans to get takeout from De Coal Pot.
Ayers doesn’t like unexpected knocks at the door. Who could it be at nine thirty in the morning? Her landlady? Jehovah’s Witnesses?
She pulls a pillow over her head. The door is locked. Whoever you are, she thinks, please go away. Monday is her day of rest.
“Hello?” a voice says, loud and clear. “Ayers?”
It’s Mick. He still has a key. Why didn’t she ask for her key back?
A second later there’s a flutter of footsteps as Gordon comes running into the bedroom and jumps up on Ayers’s bed. Mick is no dummy, she thinks. He sent his goodwill ambassador in first.
But Mick soon follows. “Get up,” he says.
Ayers flips over and partially opens one eye. “What are you doing here?” Does she need to remind him that they’ve broken up? What if she had company?
“It’s Monday,” Mick says. “We’re going to Christmas Cove. The boat is anchored in Frank Bay. I have rum punch, I have water, I have snacks, I have your snorkel and fins.”
“It’s over, Mick,” Ayers says. “We’re through.”
Mick sits on the bed and brushes Ayers’s hair out of her eyes. “We’re not through,” he says. “We’ll never be through.”
He looks unreasonably good, for Mick. He has a day’s worth of scruff, which is how she likes him best, and he’s gotten some sun on his face, making his eyes look very green. Gordon has already snuggled against the curve of Ayers’s back. Ayers closes her eyes for one second and travels back in time to before the disgusting discovery of Brigid, back when Mick and Gordon were “her boys,” back when life was calm and happy.
But she can travel backward only in her mind. In real time, she has no choice but to move forward. Baker. And Floyd too, she supposes. Assuming they come back.
“I slept with Baker last week,” Ayers says. “The night we broke up.”
Mick’s eyebrows shoot up in an expression of surprise, and then a split second later, Ayers sees the hurt, which was her aim. “Banker? Wow. You wasted no time.”
Ayers props herself up on her elbows. “I like him,” she says. “He’s a grown-up. He doesn’t lie to me.”
“Doesn’t he?” Mick says. “He didn’t tell you who he was. And his father”—Mick whistles—“didn’t exactly serve as a role model in the honesty department.”
Ayers should never have told Mick anything about Baker. “He’s not his father,” she says. “I’m nothing like my parents. You’re nothing like yours.”
“Point taken,” Mick says. “I’m sure you want me to be angry or jealous about your tryst with Banker, and I am.” He takes a couple of deep breaths and Ayers can see his Irish temper eddying beneath the surface. Baker is bigger than Mick, but Mick is fiercer; if they ever came to blows, Baker would lose. “But I’m glad you got it out of your system. I had my fling and now you’ve had yours—”
“It doesn’t work like that, Mick,” Ayers says. “I didn’t do it for revenge. This isn’t a tit for tat. And by the way, I waited until we were broken up—”
“You waited, what, an hour? And we aren’t really broken up. We had a misunderstanding, and you overreacted. Bumping into Brigid on the ferry doesn’t warrant a breakup. Check the relationship rule book. Ask your friends.”
“I don’t have any friends,” Ayers says.
“That’s what this is really about,” Mick says. “Banker, Money…they’re attractive to you because it’s a connection to Rosie.”
“Baker is in love with me,” Ayers says.
“Oh, really?” Mick says. “Well, where is he now? Is he here with a pineapple-banana smoothie, waiting for you in the Jeep? Has he planned the best day off imaginable, complete with a new Jack Johnson Spotify playlist and a solemn promise that we can order the carbonara pizza and the bloomin’ onion pizza and the chocolate-banana Pizza Stix? Did he arrange for Captain Stephen from the Singing Dog to play his guitar for three hours this afternoon? Did he make a reservation for tonight at the Longboard?”
“I have Maia tonight,” Ayers says.
“I know,” Mick says. “I made the reservation for three people.”
Ayers has to give him credit for that. Maia will die of happiness, eating at the Longboard with Mick. She loves the lobster tacos.
“It’s over, Mick,” Ayers says, though even she can hear that her voice lacks conviction. “Go to Christmas Cove by yourself and when everyone asks where I am, tell them we broke up. Or better still, take Brigid with you so they figure it out on their own.”
“I called Bex at Rhumb Lines,” Mick says. “I begged her to take Brigid off my hands, but she says she’s fully staffed. Then I heard Robert and Brittany at Island Abodes were looking for someone to help out with the villas. Brigid has an interview with them on Thursday.”
“Poor Robert and Brittany,” Ayers says. They’re one of the nicest, coolest couples on island, and they have a cute baby. “But it’ll be good for Brigid to get a different kind of job. She’s a terrible server.”
“Agreed,” Mick says. “I wish I’d never hired her. I wish I’d never met her. But what’s done is done. She’ll be out of the Beach Bar by next week.”
Ayers can’t deny it—this news pleases her.
“Back to Banker,” Mick says. “Does he know that you’re ticklish right here?” Mick digs his fingers into Ayers’s ribs. She shrieks and soon they’re tussling in bed and Mick crawls on top of her and she lets him rest on her for a couple of seconds before pushing him off.
“I have a surprise for you,” Mick says. “Two surprises. One for now and one
for later. Does Banker know how much you love surprises?”
Ayers does love surprises. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll come.”
It’s a swan song, she tells herself, a last hurrah. Because she has Maia tonight, there’s no danger of her sleeping with Mick. There’s no reason they can’t go out together in public as friends.
The second Ayers sits in Mick’s Jeep with Gordon perched in her lap, she feels happy about her decision. The day is crystal clear, sunny, and hot—and what else would Ayers have done with her time? She would have holed up at home and read Rosie’s diaries. She has been so engrossed in the story about Russ, she’s on the verge of becoming addicted. She has finally gotten to the part where they’re reunited. Russ knows about Maia. Rosie knows about Irene and the boys.
They’re going to be together.
It’s good for Ayers to leave the diaries alone for a while. She sips the smoothie Mick got her from Our Market and sings along to Chesney on the radio. This is what a day off is supposed to feel like.
Mick turns onto Great Cruz Bay Road and Ayers says, “Where are we going?”
“Surprise number one,” Mick says. Great Cruz Bay Road is one of Ayers’s favorite places; it has views northwest over the Westin toward St. Thomas and Water Island. Mick follows the road almost to the tip of the point, then he signals and turns into a driveway marked with a sign that says PURE JOY. This leads to an adorable white cottage with bright blue shutters. It reminds Ayers of the months that she and her parents spent living on Santorini.
They climb out of the car. “Follow me,” Mick says. He steps up onto the wraparound porch that has an uninterrupted water view.
“What are we doing here?”
“This is my new place,” Mick says.
“You bought it?”
“Renting,” Mick says. “Long-term. But it’s mine. You want to see the rest?”
He leads her inside, and everything is picture-perfect. There’s a bedroom, living room, dining nook, kitchen, and a brand-new, sparkling-white-tiled bathroom; every room in the house has a view of the water. On the deck is a grill and a hot tub, and around the corner is an outdoor shower painted the same blue as the shutters.
What Happens in Paradise Page 23
