The scent of crisp sea air and new construction filled his senses. The hammock swayed in sync with his breathing. Then he opened his eyes, rest his head, and felt terribly uncomfortable relaxing in a hammock on the most exclusive beach in the world.
Maybe with enough time in the hammock, he thought, he could get used to being rich.
EIGHT
Months earlier, Steve sat at his desk with the copy of the will in his hands. On the computer screen were several open tabs of information on Henri Delacroix. Image searches had revealed pictures of the man, always shaking somebody’s hand for a ceremony, fundraiser, or business deal.
Campbell was trying to locate more personal photos, family photos, or anything that would give Steve a glimpse into his father’s personal life. It was proving difficult.
There was little personal information about the man to be found on the web. Everything he could find was about his father’s company, Delacroix Holdings; there was nothing about the man himself.
All the articles said the same thing – he had been the third richest man in Canada at the time of his passing; there were no known heirs.
Steve was thankful for this. Campbell had been diligent in hiding Steve’s involvement from the media. There was no doubt that it would have to be addressed, Thomas had informed him, but it could wait until Steve was better prepared for it.
The impending media frenzy frightened him. He envisioned it being covered not unlike Power Ball winnings, only worse. What would he say? How would he answer the inevitable question: “how does it feel?”
The money terrified him. People would accuse him of profiting from a stranger. The world would know him. Money like this didn’t change hands without fanfare.
He hadn’t even told his boss about it yet.
Paul had told everyone. His best friend had quit his job the day after Steve signed the papers, and began daydreaming what position Steve was going to hire him for.
The list had been extraordinary: sports car tester, date pre-screener, personal film and TV critic. His friend’s enthusiasm was overwhelming.
Paul had planned out that first day in writing, and left the to-do list on the fridge in the apartment they shared. It had included: order premium cable channels, call ex-girlfriends and rub it in, quit job in legendary fashion, book flight to Vegas, throw out toilet paper, buy flushable wipes, get a smoking jacket, and a litany of other new purchases.
Steve didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was considering passing on the money and donating it all to charity. It would be easier.
He had wanted to take some time off to think it over, but his vacation request had been denied. HR had been of little help when he requested time off for grievance.
The head of the HR department had asked how he knew the deceased. When he answered honestly and said that he didn’t, she gave him a strange look. It was justified, but he simply told her to forget the request and wandered back to his cube where he loaded the bookmarks about his father.
“What are you doing?”
Stewart Reynolds had been his boss for only a short time, but had already made a habit of surprising his staff. He stood at the entrance to Steve’s cube and grinned. The middle manager took great pride in sneaking up on his underlings.
“Hi, Stew.”
“Is that PowerPoint going to be ready for the presentation Monday?”
It was Wednesday. If Steve started working on it on Monday, it would be ready Monday. “Monday’s not a problem.”
“See, you say there’s no problem, but I see a problem.” Reynolds reached across the desk and turned Steve’s monitor around. “I see you surfing, not working.”
“I was just looking something up.”
Reynolds removed his hands from the monitor; his fingers leaving orange fingerprints on the white surface. The biggest problem with his rub on tan was that it seemed to rub off just as easy.
“Henri Delacroix? I don’t think the PowerPoint is about Mr. Delacroix. Or am I wrong?”
Steve said nothing.
“Get back to work Bennett and save your online crushes for after hours. Oh, and that reminds me. Call your roommate and tell him you’ll be late tonight.” Stewart Reynolds turned and walked silently out of the cubicle doorway.
A moment later Steve heard his voice from the row over. “Prior. Do you have that report for me?”
“Yes, sir. I just sent it to you. Would you like a print out?”
“Of course. Good work, Prior.” Reynolds continued on his way.
Steve stared at the monitor. The orange smudges drew his eye away from the screen. He looked back at the will in his hands and made his decision.
Paul had performed a skit in his office’s lunchroom during the Monday morning company meeting. He had told Steve that it was an inspired piece, drawing allusions to several classics. For the epic poem portion of the second act he boasted that he had even managed to rhyme ‘orange’ with ‘up yours’.
It had seemed excessive at the time, but now it held a certain appeal. Poetry had never been his strongest subject and he struggled for only a few minutes before giving up on the dialogue to a skit. Instead Steve walked over to the copier, xeroxed his middle finger and left it on his desk with a note that said, “see you.”
NINE
Rick Savage found Warren Baxter on the balcony of his office. The office occupied the seventh floor of the Grand Hotel and the balcony opened to the beautiful world that Baxter had created. The elder man drew on a cigar and marveled at the view.
A rocks glass and a bottle of Scotch rested on the railing, three fresh ice cubes awaiting purpose from the amber alcohol.
Savage stepped loudly onto the balcony, announcing his presence with the heel of his boot against the tiled floor.
Baxter turned.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Baxter?”
“Rick. Please sit down.” Baxter crossed to the railing and grabbed the bottle of rum. “Would you like a drink?”
Savage waved the offer off and settled into a deep cushioned chair. “What did you need, Mr. Baxter? As you know, I’m quite busy now that we have actual guests on the island.”
“Of course. A few things have come up and I want to make sure they are being addressed. First is this Rainbow Connection that’s sitting by my islands. They’ve been quite a nuisance during the reclamation and construction process. We have tolerated this so far, but, as you say, we now have guests on the islands.”
“Don’t worry sir. They only had the one launch and my men put several holes in it today.”
“You didn’t fire on anyone did you?”
“No. The boat was empty, moored to their ship. No one was in harm’s way.”
“Good. I abhor even shooting the boat, but I don’t want any surprises tonight. It is crucial that all goes well.”
“Of course.”
“Which brings me to my second point.” Baxter filled his glass and emptied it in a swift movement. There was no flinch, no reaction to the alcohol as it shot down his throat. Years of drinking could preclude whiskey-face, but Savage knew that Baxter only drank the smoothest Scotches.
It was foolish of any employer to think that Rick Savage would take a job without gathering intelligence on them. Savage had researched Warren Baxter exhaustively. The man had made his fortune in coastal real estate in Georgia and the Carolinas. He had diversified as his wealth grew. Baxter held a controlling interest in multiple industries; he sat on the board of several more. The man had enjoyed the benefits of wealth for decades.
Before his financial rise, however, Savage could find little information about Warren Baxter.
Baxter poured himself another drink, “We have two unexpected guests, Mr. Savage.”
“Bennett and Nelson?”
“Correct.”
“They’re a couple of winners.”
“Now, Mr. Savage, they are our guests.”
Savage nodded as Baxter tapped a half-inch of ash from the cigar and began to sip his Scot
ch.
“I have never met them; however, I knew Bennett’s father. He was a big believer in ImagiNation and contributed greatly to its formation. His passing, a couple of months ago, was quite unfortunate. I spoke with the executor of his estate, a Thomas Campbell, about the young man who would inherit his fortune. He knew very little about the boy.”
“It seems he’s willing to let you keep his money. That’s what matters, right?”
“Don’t be so crass. This project relies as much on passion as fortune. This passion for ImagiNation is what I want them to experience.”
“From what I’ve heard, you just need to keep serving Nelson booze and he’ll be happy.”
“My point is, Mr. Savage, that I was not prepared for their arrival. They drove up moments before the ferry left the dock.”
“What? They didn’t RSVP?”
“No,” Baxter laughed, “and from the state they were in I’m not sure they even knew they were coming. They came rushing to the boat, Mr. Bennett schlepping his own bags, Nelson yelling to hold the ‘dinghy’. They were panting for the first five minutes.
“But, now that they are here I want to know all about them, so that we can make them as comfortable as possible. I desperately want them to enjoy themselves.”
“Shouldn’t be hard in this place.”
“You’d be surprised. It seems our new billionaire is having a hard time adjusting to his fortune.”
“And Nelson?”
“Nelson seems to be the only reason that Bennett is spending any of the money. He seems more than happy to have access to the inheritance. An unfortunate problem with money, Mr. Savage, is that the more you have, the more friends you have.”
“Well, as long as they’re happy.” Savage stood to leave.
“Mr. Savage, please. If you could, check with your sources and see if they know anything about the pair. My secretary’s inquiries are limited to Google and I’m afraid it didn’t turn up anything except a photo of Mr. Nelson at a Jack Daniels’ party in a Dallas bar.”
“How deep do you want me to dive?”
“Deep enough.”
Savage nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Savage. And, please, watch those protestors. Tonight must go as planned.”
“There’s no need to worry about tonight.”
Warren Baxter turned back to the view, dipped the end of the cigar in his drink, and placed it back in his broad smile.
Savage turned and strode across the antique appointed office. He stopped at the desk, opened the humidor and retrieved a cigar. Its odor was sweet as he ran it under his nose. With a deft move he slipped it into his breast pocket. He gently closed the lid to the humidor and left the office.
Warren Baxter was once again facing the sea, and did not care that one of his prize cigars had just left the room.
# # #
Bennett couldn’t remember falling asleep, and he awoke without opening his eyes. The sun was low in the sky; the rays beat through his lids and painted his vision red. The massive palm fronds above provided no shade. He squinted harder to block out the intensity of the light. The red faded. He opened his eyes. Paul stood less than two inches from his face.
“There’s someone at the door.”
Steve screamed and rolled over, backwards, out of the hammock. He hit the fine sand flat on his stomach.
“Then answer the door!” Steve put his hands down to push himself up. The sand scorched his palms.
“I would’ve answered it but I’m pretty sure it’s for you.” Paul walked back into the villa. “I’m going to take a shower.”
The knocking continued as Steve slowly rolled over and sat up. A moment later, it was all but drowned out by the noise from the multi-jetted shower. Paul never closed the bathroom door.
Steve brushed himself off, and wondered where the sand came from. Katherine had mentioned Wassaw Sound but he had no idea where that was. He found himself marveling for the first time that the island he was standing on hadn’t been there two years ago.
He hesitated to enter the living room covered in beach, but the knocking persisted; so he walked across the cool marble tile to the front door, taking large soft steps to reduce the spread of the sand.
“Steve?” Katherine’s voice was muffled through the door. “Steve?”
The door opened without a sound; the hinges were regularly oiled to prevent rust and squeak. Katherine stood with her hand upraised, ready to strike the door again. She was beautiful. Gone was the gown from the boat. She now wore a pair of shorts and a loosely-fitted white linen shirt. The bleached white blouse stood in contrast to her olive skin and jet-black hair.
Steve quickly brushed the sand from his shirt and ran his hand through his hair to check for any hammock head that may have set in.
“Oh,” she lowered her hand and noticed that he was covered in sand. “Is everything all right?”
Steve looked around puzzled, “Yeah. There’s plenty of towels and everything.”
“Not with the villa. You missed the brunch. And, the lunch. Mr. Baxter was concerned. And when your friend didn’t show at the cocktail reception...even I got a little worried.”
Steve looked around the room for a clock and then dug his phone out of his pocket. It was five o’clock.
“Sorry to worry you. I fell asleep in the hammock. Soothing motion, calming seas and all.”
“What about Mr. Nelson?”
“He was taking a nap on the couch.”
She shook her head and smiled.
He smiled back, “What?”
“The porter has come by several times. Last time he pounded on the door for fifteen minutes.”
“Nothing wakes Paul from a booze-snooze.”
“I just wanted to make sure everything was all right. I can get you copies of the presentations from brunch and...”
Sand dropped from his hair as Steve shook his head. “If I hear any more about how wonderful this place is and how my imagination is the limit I’m going to swim back to Key West.”
She pouted in jest. “But it’s my job to make sure orientation goes smoothly. You wouldn’t want me to get fired would you?”
Steve leaned against the doorframe, “Haven’t we done this already?
“Look, you want to make sure I get my orientation? Show me around a bit. I don’t want to see another brochure, prospectus, or toothy grin from Mr. Make-believe.” He turned back to the sea. “But, I am starting to really like this place. Those are some great hammocks.”
“You’re covered in sand. Clean up and meet me by the hotel in half an hour. I’ll show you around.” She smiled and turned away. He smiled back. When she was out of site he closed the door and leaned his head against it.
“Told you it was for you.”
Steve spun and saw Paul standing in his boxers rifling through a travel bag. “I think I forgot my deodorant. Where’s yours?”
Before Steve could respond Paul had found the deodorant and was heading back to the shower rubbing Steve’s Right Guard under each pit.
“I wouldn’t want to offend anyone. Though it looks like I might be on my own tonight.”
# # #
The Grand Hotel on Master Key rose seven stories and towered above all other structures in the ImagiNation archipelago. The white stucco exterior fed the sun back to itself, and gleamed with a reflection equal to that of the whitest sands.
The hotel stretched along the central northern end of the island with its back pointed to America.
Despite its size, the hotel did not dominate the island. Architectural details and the shape of the structure combined with creative landscaping to immerse the building into its surroundings.
Even the large ornate pillars that framed the main entrance seemed to blend in. They stood the full seven stories; each comprised of three spiraled spires. Steve guessed that the open space in between the individual spires aided in their unassuming presence.
He had showered and dressed in new shorts and a new shirt, reluctantly ap
plied his borrowed deodorant and ran for the door. As it closed behind him, Paul had reminded him to, “Do what I would do. It’s fun.”
He had arrived early.
The extra time had allowed him to stroll the interior of the casino and hotel. The casino alone occupied half of the first floor. Baxter had planned for a great amount of action on its tables.
The lobby seemed to be carved from solid marble. Black and white sheets of the polished rock were laid seamlessly together, giving the tropical resort a chill. He shivered as his skin rippled in the cool, empty air of the lobby.
The other guests weren’t as adventurous as Steve. With the exception of security details, he had seen no one during his stroll. Napping in the hammock may have caused him to miss the guided tour; still, the lack of visitors was odd. He assumed Warren Baxter had wrangled them into another theater for another speech.
The speeches had gone stale. If they were designed to make the investors and their associates feel better about their investment, they were having the opposite effect on Steve. He’d already seen all he needed to see in the sand and trees around him. It was an island paradise in the Gulf of Mexico where one had never existed before. No amount of fantasy or dreams-come-true monologues was going to make the ownership any more desirable. It was time just to enjoy the islands.
Katherine arrived in an electric cart that bore the ImagiNation logo. Steve smiled; his father’s fortune had opened up a lot of opportunities. This was his favorite so far.
She smiled at him from behind the wheel and patted the seat next to her. “Hop in, and your orientation will begin.”
“What’s the plan?”
The cart whirred and lurched into motion. Steve looked at his hostess, leaned back in the seat and smiled. She focused on the path ahead of her.
Hot, humid air turned cool as the breeze from the cart flowed around him. He gazed around as they passed the various structures on the island. A moment later he spotted more people; the islands’ guests were gathering for another speech.
Tortugas Rising Page 4
