Someone Else's Ocean(3)

“I’ve always given you credit for being more intelligent than you actually are. But by the look on your face, you’re frightened about something that can’t be true.”

Tara stared at the stripes on my necktie.

“Look at me.”

Her eyes shot to mine and were full of fear, tears threatening.

“Because in order to determine paternity, it would require more than a blood test.”

“Ian—”

“I know my damned name. Fourteen years I was your husband, and fifteen her father. Tell me now, Tara. Right. Fucking. Now. Tell me my suspicions are ridiculous. Tell me Ella belongs to me in every sense. Tell me.”

“Ian—”

“Tell me!”

Fear and trepidation marked every inch of her as all the anger dissipated out of me in one breath and devastation took its place.

Don’t ask her, Ian. It doesn’t matter. Don’t ask her!

I pointed behind her. “Tell me that’s my little girl in that room that calls me, Daddy, not his. Tell me I didn’t lose my life to your selfish fucking whims. Tell me!”

Incredulous tears fell down my face as my heart bottomed out.

“Tell me she’s mine, Tara,” I croaked, my face soaked, my heart obliterated. “Don’t do this to me. Please, I’m begging you. If you ever loved me at all, tell me she’s mine.”

“She is your daughter,” she offered weakly.

“But I didn’t father her, did I?”





I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL LIKE a failure, but as I picked up the iguana crap from the side of the pool, a small glimpse of the life I left behind hit me in a flash—sipping a designer martini with a killer view of the city from the thirty-fifth floor, a healthy bank account, and the feel of a new pair of heels.

“Freezing your ass off in those heels,” I muttered, studying my chipped blue toenails in the flip-flops I wore.

“Pardon?” Mrs. Osborne asked as I removed the ‘excrement’ that she had called about fifteen minutes after I thought I’d finished my day.

Holding the warm crap in my hand, I studied Mrs. Osborne lying in a lounge chair covering herself with thick glue-colored sunblock while inside the house, Mr. Osborne scoured the five-bedroom rental opening every single cabinet and drawer. “I think we’re all set.”

Half an hour prior, I’d been in my plush sun chair on my porch with a freshly corked pinot when I got the call.

“At Ease Property Management, Koti speaking.”

“Koti, this is Stephanie Osborne.”

“Hi, Mrs. Osborne, are you enjoying your stay so far?”

“I am, but we have an issue.” I took a well-deserved sip of my wine as I prepared for the worst. I loved my job, but there was always that one guest that could make said job a living hell. The Osbornes had only checked into their villa three hours prior. One call was typical from a new guest, even with the inch-thick notebook that was on the counter, filled with every single piece of information they would need. It was her fourth call since I left them.

“How can I help?”

“Well, there was a large iguana next to the pool.”

I choked down my laugh. “Yes ma’am, it’s common on the island.”

“I understand…” she said hesitantly, “and that’s fine. He gave us a fright, but that’s not the problem.”

“No?”

“Well, it seems he decided to relieve himself next to the pool.”

I sat up in my chair. “In the pool?”

“No, next to it.”

“I’m not following.”

“There’s iguana excrement next to the pool.”

I was already downing my wine and took my final swallow before I braved a reply. “Okayyyy.”

“I was wondering when you would be by to pick it up?”

And there you have it. My new life in a nutshell—sans new Jimmy Choos and Christmas at Rockefeller Center—now the proud owner of an anorexic bank account.

I threw the poop in the trash can and inhaled a calming breath as I scanned her three-million-dollar view which consisted of deep blue to aqua surf and the neighboring island—St. Johns.

Nothing bad happened here, at least not in my private universe. The universe I created when I left my toxic life in New York and retreated to the one place I remembered being happy.

If the island could cure me, I was sure after a few days it would work wonders on Mrs. Osborne.

“Can I help you with anything else while I’m here?”

With curious, crinkled eyes she looked up at me from where she sat. “Do you really make your own electricity here in St. Thomas?”

“Actually, no, we buried a giant extension cord below the ocean from the States.”

It was my best friend Jasmine’s line for people who weren’t smart enough to believe differently. I had never used it until I was forced to pick up iguana crap.

Mrs. Osborne—a seven-day refugee from Long Island—sat with a magazine on her lap, mouth open, her eyes on the surf while she pressed her brows together to try to make sense of it. I bit my lip to keep my laugh hidden. She was old money and hadn’t earned a cent and it was painfully obvious. She’d clearly ignored the thousands of solar panels set up all over the top of the mountains as she was chauffeured in.