What Happens in Paradise(93)

When I went home to pack, I heard Maia and Joanie giggling in Maia’s room. I tapped on the door.

They were sprawled across Maia’s bed, both on their phones, which I didn’t love, but what I did love was the evidence of their bath-bomb business strewn about—the Epsom salts, the food coloring, the citric acid, the tropical fragrances.

I chatted with the girls for a minute—they were starting to have crushes on boys—and then I gave Maia a squeeze and a kiss and wished her a happy New Year.

“I love you, Mama,” she said.

I left the room but then I peeked back in. I wanted very badly to tell Maia the truth: I was going to Anegada with Russ because he planned to propose! We were going to be a real family!

But instead, I simply caught her eye and mouthed, I love you.

And I closed the door.





Irene




Irene watches Huck’s back as he leaves. What is she doing? She’s asking for more time because she’s scared. She has never felt so drawn to a man in her life and it’s terrifying; she doesn’t like the sensation of losing control.

But what did Russ’s accident teach her? What is the number-one thing?

She’s alive.

She, Irene Hagen Steele, has today and God knows how many days after. Why not spend those days falling headlong in love with Captain Sam Powers?

“Hey, Huck?” she says.

But he has disappeared down the stairs.

She shakes her head. Go to bed, Irene, she thinks. You can talk to Huck in the morning.

Yes, that’s a smart idea—but even as she decides this, she’s walking toward the villa stairs, envisioning kissing Huck through the open window of his truck.

And then she sees a flash of light. Headlights, more than one pair, are coming up the hill.

“Huck?” she calls out.

The headlights get closer, and before Irene can process what’s happening, four black SUVs pull into the driveway.

What must be ten people climb out of the cars and start up the steps. Irene’s instinct is to back up all the way to the far railing of the deck.

The first person to arrive at the top is a woman, red-haired, attractive. She flashes her badge and a piece of paper that could be a shopping list for all Irene can tell; she’d need her glasses to read it.

“Hello?” Irene says. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Agent Vasco, and as of right now, this villa, one Lovers Lane, is the property of the United States government.” She looks at Irene, not unkindly. “Mrs. Steele?”

Irene nods.

“Your husband, Russell Steele, bought this property as well as the property at thirty Church Street, Iowa City, Iowa, with illegally acquired funds. We’ve arrested Todd Croft and charged him with one hundred and seventeen counts of fraud, money-laundering, and tax evasion for a total of over three point five billion dollars. He named your husband, Russell Steele, as a coconspirator, and he has documentation to prove it. I’m afraid we have to seize both properties.”

“Wait,” Irene says. “You’re taking this house?”

“This house, yes,” Agent Vasco says. “And there are federal agents at your home in Iowa City right now.”

“But that’s my home,” Irene says. “I invested six years restoring it. I live there.”

“You may pack one suitcase of personal effects,” Agent Vasco says. “But I’m afraid you have to vacate the property.”

“But my boys,” Irene says. “My grandson.” Irene can’t think. Baker and Floyd are in Houston, but they’re on their way back. Cash is asleep upstairs.

“I’m sorry,” Agent Vasco says. “I’m afraid I’ll have to oversee your packing.”

“But I’ve done nothing wrong,” Irene says. “I met with Agent Beckett in Iowa City. I was very forthcoming. I told him everything I knew. I helped him.”

“I wish it were different,” Agent Vasco says. “But it’s not. This is no longer your property, I’m afraid.”

For one suspended moment, Irene mentally leaves the scene. She’s back on the unnamed beach, naked. She hears Russ say, The storm is coming. It will be a bad storm. Destructive.

This is the storm. It’s here. The villa. Her home in Iowa City. What is she going to do? Where is she going to go?

“Huck?” she cries out.

She sees him running up the villa stairs toward her.

“I’m here, AC,” he says. “I’m here.”





Acknowledgments


Every year for the past eight years, I have been lucky enough to spend five weeks on the island of St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands. While I consider it a home away from home, it is not my main residence, nor do I own property there. It is for this reason that I am so grateful to and humbled by the people of St. John, all of whom have been so kind, welcoming, helpful, and supportive.

I have to start by thanking my St. John family: Julie and Matt Lasota and their wonderful children. I’d also like to thank Beth and Jim Heskett for giving me “a room of my own” at the St. John Guest Suites for four idyllic years.

Shout-outs to those people who assisted with my research by either talking to me or providing me with valuable experiences. In no particular order: Karen Oscar Coffelt and head of school Liz Morrison from the Antilles School; Captain Stephen and Kelly Quinn of Singing Dog Sailing; Bridgett and Jimmy Key of Palm Tree Charters; Heather and the whole staff on Pizza Pi (the pizza boat!); Matt Atkinson, who was literally my first friend on St. John in 2012; Peter Bettinger; Chester of Chester’s Getaway; Colleen from Pizzabar in Paradise; John Dickson from the Pink Papaya; Jorie Roberts; Sarah Swan; Richard from Lime Inn—thank you for saving Maxx’s life (story for another day); Jerry and Tish O’Connell from the Soggy Dollar (and you too, Leon!); and huge, enormous thanks to Alex Ewald for the wonder that is La Tapa.