Winter in Paradise (Paradise #1)(40)

Huck hands the Reincarnated Miss Lemon a beer. “What can I do for you, Ms….?”

“Steele,” she says. “Irene Steele.”

Huck closes his eyes a beat longer than a blink. Irene Steele. His bad feeling has been proved correct.

“I guess that answers my question,” he says. He offers Irene Steele one of the cushioned seats in the cockpit. He’s a bit concerned about who will hear what; acoustics over the water are funny. He sits down a respectful distance away but leans in. It could still be an ex-wife, he thinks. Please let it be an ex-wife.

“Russell Steele was my husband,” Irene says, immediately dashing Huck’s hopes. “And I understand that you’re the father of Rosie Small. Who was my husband’s mistress.”

Huck flinches at the word “mistress,” although he realizes she could have chosen worse.

“I’m her stepfather,” Huck says. “Was her stepfather. I married her mother, LeeAnn, nearly twenty years ago. LeeAnn passed five years back.”

“But you’re still close with Rosie? Were close with her? She lived with you?”

“You did your research,” Huck says. “How did you find this out?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Irene says. “I don’t know anyone here except for Paulette, from the real estate agency…”

Paulette Vickers, Huck thinks. He saw her at the funeral and the reception yesterday, but then again, he saw everyone.

“… but Paulette was out of the office yesterday.” Irene pauses. “So I had to ask around, which didn’t yield me much until I found the woman who sells mangoes next to Cruz Bay Landing.”

“Henrietta,” Huck says.

Irene shrugs. “She gave me the basics. When I asked if the girl who died had parents, she told me your name and the name of your boat and that you tied up here most mornings.”

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Huck says. He’s not, though—not sorry one bit that sonovabitch is dead. He only cares about Rosie. But before Huck can tack on any more insincere statements, Irene says, “No, you’re not. Nor should you be. You can tell me the truth, Mr. Powers.”

“The truth?” Huck says. “I don’t like being called ‘Mr. Powers.’ Also, I’m grieving just like you are and I plan to take today out on the water by myself so I can fish and drink beer and gaze off at the horizon and wonder what happens when we die.”

“So you’d like me to leave?” Irene says.

Pretty much, Huck thinks. But he’s too much of a gentleman to say it. “I’m just not sure what you want from me. I probably know as much as you do about what happened. They were traveling by helicopter from here to Anegada in the BVIs.”

“Why?” Irene says.

“Day trip?” Huck says. “Anegada is pretty special. It’s nothing more than a spit of pure white sand, really. It has a Gilligan’s Island feel to it. There’s almost nothing there, a few homes, a couple of small hotels, a few bars and restaurants, a native population of flamingos…”

“Flamingos?” Irene says flatly.

“And lobsters,” Huck says. “Anegada is famous for its lobsters. So my guess is they were on a day trip. Go over, see the birds, walk the beach, eat a couple lobsters, fly home. People do it. I’ve done it. Of course, most people take a boat.” He finishes his beer and deeply craves a cigarette. He needs this woman off his boat. He stands up, takes Irene’s empty bottle from her, and throws both bottles in the trash. Hint, hint. What else could she possibly want to ask?

“Did you know Russ?” Irene says.

“No,” Huck says, clearly and firmly. “Never had the pleasure. Rosie was… protective, I guess you’d say. I knew the guy existed, knew he had money… and a villa somewhere…”

Irene laughs. “Villa.”

“I’ve never seen it, was never invited, don’t know the address. Rosie kept all that private. She told me his name once, long ago. But after that she referred to him only as the Man and everyone else on this island refers to him as the Invisible Man. Because no one ever saw him.”

“The Invisible Man?” Irene says. “That’s ironic. I could have called him that as well.” She stands up and Huck fills with sweet relief—she’s leaving!—but then she opens the cooler, takes out another beer, and hands it to Huck.

He can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. He needs to go. He wants to fish.

“Can we finish this conversation another time?” he asks. “I want to fish.”

“Take me with you,” Irene says. “I can pay.”

“I had two paying charters today that I canceled,” Huck says.

“But those people weren’t me,” Irene says. “They weren’t the widow of your stepdaughter’s lover.”

Huck’s head is spinning. He needs a cigarette and it’s his boat, goddamnit, so he’s going to have one. He opens Irene’s beer and lights up.

“Do you fish?” he asks. “Where are you from?”

“Iowa City,” Irene says.

Huck chuckles. “I doubt you’re built for a day offshore.”

“I most certainly am,” Irene says. “I used to go fly-fishing with my father on a lake in Wisconsin. He called me…” She pauses as her eyes fill. “He used to call me Angler Cupcake.”