Winter in Paradise (Paradise #1)(51)

“Come on in,” she says. “Did you have any problem finding it?”

“You know I’ve lived here twenty years,” Huck says. “And I never knew this road existed. Does it have a name?”

“Lovers Lane,” Irene says.

“Seriously?”

“That’s what the deed says.” This is a development, new as of this afternoon. Paulette Vickers managed to produce the deed. The house, known as Number One Lovers Lane, is owned solely by Russell Steele. This news had come as a solid punch to the gut. Irene had secretly believed that they would discover the property was owned by Todd Croft or Ascension. If that had been the case, Irene could have believed Russ was a pawn, manipulated by his powerful boss. More than once after Russ had accepted the job from Todd, Irene had realized that he’d made a deal with the devil. But had she ever encouraged him to quit? Never. The money had been too seductive.

According to Irene’s lawyer in Iowa City, Ed Sorley, Russ’s will leaves everything to her should she survive him. When had he signed the will? Irene had asked Ed. She worried that another will would materialize, leaving everything to Rosie Small. But Ed said that Russ had come in to sign a new will in September, one that included a new life insurance policy he’d taken out, to the tune of three million dollars.

“September?” Irene said. This was news to her. She remembered them both signing new wills back when they bought the Church Street property.

“Yes,” Ed says. “Why do you ask? Is everything all right?”

“Never better,” Irene said, and hung up.

“Well,” Huck says now, stepping into the foyer. “This is quite a place.”

Quite a place. Huck follows Irene through the entry hall into the kitchen. She doesn’t feel like giving him a tour—although there is something she wants to show him upstairs, after dinner.

“Let me get you something to drink,” Irene says. “I have wine chilled or…” She looks at the rum; she’s not sure what to do with it. No one has ever brought her a bottle of rum before. “Can I make you a cocktail? We have Coke, I think.”

Huck opens a cabinet and pulls out two highball glasses; he pours some rum in each. “Let’s do a shot,” Huck says. “Then we can be civilized folks and switch to wine.”

Throwing away the rule book. “Deal,” Irene says. She lifts her glass, raises it to Huck, and throws the rum back. It burns, but not as much as she’d expected; it has a certain smoothness, like fiery caramel.

“Well,” she says.

“Good stuff,” Huck pronounces. “Now, if you can find me olive oil, salt, pepper, and a lemon, I’ll marinate our catch.”



Thirty minutes later, Irene is slightly more relaxed, thanks to the rum, a glass of the Cakebread, and a man who is as confident a cook as he is a fisherman. Irene sits at the outdoor table as Huck grills, and when he brings the platter of fish to the table, she finds herself hungry for the first time since the call came.

Huck takes the seat next to Irene and then pauses a minute, looking at the food. It seems like he’s about to speak—make a toast maybe, or say grace. Do they have anything to be grateful for?

Well, they’re still here.

“To us,” she says. “The survivors.”

Huck nods. “Let’s eat.”





AYERS


The restaurant clears out by quarter of ten, as usual, though there are still a couple of people at the bar, including Baker’s brother, Cash. Or maybe Ayers should be thinking of Baker as Cash’s brother. She likes them both. Baker is hotter, but Ayers feels more comfortable around Cash.

She wipes down the tables, clears all the dishes, unties her apron, and throws it in the hamper. The chef hired someone to replace Rosie, an older gentleman named Dominic, which Ayers supposes is for the best. Skip pours Ayers a glass of the Schramsberg to drink as he counts out her tips.

“Ayers!” Cash calls across the bar. “Come sit!” He raises his beer aloft and Ayers drifts over but does not commit to sitting down. Baker had said he’d be back at ten, and Ayers plans on taking him to De’ Coal Pot. She has been dreaming about the oxtail stew all night.

Rosie had loved the oxtail stew at De’ Coal Pot. And the curried goat.

“So how was your dinner?” Ayers asks Cash.

“Wuss good,” Cash says. He’s slurring his words. From the looks of things, he’s even drunker than he was on Treasure Island. Ayers notices the Jeep keys next to his place mat.

“Water here, please,” Ayers says to Skip with a look. She wonders if her date to De’ Coal Pot is in jeopardy. Baker will have to drive Cash home; he can’t drive himself.

Ayers feels a hand on her back and turns, expecting to see Baker but—whoa! surprise!—it’s Mick. He’s wearing a sky-blue Beach Bar t-shirt and his hair is damp behind the ears. He’s working, obviously, but what Ayers doesn’t understand is why, if he’s going to sneak off for a drink, doesn’t he go somewhere else? Why not Joe’s Rum Hut or the Banana Deck? Why does he have to come here?

“Hey,” he says. He waves to Skip, and a cold Island Summer Ale lands in front of him.

“What?” she says.

“I came to see how you’re holding up,” Mick says. “Want to get a drink? I just got off. And actually I’m starving. Want to grab Chinese at 420?”