Winter in Paradise (Paradise #1)(43)

“You said you’ve never been to the villa,” Irene says. “Is that true?”

“That’s true,” Huck says. “I don’t even know where it is.”

“I don’t know where it is, either,” Irene says. “But why don’t you bring some of that fish over tomorrow evening and we can grill it. I’ll figure out the address and I’ll text you. You do text, right?”

“Of course I text,” Huck says. “I have a twelve-year-old granddaughter.”

Irene stares at him a second and then pulls out her phone. “Give me your number,” she says.



Huck watches Irene walk away. She’s not a bad-looking woman, not bad-looking at all, and, boy, can she fish. If she were anyone else—anyone else—Huck would ask her out. As it is, they have a sort-of date tomorrow night.

If she remembers to text him.

Which she probably won’t.

Why would she?

She might, though, he thinks. She just might.





BAKER


Both his mother and his brother return to the house in the late afternoon. Both are sunburned, and they won’t tell him where they’ve been. Baker has been home, lying by the pool, waiting for his phone to ring with some news about… about anything. He’s called VISAR and gotten transferred three times, so he’s had to leave messages. Then he called the Peebles Hospital on Tortola, hoping they could give him some information about Russ’s ashes, but the woman he spoke to, Letitia, said she didn’t have any bodies by the name of Russell Steele.

“Really?” Baker asked. “It’s my father… he was in that helicopter crash off Virgin Gorda on New Year’s Day.”

“I was off last week for the holidays,” Letitia said. “All I can tell you, sir, is that name is not in the hospital database.”

“The contact name might have been Todd Croft,” Baker said. “Would you mind checking Croft?”

“Not a problem,” Letitia said. He heard her typing. “I’m sorry, I don’t have that name in the database, either. You might check with the Americans.”

Baker called the Hurley-Davis Funeral Home in St. Thomas and spoke to Bianca, who was even less helpful.

“I’m looking for my father’s remains. His name was Russell Steele. He was killed in the helicopter crash north of Virgin Gorda on New Year’s Day.”

“Virgin Gorda?” Bianca said. “You’ll need to call Peebles Hospital, then. On Tortola.”

Baker had hung up, confused and agitated. He tried the number his mother had for Todd Croft next, but it was out of service. Next he went to his laptop to look up the Ascension website, but the site wouldn’t load. Baker couldn’t figure out if his service here on the island was the problem or if something was wrong with the website. He googled the names Russell Steele and Todd Croft—his Google worked, so it wasn’t the service that was the issue—but none of the hits matched the men Baker was looking for. He tried Stephen Thompson next—there were probably only fifty or sixty thousand people in the world with that name—so he refined it by adding pilot and British Virgin Islands, but that was a bust. There was a Stephen Thompson, Esquire, listed in the Cayman Islands—not exactly pay dirt, but Baker had nothing else to go on, so he called the number listed on the website and that number, too, was out of service.

Coincidence? Baker wondered. Or was this Stephen Thompson the same Stephen Thompson who piloted the helicopter? It was beginning to feel like someone was trying to erase the whole situation.

Before Baker could explore further, Anna texted, asking Baker when he was coming home. Floyd misses you, she wrote. Baker wanted to respond that Anna would be well served to put in some quality time with Floyd now that she was going to be a single parent. But instead, Baker channeled his best self—which was easier when he remembered how he felt when he’d set eyes on Ayers—and he said, Things here are still in flux so I’m not sure. Tell Floyd I love him.

To which Anna responded not Ok (her go-to) but rather, Do you think you’ll still be there on Wednesday?

Yes, he said. Definitely yes. If you need a sitter, call Kelsey.

Don’t need a sitter, she said.

Yeah, right, Baker thought. In his ruminations about Anna and Louisa, he has naturally wondered how long they’ve been together, and when it started, and what their plans for the future entail. They’ll become a regular lesbian couple, he supposes, if two in-demand cardiac surgeons count as regular.

His pain and shock have been ameliorated by his own experience. When he set eyes on Ayers, he knew instantly it was love. Why shouldn’t that have been true for Anna? She might have been discussing a case with Louisa when she realized: This is who I want.

Cash and Irene head off to opposite parts of the house to shower. Neither of them had expressed any interest in dinner, and frankly, they had both seemed kind of off, almost as if they’d been drinking.

Well, fine, Baker thinks. Clearly they aren’t a bonded band of three in their grieving. If his mom and brother can go out on their own, then so can he. He grabs one of the sets of Jeep keys. He’s going to dinner at La Tapa.



Baker heads to town slowly—the steering wheel is on the left, like at home, but here everyone drives on the left instead of the right—and the roads are steep, hilly, and poorly lit. Once he gets to town, he finds that the streets are alive with people out enjoying their Caribbean vacation. Baker has an urge to grab a father walking through Powell Park holding his wife’s hand while he carries a little boy about Floyd’s age on his shoulders. Do you know how lucky you are? Baker wants to ask. Baker’s envy isn’t limited to just that one guy. Everyone who isn’t mired in an emotional crisis should be grateful. Baker, while he was at the playground with Floyd on Tuesday afternoon, should have been grateful, instead of bemoaning the state of his marriage. Why hadn’t he been grateful?