Troubles in Paradise (Paradise #3)(17)
She should tell someone about the journals; it feels like they’re smoldering beneath her. But…they’re personal, private. Rosie wouldn’t want anyone to see them, of that Ayers is certain. Ayers plans to give them to Maia when she gets older.
The FBI knows Russ was laundering money, so the journals wouldn’t offer anything new. But what about the mentions of Todd Croft? Was there foul play with the helicopter?
Argh! Ayers doesn’t want to hand the journals over. It’s her own private line of communication with Rosie. And if Huck read them, or, worse, Irene read them—well, that wouldn’t be good. And yet to hide them…no, Ayers has to show someone.
She’ll show Huck. Or Baker? No, Huck.
I’m sorry, Rosie, Ayers thinks—and then she races to the bathroom to throw up.
Cash
I’m sure you understand my concerns,” Granger Payne says.
Before Cash can respond, Granger dives into the T-shaped pool and powers out six laps. Then he lifts himself out of the pool, triceps flexing, and dries his face with one of the fluffy white Turkish towels. Over the past week, Cash has become very familiar with all the luxuries on offer here at Tilda’s parents’ house in Peter Bay.
Which is precisely Granger’s point.
“I do indeed, sir,” Cash says. He’s relieved that the Treasure Island is back up and running and that he’s dressed for work. Every day for the past few days, while the boat was being repaired, Cash woke up late with Tilda, and over banana pancakes and mango smoothies, they picked a beach or a trail or both to hike. On Tilda’s day off, the two of them climbed into Tilda’s Range Rover and drove out to Hansen Bay in the East End. They rented a kayak and spent the entire afternoon drinking grapefruit margaritas and eating the sublime tacos—rum rib with chipotle slaw, green chicken curry—at the floating-barge restaurant Lime Out. Lime Out had bar seats attached to the barge, which Cash and Tilda sat in before claiming a floating table. They reclined on inflatable chaises, faces to the sun, drinks in hand, toasting the good life, which they were undeniably enjoying. Cash had to actively fight off encroaching guilt. His family had just undergone a huge financial crisis and what was Cash doing? Drinking cocktails that his brand-new girlfriend was paying for with her black American Express card.
Granger wraps the towel around his waist. He’s about Cash’s size, five nine or so, and is in extremely good physical shape, possibly even better shape than Cash, and he’s fifty-six years old. The villa has a full gym with two Peloton bikes; Granger and Tilda’s mother, Lauren, get up at five thirty every morning to ride together, then Granger does his weight regimen, then he swims.
“Want some green juice?” Granger asks Cash. On the counter of the outdoor kitchen is a carafe of liquid the color of shamrocks. It was most likely put there by Virgie, the housekeeper, who moves around the villa with the stealth of a ninja and who, this past week, has refused to let Cash do so much as take his own dishes to the sink.
Guilt—his mother; Baker; Floyd. If they knew how Cash was living, what would they think? “Sure,” Cash says. He accepts a glass of green juice, takes a sip, and immediately wants to spit it out. It’s liquefied kale, he suspects, with maybe a thin slice of apple or one green grape thrown in.
“Lauren and I are very protective where Tilda is concerned,” Granger says. “She tends to show all her cards. She doesn’t have much of a poker face, I’m afraid.” Granger gulps down the entire glass of juice and Cash shivers just watching; he’s unsure he can manage even one more sip. “It’s clear how much she likes you. She says you have other places you can go, so it’s not like you’re using her to avoid being homeless.”
“Right,” Cash says quickly. “That’s right, sir.”
“Please, call me Granger.”
“Granger, sir,” Cash says. He can’t help it; the sir comes automatically. Granger Payne is a sir as surely as Johnny Cash or Muhammad Ali would be a sir. “I could move in with my mother or my brother. And I’ll do that if it makes you more comfortable.” Here, Cash holds Granger’s gaze, willing the older man not to call his bluff. Irene is presently living in Maia’s bedroom at Huck’s house, and Baker is still at the Westin hemorrhaging five hundred dollars a night while he looks for an affordable year-round rental. Cash told Baker that if he found something big enough, Cash would happily move in, share the rent, provide child care for Floyd.
“Okay,” Baker said. “But you’d better have a backup plan.”
Cash had initially considered asking Ayers if he could take over her lease, since she had gotten engaged to Mick and would likely move in with him. He wasn’t sure how much she paid but if she could afford it, then he could, right? They worked at the same place. But Ayers had a second, very lucrative job waiting tables at La Tapa. Cash would likely need to get a second job as well. He should be looking now instead of goofing off every day with Tilda.
The plan of taking over Ayers’s place vanished when Tilda came home from La Tapa with the news that Ayers was no longer engaged. She had given the ring back to Mick.
“Stay here for the time being, please,” Granger says. “I have to admit, I like the idea of having another man around. Tilda and her mother tend to gang up on me. I could use some support.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cash says. He needs to excuse himself so Tilda can drive him to work. He’s dependent on her for everything, and she has been a total rock star, accommodating him and never making him feel bad. I have more than enough privilege for both of us.