Troubles in Paradise (Paradise #3)(32)
Ayers gives Huck a weary smile. “Walk me to my truck? I have something for you.”
When they’re out on the street, Huck says, “I must admit, my interest is piqued.”
They walk past the Tap and Still, up by the baseball diamond of the Sprauve School, and around the traffic circle to Ayers’s truck. Ayers says, “Back when we cleaned Rosie’s room and you asked me if I found anything, I lied to you.”
“Money?” Huck asks. He sounds hopeful. “More money?”
“Not money,” Ayers says. “Rosie’s journals about her relationship with Russ.” She forages under the passenger seat of her truck, then hesitates ever so slightly before she hands the journals over. Is this the right thing to do? “I intended to save them for when Maia’s older. But this whole thing with the FBI has me spooked.” Ayers pushes out a breath. “They’re pretty detailed, Huck, about how the whole relationship unfolded. There’s stuff in there about Irene, and Russ’s boss, Todd Croft…”
“Oh, jeez,” Huck says.
“Yeah, exactly. It’s sensitive.” Ayers pauses. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you alone. Irene…she probably shouldn’t see these. But the FBI might be interested.”
“Agent Vasco said she’d hoped there were diaries,” Huck says. “I’ll probably just call her and hand them over. I’m sure Rosie wouldn’t want me reading them.”
“I should have told you sooner, though. I’m sorry.”
“You did the right thing in telling me now,” Huck says. “And I’ll make sure we get them back.”
Ayers nods. She feels as flat and insubstantial as a paper doll. Giving away the journals is like having an arm ripped off.
Huck leans over and kisses Ayers on the cheek. “You handled this just right, honey. I’ll take it from here.”
“Thank you for not being angry,” Ayers says.
“It’s no wonder you look so worn down,” Huck says. “You have your crazy ex over at Cruz Bay Landing making a public spectacle of himself and you’ve been carrying the burden of these journals. Plus you miss Rosie. We all miss Rosie.”
Plus I’m pregnant, she thinks.
“Have you seen Baker yet?” Huck asks. “Apparently, he has a good lead on a rental.”
“So he’s definitely staying, then?”
“They’re all staying,” Huck says. “Is that crazy or what?” Huck stretches out his arms in a gesture that takes in the hibiscus bushes lining the sidewalk, the sound of steel drums wafting over from Tamarind Court, the velvet sky filled with stars above them. “Then again, who ever wants to leave paradise?”
Cash
He and Tilda are eight minutes late to meet Granger and Lauren at Extra Virgin Bistro for dinner, which makes Cash crazy. Tilda has changed her top three times and spent half an hour putting on makeup, including some kind of sparkly silver stardust around her eyes. Cash can’t fully appreciate the effect of the makeup because Tilda is beautiful even without makeup and because he hates being late for anything but especially for a work meeting, which this dinner technically is. Tonight, Granger and Lauren want to discuss the “exciting business opportunity” with Tilda and Cash.
Extra Virgin is a sexy restaurant. Outside, there’s a spacious deck surrounded by tropical vegetation; in the dining room, there’s a horseshoe-shaped bar backed by a glowing wall of bottles. There are leather banquettes, huge open windows, and low lighting. The buzz is high; stepping inside feels like arriving somewhere important. Cash has eaten in plenty of fine establishments in his life, though he consciously avoids any restaurant that can be called “a scene”—he prefers a taco and a beer, to be honest. Also, he doesn’t like to eat in places he can’t afford.
Granger and Lauren are already sitting, and a bottle of red has been decanted. (This is a phenomenon Cash has learned about in detail in the past week, how certain fine vintages of cabernet and Syrah and pinot noir need to be “aired out”—poured from the bottle into a glass carafe—so that the wine can breathe and become even more complex and sublime than it was when it was just wine in the bottle.) Granger is wearing one of his limited-edition Robert Graham shirts, another fancy thing Cash has recently been schooled on. Robert Graham designs, among other things, colorful, whimsically patterned sport shirts with dazzling contrasting cuffs. Granger collects Robert Graham shirts, registering each one like it’s a Thoroughbred horse. After he bought his one hundredth shirt, the creative geniuses at Robert Graham designed a shirt specifically for Granger, called—unsurprisingly—“the Granger.” Granger showed it to Cash the other evening at the house. It’s vivid green and embroidered on the back with a psychedelic palm tree, only instead of a cluster of coconuts at the top, there are skulls, skulls being a popular Robert Graham motif.
The thing Cash likes about the Robert Graham shirts is that you can look dressed up without wearing a coat or tie. Cash could probably use one in his wardrobe, but again, he can’t afford it; he can’t even afford a knockoff of one. To this dinner, Cash is wearing a red polo shirt, a pair of Dockers, and flip-flops because his only other shoe options are sneakers and hiking boots. He’s worried he’s underdressed; he looks like he’s been hired to park cars.