Page 32 of The Paradise Problem

“Inside for a drink.”

“I don’t trust you, Blaire.”

My sister-in-law winks at me and does a little shimmy. “You shouldn’t.”

Anna smiles at me, and in her eyes, I see it. I can handle this kind of crazy, she’s saying.

“You want me to come along?” I ask.

“I’ll see you in a few,” she tells me, and then disappears with Blaire into the tent.

I groan as Blaire leads Anna through a mass of bodies. “This could be bad. If memory serves, Anna is a very chatty drunk.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jake says. “She’s less likely to get cornered by Mom or Dad if she’s with Blaire.” That much is true. At social events, Mom and Dad avoid Blaire’s brand of unpolished bluntness at all costs.

The restaurant, Jules Verne, lives up to its name. With installations of fishing nets and vintage sailing paraphernalia, it’s a nod to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. The floors are sand; the roof is reclaimed lumber and bamboo. There are long uninterrupted stretches of glass windows, but they are all thrown open, letting the outside in. A beautiful canvas tent has been raised just beside the bar to provide more space, and inside, the nautical theme continues. Lanterns made of green sea glass and rope swing overhead, sending ripples of light that look like water pooling across the floor. The bar is lined with highball glasses, and a bartender in a white shirt and vest agitates a cocktail shaker near his ear. A set of long tables are filled with what looks like tiny cups of prawn and papaya salad alongside platters of brightly colored fruit and roasted vegetables. My eyes snag on trays of fried brown rice on prawn crackers and chili, stir-fried noodles, grilled fish and octopus on sprays of fresh herbs, poke bowls, and a variety of local dishes I can only guess at. Across the room, I see Blaire introducing Anna to Reagan, Lincoln, and Nixon. She kneels down to shake Nixon’s hand and a tiny, fond twist behind my ribs makes me hold my breath, for just a beat.

“Did you prep her for the names?” Jakes asks me.

“I did.”

“Good. Anna has no poker face. How’s she taking everything?” he asks, and I know what he’s referring to: the planes, the island, the money. The family.

“As well as one can hope, I guess.”

He makes a sound of agreement as we watch the party around us. “The good ones usually run away.”

“Luckily I’m paying her,” I say quietly. “She can flee with her money when it’s over.”

“Alex asked earlier how much time I’ve spent with the two of you.” He looks over at me, grinning. “If it comes up, we’ve been to Santa Barbara and Cabo, where you and Anna bought a house.” Off my annoyed look, he adds, “I had to add some details to make it feel believable.”

“You think it made the story more believable that I, a man who has driven the same Honda Accord for ten years, bought a house in Cabo? If anything, that’s going to make him more suspicious.”

With a laugh, Jake rids himself of our shot glasses and snags two tumblers of whiskey off a passing tray. He hands me one before lifting his own. “Well, whatever. To the final few months: if you pull this off, you’re free.”

My stomach dips. If he only knew how critical this farce was… for all of us. We clink glasses and take a sip. “How’s work?”

My brother shrugs. “Fine. The usual.”

He looks past me at the party, and I take stock of how he seems from the outside. He’s got Dad’s dark wavy hair and light brown eyes, but like me, he got his height from our mother, who is almost six feet tall without the benefit of heels. Jake is good-looking, charismatic, and always up for some (mostly) good-hearted shit-stirring. My stomach sours with guilt for what I’m keeping from him. What I could potentially fuck up.

Jake’s happiness is my lifelong, constant vigilance: making sure Dad isn’t turning any of his brand of tough-love parenting on my younger brother. For the most part, Jake has managed to escape it. It’s almost like our father gave the largest dose to Alex, the second largest to me, and by the time he got to Jake, he was too bored to pay much attention. He skipped right to Charlie, where the adoration is lavished. Frankly, I’m fine with it. It’s better this way, and from a very young age, Jake realized it, too.

Our father’s dream was to have his three sons beside him in the C-suite. Alex was trained in accounting from the time he could read, and Jake is social and magnetic—a perfect fit for marketing. I took a natural liking to computers, but I suppose my temperament and the strategic invention of a computer program when I was in my teens that simplified a huge waste and inventory issue had my father’s laser sights on me as CEO.

But I’m where this plan broke down, and Dad has no one to blame but himself, though it would never occur to him to do so. I was the first to join the family business, if inadvertently: At fifteen, for a summer programming class, I created an inventory system to be used across all of the stores. It was a game changer at the time, and Dad became obsessed with all the ways new technology could put Weston’s above every other chain out there. He pulled me from school, hired private tutors so that I could spend more time programming new systems, tinkering with employee portals, forums, and retail pages, and less time in the classroom. I did everything he asked of me, and yet, years later, when his feet were held to the fire, he fucked me over.

But like Jake said, I’m nearly free. If Anna and I pull this off, we’re all nearly free. And standing here with my little brother… I’m relieved that even working for Dad, he seems good, too. Maybe we’ll both survive our father with minimal damage after all.

“Anna really does look amazing,” Jake says, pulling my thoughts in a new direction.

“You’ve mentioned.” I search the room for her, finding her still talking to Blaire. “And I agree, she does.”

“I mention it because… have you two…?”

“No,” I say, too quickly, blinking down into my glass. “It’s not like that.”

“It could be like that. I saw you looking at her in that dress.”

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