Page 19 of Caribbean Crush

When cancer came calling a few years ago, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea that she’d succumb to it. We’re talking about a lady who at sixty years old signed up to coach my Little League team when no one else would do it. A lady who once made a mechanic start crying when he tried to swindle her into getting unnecessary work done to her Pontiac Grand Prix. A lady so caustic and sassy, everyone in our town knew not to cross her. I mean, the cojones on the woman were something else.

Still, after the cancer diagnosis, I felt like it was prudent for me to move back in with her to help out. The arrangement worked well for the both of us, actually. I’d just graduated from college and was drowning in student loans while trying to make it as a fledgling journalist. Even after I got the job with Bon Voyage, I stayed with her because I wanted to be there to drive her to appointments, to hold her hand on the bad days. Whenever she grumbled about it, I told her it was me who needed her. It wasn’t even a lie. My pittance of a salary is not nearly enough to afford a decent apartment along with all of life’s other necessities.

For a good long stretch, we were making do. It seemed like we could really pull this off. She’d get better, I’d get a promotion, and we’d eventually laugh about the hard times that were well and truly behind us. This delusion was so strong that when she got the diagnosis that her lung cancer had started to spread, I didn’t even balk. Never mind that she’d spent the better part of fifty years sucking cigarettes down to the filter. I figured cancer would get the message and scurry off to find some other more hospitable host.

The chemo and radiation didn’t do the trick, though. The rail-thin end, the way she wheezed in each breath—I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

I remember the last time I broke down in front of her while she lay mostly helpless in her hospital bed, heavy, grief-laden tears pouring down my cheeks as she gripped my hand and pursed her lips at me. Jean Hughes did not abide tears. Not then, not ever. She pulled me down to her with a strength I didn’t realize she still had. Her fingers tightened around mine, and she reassured me, “You’re gonna make it, kid. Okay? You’ve got sunshine in you, you know that? You don’t ever let anyone snuff it out.”

Her death last year was bad enough on its own. Becoming an orphan when you’re a young adult is a bitter pill to swallow. No one really feels all that bad for you because you’re not a kid anymore, but it doesn’t negate the fact that you’re really on your own now. No safety net to speak of. No emotional support system.

Then came the money issues.

Guess who was the first to come knocking after my grandmother passed away. I’ll save you some time here. It wasn’t a kind stranger. Not a valiant white knight. Sadly, I was fresh out of rich relatives wanting to play my benefactor.

No, the person knocking on my door and calling my cell phone incessantly, the one sending letter after letter was none other than Steve Buchanan, your friendly debt collector.

Now, let me clarify something for anybody as dumb as me. My grandmother may have died, but her mountain of credit card bills and medical debt were alive and kickin’. Oh, and wouldn’t you know? Grandma hadn’t paid her taxes in over a decade. Good going, Jean.

“Okay, well. How much does her estate owe?” I asked him when I finally gained the courage to take one of his calls. The question is absolutely hysterical when I think back on it, because it shows the state of mind I was in at the time. I thought there was a way out. Oh, shoot. A couple grand? Let me see what I can do.

The actual figure—the one I still can’t think about without wincing—came later, after Steve asked if I was sitting down, and he assured me he would do everything he could to help me out.

Helping me out actually meant seizing my grandmother’s house and all her possessions, ha, ha, ha! Steve, you’re so silly!

So yeah, I’ve definitely been navigating a rough patch lately.

As of two weeks ago, I said goodbye to my childhood home, moved all my earthly possessions into a storage unit in White Plains, and started to halfheartedly search for an apartment while living out of a hotel room.

When Gwen spoke about this assignment during our staff meeting, I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind. Clearly. I regret sticking my neck out and lying about my relationship with Phillip, but it’s too late to turn back now. There’s nothing to lose—no real place to call home, no family, no boyfriend, a job I hate ... my hope of having a future career as a successful journalist and making my grandmother proud is all I have left, and it hinges on getting this damn interview.

Phillip probably assumes he can run me off with a halfhearted rejection, but he’s dead wrong, and he’s about to find that out the hard way.

Tonight’s welcome dinner is in two hours.

I spend the next thirty minutes unpacking and settling in, taking full advantage of the place I’ll call home for the next ten days. I spread out my things in the bathroom, organizing my moisturizer and face wash on the black marble countertop along with all my cosmetics.

Then I shower and carefully blow out my hair before moving on to my makeup. My grandmother spent thirty years behind the Chanel cosmetics counter at Saks Fifth Avenue in New York City. She never left our house without a full face of makeup, a fresh set of curls, and two strategically placed spritzes of Chanel N°5. Though I protested at the time, I’m grateful she taught me well.

The natural, subtle makeup I’ve worn all day? Gone.

A touch of bronzer and the right swipe of a warm-pink blush melds perfectly with my tanned complexion.

I achieve a soft golden smoky eye with ease. I layer honey-brown tones and then tap on a little shimmer so that my blue eyes don’t just pop, they punch.

My full lips are stained a strawberry red.

When I step back and turn my chin from side to side, inspecting every detail, a zing of excitement races through me.

Am I trying to seduce Phillip?

Absolutely not.

I just want to stop him dead in his tracks. I want him to feel the same way I did when I saw him in that suit this afternoon.

News flash, you aren’t the only one who grew up.

I don’t even hesitate before I grab a flashy gold dress from my closet and slip it on. It’s short and fitted, with a structured bodice and a draped silk skirt. It’s one of the dresses I splurged on for the trip, and I’d planned to pull it out a little later on in the voyage, but tonight’s the night.

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