Page 49 of Winter in Paradise
“Okay,” Cash says. He can’t believe this. Didn’t Baker say he had a date with Ayers tomorrow?
“You really need to remember to tell him,” Anna says. “Baker has no idea we’re coming. It was basically impossible for me to clear it with work until the very last minute.”
“Will do,” Cash says.
“I can count on you?” Anna says.
“Absolutely,” Cash says.
“Okay,” Anna says, and she sounds happier, maybe even a little excited. “See you tomorrow!”
Cash hangs up the phone. He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe it.
“Who was that?” Baker asks.
“That?” Cash says. “No one.”
HUCK
This is right up there with the craziest things Huck has ever done. A dozen times on the way over, he thought, For the love of Bob, turn around, go home to your book and your beer. Getting mixed up with this woman, the wife, is going to be nothing but trouble. Rosie is dead and nothing will bring her back. The voice in Huck’s head was one of reason, loud and clear, and yet still he drove to the north shore and found the utility pole with the two yellow stripes. Still he ascended the steep, winding road—there were no other homes, only dummy driveways that led to nowhere, until you reached the gate at the top, which had been left open. Huck wondered if this bastard had enough money to buy up the entire hill, just to make certain he had no neighbors.
Still he knocked on the door.
Irene looks pretty. It’s not a thought he should be having about Russell Steele’s widow, but there it is, plain and simple. Huck is a man, built like other men, and so he appreciates Irene’s chestnut hair hanging loose and damp down her back, and the black sundress that shows off her arms, her neck, and her pretty feet.
She’s nervous, he can tell—her hands are shaking as she accepts the rum. Huck thinks, Better do a shot right away. Why did God provide humans with alcohol if not for situations like this?
They make casual chitchat while Huck prepares the mahi. Irene pours white wine, it’s her favorite, from Napa, she says, and Huck makes a sound of general appreciation, as if he cares where the wine is from. Irene has set out cheese and crackers but she doesn’t touch them, and Huck holds back to be polite. Or maybe it’s rude not to eat? He can’t tell; he should have reviewed his Emily Post before coming up here. Huck asks Irene if she has a job. She says yes, she’s the editor of something called Heartland Home & Style. It’s a glossy magazine, she says, with a hundred seventy-five thousand subscribers and a quarter-million in advertising each month.
“So it’s like Penthouse, then?” Huck says.
This gets a laugh out of her, which must come as a surprise, because she claps a hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay,” Huck says. “You’re allowed.”
This is the exact wrong response, because Irene’s eyes fill with tears, but she takes a breath, recovers, and says, “I’m sorry. It’s kindness that undoes me.”
“Understood,” Huck says. “From here on out, I’ll try to be more of a bastard.”
Irene smiles. “Thank you. Anyway, a day or two before all this… I had something happen at work. They named me ‘executive editor,’ which is technically a rung up the masthead, but for all intents and purposes I was fired. They relieved me of all my important duties, my decision making…”
“Turned you into an editor emeritus,” Huck says.
Irene’s eyes grow wide. “Exactly.”
“They’re giving you an honorary title, hoping you’ll retire,” Huck says.
“They couldn’t fire me because then advertisers would have made noise, so they got sneaky instead.”
“You should quit,” Huck says. “Move down here. I’ll hire you as my first mate. You’re one hell of a good fisherperson.”
Irene laughs again, not happily. “Not a chance,” she says.
He gets back in her good graces once he sets down the grilled mahi. He waits until Irene takes a bite.
“Wow,” she says.
“Really?” he says. “Good?”
