Page 20 of What Happens in Paradise
In retrospect, I should have realized that Oscar knew this. He jumped out of the shadows and grabbed my arm.
“Baby.”
I gasped, though I wasn’t exactly surprised. A part of me knew there was no way he’d left. I had already planned to turn on the flashlight of my phone and sweep the back of my car before I climbed in. “Let me go, Oscar.”
He held tight. I checked behind him for Borneo or Little Jay or even Lucinda Caruso, but there was no one on the path in either direction. If I screamed, Woodrow or one of the other security guards would hear me and escort Oscar off the property but the last thing I wanted was everyone all up in my business. As soon as it got out that Oscar had shown up at the restaurant and made trouble, my mother would hear about it and somehow twist it into being my fault. She would say that I had led Oscar on or had acted recklessly by walking to my car by myself.
Oscar didn’t let go. He pulled me to him so close that I could smell the champagne on his breath. “I need you to come back, baby.”
I said, “We’ve been over this, Oscar. I’m not changing my mind.”
“You got another man, then? That brother from Christiansted?”
He was talking about Bryson, a guy I’d gone out with a few times in college. Bryson lived on St. Croix.
“It’s none of your business, Oscar.” I succeeded in reclaiming my arm. “I’m tired, I’m going home, good night.” I turned around. “And you know that if you come anywhere near the house, LeeAnn will call the police and you’ll go right back to jail.”
Oscar said, “I’m going to Christiansted tomorrow to kill that brother.”
I stopped in my tracks. Had anyone else said something like that, I would have scoffed, but what had landed Oscar in jail was stabbing his friend Leon for borrowing his Ducati without permission.
“You’ll do no such thing,” I said.
“Try me,” Oscar said. Then he suddenly dropped the tough-guy act and sounded like himself. “Rosie. Try me.”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I said. “Why do you come here when you know I’m working? There are ten other places you and your friends can hang out. Why come to Caneel? Because you want me to know you have the money to order Dom Pérignon? I don’t care! You want me to see that girls throw themselves at you? I care even less! I loved you when I was a girl—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. But I’m a woman now, Oscar, and I’m moving on.”
“Baby,” Oscar said, and he grabbed the strap of my purse.
“Get off me!” I said. I put a hand against the unyielding muscles of his chest.
“Stop bothering the lady!”
Both Oscar and I turned to see who jogging toward us? Russell from Iowa City, that’s who.
Oscar laughed and I thought, Oh, dear Lord, no. It was probably a midwestern thing to defend a woman’s honor but it would end in disaster for Russell from Iowa City. I would have to call out for Woodrow after all.
“What you gonna do about it?” Oscar said. He kissed his teeth. “You gonna stop me?”
To his credit, Russell from Iowa City did not appear even a little afraid. He looked serious and disappointed, as though he were an assistant principal who had found his favorite student misbehaving and a suspension was coming.
“Yes,” Russell said coolly. “I’m going to stop you. Rosie, are you heading home? Can I escort you to your car?”
I tried to give him a look that said he didn’t have to defend me and he shouldn’t defend me because the consequences would be dire. Oscar would beat him to a pulp, or maybe just hit him once, or maybe just humiliate him, but whatever course of action Oscar took, it wouldn’t be worth it. I could handle Oscar; Russell from Iowa City most certainly could not.
Russell held out his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman caller. I sighed and hoped that maybe, just maybe, Oscar would be more afraid of violating his parole than of being shown up. I linked my arm through Russell’s.
From there, things happened fast. Oscar pushed Russell from behind and Russell let go of my arm and grabbed the front of Oscar’s shirt and they tussled while I searched the shadows for Woodrow on his golf cart—where was he?—and then, the next thing I knew, Russell from Iowa City had Oscar in a death grip and Oscar was gasping for air. It looked like Russell was about to snap his neck and I found myself fearing that Russell was going to kill Oscar instead of vice versa.
“Now,” Russell said in a calm-but-disappointed-assistant-principal voice, “I’m going to let you go. But you are to leave Rosie alone. Do you understand me?”
Oscar choked out an affirmative and Russell tightened his grip so that Oscar squeaked like a chew toy.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
Russell let Oscar go. Oscar buckled at the knees, stumbled a few yards away, and bent over in the grass, turning his neck to be sure it still worked.
Russell offered me his arm again.
