Page 93 of What Happens in Paradise
Russ had searched my face in wild panic. “Uh…”
“Right,” I said. “How did you know?”
“How did I know?” Maia rounded the table and put her face cheek to cheek with Russ’s. “Come on, Mom. Really?”
I’m writing now not because of any great upheaval in my life but because Ayers and Mick broke up. What happened was that Mick hired a girl named Brigid to work at Beach Bar and something about Brigid set off warning bells with Ayers. Sure enough, a couple nights ago, at three in the morning, Ayers drove into town and caught Mick and Brigid together. Mick was basically living at Ayers’s place in Fish Bay, but Ayers threw him and his dog, Gordon, out. For the past two days I’ve had to listen to what a disgusting liar and cheat Mick is and what an unforgivable harlot Brigid is because Brigid knew Mick was in a committed relationship and still she fooled around with him. While I do agree that Mick is weak and Brigid doesn’t deserve to have another female friend as long as she lives, this situation has also led me to some painful introspection.
I am Brigid. I know Russ is married and still I am involved with him. Deeply involved.
Russ showed up a few days ago—hurricane season is now officially over and the island is gearing up for the holidays—and I told him about Ayers breaking up with Mick because she had caught him cheating. Russ nodded distractedly.
I said, “These aren’t fictional characters from a book I’m reading or a show I’m watching, Russ. These are my friends. You don’t know them because you can’t meet anyone in my life, but they’re real to me, they’re important to me.”
“I know, Rosie,” he said. “I’ve been hearing about them for years. They’re real to me too.”
“I want an engagement ring,” I blurted out. “By the new year. Otherwise I’m done for good. Maia just turned twelve. She’s a young woman, Russ. She’s been very accepting of our arrangement, but someday soon she’s going to start asking the hard questions.”
“I know,” he said. “And believe me, I want to give you an engagement ring. Things are tough at work right now…”
Tough at work. That old chestnut.
“I’m thinking about quitting,” he said. “I love my income, but if I left, I’d have a shot at getting my integrity back. The things we’re doing…they aren’t right, Rosie.”
“Don’t tell me!” I said. I have this notion that if I don’t know any particulars, I’ll be safe. I have almost a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in my bottom drawer. It’s a lot, but is it enough to live on for the rest of my life? I thought about Maia going to high school—I want to be able to send her to Antilles on St. Thomas—and then to college in the States. Russ must have savings, right? If not, we could sell the villa and move someplace smaller. We don’t need nine bedrooms; we never have guests. Seven of the bedrooms have never even been slept in.
Russ said, “If I quit, things will change. For the worse, initially, and then for the better.”
“Quit,” I said.
November 19, 2018
My hand is shaking as I write this. I’m thinking about calling the police, but the police here on St. John won’t be able to do anything. I need to call the FBI. But if I do that, I might get Russ in trouble.
I was waiting tables at La Tapa tonight when Tilda told me there was a one-top, a man, who had asked for me specifically. This was the downside of being mentioned by name so frequently on TripAdvisor. Complete strangers pretended they knew me.
“He’s ridiculously hot,” Tilda said. “In a Clooney-meets-Satan kind of way.”
That description should have tipped me off but it was a busy night and I didn’t have time to think. I approached the table and noted only that Tilda’s description was accurate; the guy was attractive but scary-looking. Sharply dressed, too sharp for the Virgin Islands.
“Hello,” I said. “Welcome to La Tapa.” I handed him a menu and the wine list. “Can I get you started with sparkling, still, or tap water?”
He looked up. “Hello, Rosie,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do I know you?”
In the split second before he spoke, it clicked: Todd Croft.
“Todd Croft,” he said.
I wanted to scream. I did a quick survey of the restaurant. Who could help me? Skip was behind the bar. There was no way he could handle this. Ayers could, maybe. Or Tilda.
Or me. I could handle this.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
“How old is your daughter now?” he asked. “Twelve?”
The mention of Maia made me bend down and get in his face. “Get out of here,” I whispered. “This is my island. Mine, not yours. If your intention was to come in here and threaten me or threaten my family, I would think again. I know people.”
