Page 16 of Troubles in Paradise
“She can’t,” Maia says. “The FBI took that house too.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I told you, there’s been drama.”
“What about Cash?” Ayers says. BecauseTreasure Islandis out of commission, Ayers hasn’t spoken to Cash since Tuesday night. “Is he staying with you guys?”
“He’s living with Tilda,” Maia says.
Living with Tilda? Ayers knew they were kind of seeing each other; they’d been together the afternoon that Mick proposed at Christmas Cove. That was five days ago. Now they’re living together? “Wow,” Ayers says. The toast won’t settle in her stomach; she feels like it’s on a seesaw. Is it coming up or staying down? “Where’s Baker?”
“He and Floyd are at the Westin,” Maia says. “I’m actually headed there in a little while to watch Floyd while Baker looks at some rentals.”
“You are?”Ayers says. She feels a tiny arrow of optimism shoot through her, though she’s too lethargic to even smile. “So they’re staying?”
“Yes, they’re staying. Floyd starts at Gifft Hill on Monday,” Maia says. “Wait until I tell everyone he’s my nephew.”
Oh, boy,Ayers thinks.The Gifft Hill mothers will have a field day with that.“Have fun,” Ayers says. “I love you; you’re my number-one girl. Let’s hang out next week.”
“We can…” Maia says. “But I might be busy with my friends or babysitting for Floyd.”
“Right,” Ayers says. “Only if you can fit me in.”
“I’ll have my people call your people,” Maia says, and she hangs up.
Baker is staying! For a second, Ayers’s happiness is greater than the dread that she feels about the rest of the story—the lost villa, the FBI, Russ’s illegal business dealings.
She should tell someone about the journals; it feels like they’re smoldering beneath her. But…they’re personal, private. Rosie wouldn’t want anyone to see them, of that Ayers is certain. Ayers plans to give them to Maia when she gets older.
The FBI knows Russ was laundering money, so the journals wouldn’t offer anything new. But what about the mentions of Todd Croft?Wasthere foul play with the helicopter?
Argh!Ayers doesn’t want to hand the journals over. It’s her own private line of communication with Rosie. And if Huck read them, or, worse,Ireneread them—well, that wouldn’t be good. And yet tohidethem…no, Ayers has to show someone.
She’ll show Huck. Or Baker? No, Huck.
I’m sorry, Rosie,Ayers thinks—and then she races to the bathroom to throw up.
Cash
I’m sure you understand my concerns,” Granger Payne says.
Before Cash can respond, Granger dives into the T-shaped pool and powers out six laps. Then he lifts himself out of the pool, triceps flexing, and dries his face with one of the fluffy white Turkish towels. Over the past week, Cash has become very familiar with all the luxuries on offer here at Tilda’s parents’ house in Peter Bay.
Which is precisely Granger’s point.
“I do indeed, sir,” Cash says. He’s relieved that theTreasure Islandis back up and running and that he’s dressed for work. Every day for the past few days, while the boat was being repaired, Cash woke up late with Tilda, and over banana pancakes and mango smoothies, they picked a beach or a trail or both to hike. On Tilda’s day off, the two of them climbed into Tilda’s Range Rover and drove out to Hansen Bay in the East End. They rented a kayak and spent the entire afternoon drinking grapefruit margaritas and eating the sublime tacos—rum rib with chipotle slaw, green chicken curry—at the floating-barge restaurant Lime Out. Lime Out had bar seats attached to the barge, which Cash and Tilda sat in before claiming a floating table. They reclined on inflatable chaises, faces to the sun, drinks in hand, toasting the good life, which they were undeniably enjoying. Cash had to actively fight off encroaching guilt. His family had just undergone a huge financial crisis and what was Cash doing? Drinking cocktails that his brand-new girlfriend was paying for with her black American Express card.
Granger wraps the towel around his waist. He’s about Cash’s size, five nine or so, and is in extremely good physical shape, possibly even better shape than Cash, and he’s fifty-six years old. The villa has a full gym with two Peloton bikes; Granger and Tilda’s mother, Lauren, get up at five thirty every morning to ride together, then Granger does his weight regimen, then he swims.
“Want some green juice?” Granger asks Cash. On the counter of the outdoor kitchen is a carafe of liquid the color of shamrocks. It was most likely put there by Virgie, the housekeeper, who moves around the villa with the stealth of a ninja and who, this past week, has refused to let Cash do so much as take his own dishes to the sink.
Guilt—his mother; Baker; Floyd. If they knew how Cash was living, what would they think? “Sure,” Cash says. He accepts a glass of green juice, takes a sip, and immediately wants to spit it out. It’s liquefied kale, he suspects, with maybe a thin slice of apple or one green grape thrown in.
“Lauren and I are very protective where Tilda is concerned,” Granger says. “She tends to show all her cards. She doesn’t have much of a poker face, I’m afraid.” Granger gulps down the entire glass of juice and Cash shivers just watching; he’s unsure he can manage even one more sip. “It’s clear how much she likes you. She says you have other places you can go, so it’s not like you’re using her to avoid being homeless.”
“Right,” Cash says quickly. “That’s right, sir.”
“Please, call me Granger.”
