Rosie’s death is something else entirely, but the support and prayers will be great, maybe greater. Many, if not all, of these women watched Rosie grow up; a handful probably cared for her while LeeAnn worked nights and weekends up at Myrah Keating and over at Schneider Regional Medical Center on St. Thomas—until Captain Huck swept LeeAnn off her feet and married her.
Mick hits the brakes before ascending the final hill, and Ayers sees the uncertainty on his face. Do they belong here? They’re locals, but they aren’t native islanders; neither of them has family here, or roots. They merely have jobs. Mick has managed the Beach Bar for eleven years; Ayers has waited tables at La Tapa for nine years and been a crew member on Treasure Island for seven. She has never had anyone close to her die. What’s the protocol?
If Ayers were to list anyone as a family member on this island, it would be Rosie. Would have been Rosie. And Maia and Huck. So, yes, Ayers is going up to the house. If she doesn’t go, what would Huck think?
“Park up there,” Ayers says, indicating a spot mid-hill. “We can walk the rest of the way.”
“You go,” Mick says. “I’ll wait here until you want to leave. Or, if you decide to stay for a while, text me and I’ll come back for you later.”
Ayers nods and rubs Gordon’s bucket head. She has missed him, and when human words and emotions fail, animals still provide comfort.
She climbs out of the Jeep. It’s broiling in the sun, and Ayers’s stomach roils with last night’s tequila and that stupid cigarette. Her best friend is dead. Ayers stops. She’s going to vomit or faint. Her vision splotches. One of the West Indian women—Dearie, she has a beauty shop up behind the Lumberyard building—takes Ayers’s hand and all but pulls her up the hill.
“Ayers!”
She sees Huck hurrying off his porch, where a group of men—some white, some West Indian, some in uniform, some not—are gathered. A West Indian woman named Helen—she was LeeAnn’s best friend—emerges from the house with a pot of coffee and starts filling cups.
“Oh, Huck,” Ayers whispers. She stands with her arms hanging uselessly at her sides, tears streaming down her face as he gathers her up in a hug. He’s a big bear of a man with a bushy reddish-gray beard and the ropy, muscled forearms of a fisherman. He’s missing half his left pinky thanks to a feisty barracuda. He’s an island character, nearly an icon. Everyone knows Huck, but few love him like Ayers does, and like Rosie did. He was more a father to Rosie than Rosie’s own father, and the same can probably be said for Ayers.
“Is it true?” she asks.
He lets her go. “It’s true,” he says. His eyes shine. “Helicopter went down. They were headed over to Anegada for the day, I guess.”
Ayers has questions. “They” means Rosie and the Invisible Man, but why did they take a helicopter and not a boat, like normal people? Too slow, she figures. Helicopter is faster and makes more of a statement. What happened? Who was this pilot, Stephen Thompson, and did he not check the weather report? Aren’t there rules, the FAA and whatever?
But those questions don’t matter.
“Maia?” Ayers asks.
“She’s at Joanie’s,” Huck says. “I talked to Joanie’s parents. They had planned to take the girls to Salt Pond and then to hike Ram’s Head in the late afternoon once it cooled down, then have dinner at Café Concordia. I told them to go ahead with their plans. Maia may end up hating me for it, but I want her to have today. I’ll tell her when she gets home. I was hoping you would be here when I tell her. She likes you. What does she always say? You’re like her mom, but…”
“But better,” Ayers says. “Because I’m not her mom.”
“She’s going to need you now,” Huck says. “She’s going to need you a whole lot.”
“Okay,” Ayers says, but she can barely get the word out because she’s crying too hard. It’s fine, she thinks. She’ll cry now, she can fall to absolute pieces now, but there’s a twelve-year-old girl depending on her to be strong, and, dammit, Ayers isn’t going to let her down.
CASH
Cash treats his mother like she’s made of bone china. She’s not, he knows—she has kept a stiff upper lip thus far, and she looks pulled together. Her chestnut hair is in its usual fat braid with a swoop of bangs that dips toward her right eye. For Cash’s entire life, his mother’s hair has looked exactly the same. They used to tease her about it, but now Cash finds it soothing. If Irene braided her hair, some essential part of her is intact. He can’t imagine what must be going through her mind. It’s bad enough that Russ is dead, but to die in such a dramatic, suspicious way, in a place none of them even knew he was, and then to find out that he has “concerns” and owns property here? It’s also an unusual burden to be on such a somber mission in such an achingly beautiful place. It’s bright, sunny, and hot. The air is crystalline, and the water is turquoise, more beautiful than any water Cash has ever seen. The islands are green and mountainous—volcanic, he learned, when he did a little research. There are enormous yachts anchored in the harbor with people out drinking, barbecuing, playing reggae music. The ferry is abuzz with excited tourists talking about fish tacos at Longboard and snorkeling at Maho Bay. Cash picks three seats on the far right side of the boat. He and Baker have barely spoken a word to each other since meeting up in Atlanta; Russ’s death hasn’t changed the fact that Baker is one of Cash’s least favorite people on planet Earth.
They take the seats on either side of their mother, buffering her. Winnie hangs her head over the lower railing, panting at the ocean. She’s a mountain dog; this is all brand-new to her.
It takes only twenty minutes to reach St. John. Cash has read that it’s a smaller, more rustic cousin of St. Thomas. There are no traffic lights, no chain stores, and only one small casino, The Parrot Club. Seventy percent or more of the land on St. John is owned by the National Park Service. It’s for hikers and snorkelers, birders and fishermen, people who love the outdoors. Cash likes the sound of it.
Or he would, under other circumstances.
Cash had spoken with Paulette Vickers on the phone. She told him she was the property manager of Mr. Steele’s villa. The phrase “property manager” triggered a memory of something Irene had told him.
“Are you the one who identified my father’s body?” Cash asked.
“That was my husband, Douglas,” Paulette said.
“And your husband knew my father? Knew what he looked like? And my father was dead? And the man who was dead was actually my father, Russell Steele?” Cash had paused. “I know these questions sound strange. It’s just that I’m in a state of suspended disbelief.”
Yes, yes, she understood, she said. Though how could she, possibly? Paulette said that she took care of maintaining the villa in the summer months, when Mr. Steele was away, and that Douglas did all the handyman work. When Cash had asked how long his father had owned the villa, Paulette had been slow to answer. She said that she had “inherited” the villa from another property manager three years earlier. She wasn’t certain when Mr. Steele had bought the villa; she would have to check the files.
“All right, I’ll wait,” Cash had said, and Paulette had laughed.
“How are you related to Mr. Steele?” Paulette had asked. “Marilyn, from Mr. Croft’s office, said only that a family member would be calling.”
“I’m his son,” Cash had said. “His younger son. My brother will be coming as well, and my mother, Irene. Mr. Steele’s widow.”
This had elicited a long pause from Paulette. “I see,” she said.
“Is there a problem?” Cash asked. He meant aside from the obvious problem that his father was dead under mysterious circumstances.