“Not at all,” Paulette said. “I didn’t realize Mr. Steele had sons, but then again, he was a very private person. He liked to keep a low profile, to be ‘invisible,’ he used to say. The villa, as you’ll see, has everything: a pool and a hot tub, a shuffleboard court and a billiards table, multiple decks and outdoor living spaces, nine bedrooms, seven of them en suite, and, of course, a private beach. There was no reason for him to leave the property, and he rarely did.”
Cash’s head was spinning. Nine bedrooms? A shuffleboard court? A private beach? It just wasn’t possible. Cash thanked Paulette, given her the details of their travel, and hung up.
Cash and Baker help their mother off the ferry while Winnie goes nuts, pulling on the leash, intrigued by so many new smells. Cash sees a West Indian woman in a purple dress waving at him. Is that Paulette Vickers? How would she have recognized him? He wonders if Paulette had been friends with Russ, if maybe Russ had shown Paulette pictures of his family at home. But then Cash remembers that he told Paulette he was bringing his golden retriever.
He strides up to her and offers his hand. “Paulette, I’m Cash Steele. Can we get into your car and away from here with minimum fanfare?” It has only just occurred to Cash that there might be some attendant celebrity to being the family of the man who died in the helicopter crash on New Year’s Day.
“Yes, of course,” Paulette says. She waits, smile plastered to her face, while Irene and Baker approach, and then she offers Irene her hand. Irene stares.
“You knew my husband?” Irene asks. “You knew Russ?”
“Mom, let’s get to the car,” Cash says.
Baker smooths things over by taking Paulette’s outstretched hand and saying, “Very nice to meet you. Thank you for coming to get us. What a beautiful island.”
Cash gives Baker a hard stare. It is a beautiful island, but it hardly seems appropriate to say so.
Paulette, although she must realize that the three of them are numb with shock and grief, prattles on about the sights as though they are run-of-the-mill tourists. The town is called Cruz Bay, it’s where the “action” is, the shopping, the restaurants, the infamous Woody’s, with its infamous happy hour.
Happy hour? Cash almost interrupts Paulette to remind her who she has in her car, but his mother puts a hand on his arm to silence him.
Winnie’s head is out the window, and Cash decides to follow suit and turn his gaze outward, tuning out Paulette. Baker can handle her.
The “town” is maybe four blocks long. It’s understated and laid-back. There are restaurants with outdoor seating under awnings, bakeries, barbecue joints, shops selling silver jewelry, renting snorkel equipment—nothing gaudy or overbearing. They pass public tennis courts and a school with children in yellow-and-navy uniforms out on the playground.
“The children are just back to school after the holiday break,” Paulette says. “I have a son at that school. He’s six.”
“I have a son who’s four,” Baker says. “He’s back in Houston with his mother.”
Cash supposes he should be grateful that Baker’s an extrovert; he will be the goodwill ambassador and Cash will tend to Irene. The family joke has always been that Cash is the daughter Irene never had; it doesn’t bother Cash because he’s secure in his masculinity. He knows his strengths: he’s sensitive, thoughtful, introspective, a nurturer. And Baker is alpha, or he was until he married Anna. She definitely wears the pants in that family—hell, the whole tuxedo—but Cash is relieved to see that Baker has retained his charm.
Out of town, the road grows steep and curvy. Paulette is pointing out trailheads, talking about hiking, about the three-thousand-year-old petroglyphs of the Reef Bay Trail.
“Very famous,” she says. “They’re what St. John is known for.”
On either side of the road is dense vegetation. Everything here is so green and alive, Cash can practically hear it growing. At the crest of a hill, Paulette pulls over to the shoulder. Below them is a crescent of white beach backed by palm trees. It’s the most picture-perfect beach Cash has ever seen. It’s so beautiful it hurts.
“That’s Trunk Bay,” Paulette says. “Perennially voted one of the best beaches in the world.”
“Great,” Baker says, nodding. He pulls out his phone, and Cash wonders if he’s going to take a picture, but no, he’s just checking the time. “Paulette, you are so kind to serve as our tour guide, and I hope you don’t think I’m being rude when I suggest you take us right to my father’s property. We’ve been traveling since early this morning.”
“Of course,” Paulette says. “I just thought since you were unfamiliar with the island, you might want to see what all the fuss is about.”
They couldn’t have sent anyone less sensitive, Cash thinks. And yet he doesn’t want to alienate Paulette because she is, right now, their only link to Russ’s life here.
Paulette pulls back onto the road. She’s at ease on the windy, twisty, steep terrain, where there’s zero room for error. One side of the road is unforgiving mountain face, and the other side is a dramatic drop to the sea. Paulette waves to the drivers of the big open-air taxis that pass them—too close for Cash’s comfort—in the oncoming lane. She stops to talk to one of the taxi drivers. They speak some kind of island patois; the only words Cash recognizes are “invisible man.” Is that what they call Russ? he wonders. He peers discreetly at his mother. Her eyes are closed.
Finally, Paulette slows down, puts on her blinker, and turns. They drive up a series of hairpin turns. The road is deserted and it’s shady; there are driveways, but no houses are visible. At the end of the road is a high gate with a sign that reads: PRIVATE.
Baker laughs. “Is this where Kenny Chesney lives?”
Paulette punches a code into the keypad and the gate swings open. Cash nudges his mother awake. He knows she’s tired, but she has to see this. It’s like something from a movie. This is his father’s villa, his father’s villa, on an island in the Caribbean. Cash can’t help thinking that there has been a mistake, a very large, serious, and yet simple mistake. A man named Russell Steele did die in a helicopter crash north of Virgin Gorda, but it was a different Russell Steele. Their Russell Steele—husband, father, connoisseur of arcane trivia and corny puns, fan of the Beatles and The Blues Brothers, is still alive somewhere, schmoozing with clients in Sarasota or Pensacola.
The driveway is long, surrounded on both sides by evenly spaced palm trees, each of which has a spotlight at the bottom. When they reach the house, Cash takes his mother’s hand.
“We’re here,” Paulette says.
They all climb out of the car. Baker lets out a long, low whistle. He has absolutely no impulse control.
The property is… stunning. They’re way, way up high, with hundred-eighty-degree views of the water and the islands beyond. Paulette leads them up a curved stone staircase to a mahogany deck, where she turns with her arms open like a woman on a game show, as if to present the view.
“That’s Jost Van Dyke and, next to it, Tortola.”
“What?” Irene says.
“The British Virgin Islands, Mom,” Baker says.
Paulette guides them around the outside of the house. The grounds are impeccably landscaped with bougainvillea, frangipani, banana trees, and tall hibiscus bushes. There’s a round aqua pool with a slide down to a second, free-form, dark-blue pool. A few yards away is a separate hot tub, water bubbling, surface steaming. There’s a covered outdoor kitchen with a granite bar, a grill, an ice machine, and a glass-fronted refrigerator displaying a variety of Italian sparkling waters. Cash shakes his head. This isn’t his father’s house. Russ drinks tap water.
Paulette opens a sliding glass door and they all step into the house; after the heat outside, the air-conditioning is delicious. The ceiling of the living room is peaked, with thick beams jutting from the center like the spokes of a wheel. They wander into the enormous eat-in kitchen and Paulette says, “I’ll let you explore in peace. I’ll be on the deck if you have any questions.”