“The man’s name is Todd Croft,” Irene says. “He’s in his mid-to late fifties. He’s a banker—a businessman—in Florida, I think. Miami. His business is called Ascension. He went to Northwestern.”
Mavis double-checks the spelling of Croft and of Ascension, then Irene can hear her fingertips flying across a keyboard. LinkedIn, Mavis murmurs. Tumblr, Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter, Facebook. This is a world Irene has actively resisted. People encouraged her to start a Facebook page about her home renovation, but she had been so immersed in the work itself that there had been no time left over to document it.
“I’m not finding him,” Mavis says. “Do you know where he worked before Ascension? Do you know if he has kids, or where they went to school? Do you know where in Miami he lives? Do you know if he owns property?”
“I don’t,” Irene admits. She chastises herself for being so impetuous; it isn’t like her. Now Mavis will go back to the office and tell everyone that Irene is looking for a fifty-something banker from Miami—and what will people think?
Well, whatever they think, it won’t be as awful as the truth.
“Never mind,” Irene says. “I just called on a whim. I need to get a hold of this gentleman because he has some information that will assist with my family issues. But thanks anyway, Mavis.”
“Oh,” Mavis says. “No problem. When do you think you’ll be back? The office isn’t the same without you. We’re kind of like a bunch of crazed teenagers when Mom is away.”
Irene imagines Beyoncé and Drake playing at full blast over the office sound system, microwave popcorn ground into the rug of the common room, long, expensed lunch breaks at Formosa, and the entire staff cutting out early for craft cocktails in the name of “team building.” Everyone at the magazine probably views Irene as a schoolmarm, smacking her yardstick into her palm. Irene offers a paltry laugh. “I’ll be back next week to restore order,” she says. “Thanks, Mavis.” She can’t hang up fast enough.
The boys leave for dinner. Irene asks them to stay out until eleven, a request that is met with blank stares. Neither of them has asked what she’s planning. They’re afraid of her, she realizes. They’re afraid that at any minute she’s going to crack and all of her ugly emotions are going to come flying out. That’s fine—they can think what they want, as long as they give her privacy tonight.
She pulls things out of the fridge that she can serve with grilled mahi. Camembert with crackers to start, pasta salad and the makings of a green salad as sides. There’s a fruit salad she can serve for dessert with packaged cookies. Food is the least of her worries.
She pours herself a glass of wine, the first since she left the Pullman Bar & Diner six days ago. Thinking about the Pullman and Prairie Lights leads Irene to thoughts of Milly. Cash called Milly on Saturday evening and Milly had been unable to come to the phone. What must Milly think? That they’ve abandoned her?
Irene grabs her cell phone and calls Milly while she sets the table for two. She debates setting out candles. They’re more flattering than the outdoor lighting, but will Irene be sending the wrong message? The boys were kind enough not to ask why she was wearing a sundress and earrings (possibly they hadn’t noticed). Irene wants to look nice and normal, though not like she’s trying too hard. She has left her hair hanging down her back, still damp from the shower. No makeup; it’s best if Huck sees her how she really is.
As she decides no to candles and then yes to candles—why deny herself the pleasure of candlelight?—Dot, the head nurse on the medical floor, answers.
“Dot, this is Irene Steele. I know I’ve been lax about calling this week…”
“Oh, Irene,” Dot says. “Cash called and let us know that you all were taking a vacation. Are you back?”
“No,” Irene says. “Not yet.” She stands at the deck railing and looks out at the sky, striped pink as the sun sets out of sight to the left. The water has taken on a purplish hue, and pinpricks of light start to appear on the neighboring islands. This view is probably what someone like Dot thinks of when she thinks vacation. And yet.
“I haven’t called you because I don’t want to rain on your parade,” Dot says. “But Milly is failing, Irene. It’s nothing dramatic, just a steady decline I’ve noticed since the first of the year. She’s not going to die tomorrow—I don’t want you running home—but I figured you ought to know.”
Irene is silent. Milly has been failing since the first of the year. The day that Russ died. Her only child. It’s almost as if she sensed it.
“Is she awake now?” Irene asks. “Can I speak with her?”
“She’s been asleep for hours,” Dot says. “But I’ll tell her you called. Around lunchtime is best, if you want to try again tomorrow.”
Try again tomorrow, Irene thinks. So she can lie to Milly and tell her everything is fine, Cash surprised her with a vacation, the Caribbean is beautiful.
“Okay,” Irene says. “I’ll do that.”
Huck arrives a few minutes after seven. From her second-floor guest-room window, Irene watches his truck snake up the driveway. She checks her hair and hurries down the stairs to meet him at the door.
This is not a date, she tells herself, though her nerves are bright and jangly with anticipation. She will attempt to make Huck her ally. She needs one here on this island.
Irene opens the door. Huck has cleaned up a bit himself—his red-gray hair is combed, his yellow shirt pressed. He’s holding a bag of fish fillets—more than they could possibly eat—in one hand and a bottle of… he immediately hands the bottle over to Irene… Flor de Ca?a rum, eighteen years old.
“Thought we might need that,” he says.
Irene accepts the bottle gratefully. It solves the problem of how to greet him—air-kiss or handshake. Now neither is necessary.
“Come on in,” she says. “Did you have any problem finding it?”
“You know I’ve lived here twenty years,” Huck says. “And I never knew this road existed. Does it have a name?”
“Lovers Lane,” Irene says.
“Seriously?”
“That’s what the deed says.” This is a development, new as of this afternoon. Paulette Vickers managed to produce the deed. The house, known as Number One Lovers Lane, is owned solely by Russell Steele. This news had come as a solid punch to the gut. Irene had secretly believed that they would discover the property was owned by Todd Croft or Ascension. If that had been the case, Irene could have believed Russ was a pawn, manipulated by his powerful boss. More than once after Russ had accepted the job from Todd, Irene had realized that he’d made a deal with the devil. But had she ever encouraged him to quit? Never. The money had been too seductive.
According to Irene’s lawyer in Iowa City, Ed Sorley, Russ’s will leaves everything to her should she survive him. When had he signed the will? Irene had asked Ed. She worried that another will would materialize, leaving everything to Rosie Small. But Ed said that Russ had come in to sign a new will in September, one that included a new life insurance policy he’d taken out, to the tune of three million dollars.
“September?” Irene said. This was news to her. She remembered them both signing new wills back when they bought the Church Street property.
“Yes,” Ed says. “Why do you ask? Is everything all right?”
“Never better,” Irene said, and hung up.
“Well,” Huck says now, stepping into the foyer. “This is quite a place.”
Quite a place. Huck follows Irene through the entry hall into the kitchen. She doesn’t feel like giving him a tour—although there is something she wants to show him upstairs, after dinner.
“Let me get you something to drink,” Irene says. “I have wine chilled or…” She looks at the rum; she’s not sure what to do with it. No one has ever brought her a bottle of rum before. “Can I make you a cocktail? We have Coke, I think.”