Stuck in Paradise with You

Chapter 5

5

LUKE

I’m pacing the tiled floor in my pod, air con blasting because I’m hot, though the fact my linen shirt is sticking to my skin is nothing to do with the temperature outside.

It is everything to do with seeing Carrie again.

Not just fleetingly seeing her. Not bumping into her as we both get out of a cab, alight the subway or head into a Midtown bar after work.

This is dinner . Sitting across the table from her. Hours of excruciating small talk, pretense. A multitude of unspoken questions about the past.

I haven’t seen her for seven years. She’s part of the very worst time in my life. My career in tatters, a divorce imminent, family life obliterated, and the woman I was utterly infatuated with blocking me, not returning my emails, returning to sender six handwritten letters I mailed to her, with all but the first unopened. Making abundantly clear that when everything else was dealt with, there could still never be a chance for us.

She’s my nemesis. And though I’m loathe to admit it, no matter how much Ella presses me, my Achille’s heel.

There’s a tap on my door. It’s only seven-thirty, so I know before I answer that Joe will be waiting for me, and that he’s here to ask… ‘Chalmers, a pre-drink?’

I stare at him, similarly dressed in cream chinos and a linen shirt – though to his eccentric Hawaiian print, I’m wearing pale blue, and to his turtle-inspired bucket hat, I’m wearing none. The upshot is, his outfit is significantly more relaxed than mine.

Have I overdone this? Have I subconsciously over-dressed to appear fine?

I am fine , a soprano version of my inner voice sings.

I am so not fine , normal-pitched me retorts.

‘I can’t do this, Hettich.’

‘It’s only a sundowner, old boy.’

‘The sun set an hour ago, and you know what I mean. This . Dinner. Meetings. Carrie .’

He steps inside and closes the door behind him, eyeing me, hands in pockets as if his next words will be emphatic. ‘You could run. It would be cowardly and, honestly, career ending because, one, there comes a point in life when you have to face your past, and two, I don’t understand all this tax and accounting kerfuffle, which is why I employed you and gave you a hellish signing-on bonus to deal with it for me.’

The bonus was nice but, ‘ Cowardly? More like letting sleeping dogs lie. Not dredging up the past.’

He holds up his hands – Take or leave my warning .

‘You can run or you can accept the challenge. Finally deal with the reason you’re a lonely and increasingly old man.’

‘Hey!’

‘Did you have those flecks of grey last time you saw her?’

My hand automatically goes to my product-styled hair. ‘No, but that’s probably because she caused half of them,’ I mutter.

He gestures to the door with a pointed thumb. ‘Let’s get a cocktail and calm those geriatric nerves.’

‘You’re four years older than me!’

‘Therefore, four years wiser. It’s time to man up, Chalmers, not least because I ordered a crate of Pusser’s rum and it arrived this morning.’

Ordinarily, Joe’s favorite cocktail – a Painkiller made with Pusser’s rum – would be a great idea, but as it happens, I already feel numb. Turning out the lights, I reluctantly head to the terrace, following the flapping flippers of Joe’s outrageous hat.

Two Painkillers have helped. Standing on the terrace with Joe, watching sail boats drifting across the ocean, Ella’s playlist of chilled re-recordings of chart-topping hits playing in the background, tea lights twisted round and dancing on the palm trees, I feel more myself.

Joe and I are talking about going sailing on Wednesday, maybe taking out a couple of jet skis.

‘They’re upgraded since your last trip. The guys tell me they’re faster than anything else they’ve ridden.’

By ‘guys’, he means his staff, who really have a pleasant lifestyle out here. True, they make themselves available for Joe’s every whim, but they get free accommodation and a free pass to all the island’s amenities, including use of the main resort when Joe and his family and friends aren’t around.

‘Hey, you two. My sister said I’d find you out here.’ I turn to see Alisha, Ella’s sister, coming our way, a cocktail in hand, her long dress twisting around her ankles. Today’s look is long plaits of hair coiled on top of her head, signature large gold hoops tapping her neck as she moves.

‘Alisha, it’s been a while,’ I tell her, folding her into an embrace. She has on her usual lathering of lemon moisturizer, which smells nice but is mostly to fend off mosquitoes, which are rife this time of year, whether or not the island has been fogged.

‘Certainly too long,’ she says. Though born in the British Virgin Islands, Alisha now lives on St Martin and has a slightly different rhythm to her accent than her sister. ‘How are you, Luke-y? Still footloose and fancy free, bedding anyone who’ll have you and buying my nieces and nephews bigger gifts than I’ll ever afford just so they like you best?’

I laugh so hard, my head drops back. It’s a release I’ve needed.

‘It’s not about the price, Alisha, it’s about how cool they are. You know that.’

She shakes her head, pointing a long red fingernail at me. ‘You play fair. Remember blood is thicker than water.’

‘That sounds like a threat,’ I tease.

‘Boy, you know it is. But it’s good to see you.’

‘You, too.’

‘Ella and the kids are nearly ready; they’ll be out in a minute,’ she says. ‘The kids wanted to dress up. Noah is Buzz Lightyear, Toby is Rusty from Cars , Char is Peppa Pig, and my awful sister has dressed the bubba as a minion.’

‘I’m glad I was out here with a Painkiller,’ Joe says. ‘They’ll be high on life and drama.’

‘Oh yes,’ Alisha says, giggling. ‘There have been a few crossed words.’ She gestures toward a table that’s been set for eleven people behind us. ‘Who else is joining us, Joe?’

He finishes his drink and signals in the direction of the bar and Monique for another. ‘Us three, Ella and the entire cast of Disney Plus, Jenny and Henry because they’ll be helping to crew Ella II if we take her out on Wednesday.’

I’ve always liked this about Joe – he involves his staff. He doesn’t treat them like second-rate citizens and that’s how it should be done, in my view. I’ll never be wealthy enough to need round-the-clock help on my own private island, but my fictitious staff would be well looked after too.

Still, his kindness toward his staff is wiped out by the tormenting glint in his eyes as he looks my way and adds… ‘And hopefully, my tax advisor, if she accepts Luke’s invitation.’

If looks could kill, this week would have just become a Knives Out sort of week. Who murdered Joe Hettich? Me . With my mind.

‘Am I missing something?’ Alisha asks, switching her focus between Joe and me.

I subconsciously check my watch, feeling increasingly fidgety.

‘Now’s not the time to catch on,’ Joe says.

‘Because there’s nothing to catch,’ I tell them.

I should have known she’d be perfectly punctual. She always was.

Carrie appears, walking along the pathway etched into the top of the rock face, heading our way.

She’s wearing a lilac pleated skirt that finishes just below her knee, nipped in at her waist by a belt. I remember the feel of her waist in my hands, exactly where her white blouse tucks in.

I watch her every step as she moves closer toward us, reaching the terrace and heading our way. I can’t take my eyes off her, like a bug to fluorescent light.

She’s summer smart – presumably her invitation had the same dress code stated on it as mine – but she’s much smarter, chicer, more girl-out-of-the-city than the rest of us.

Not girl, I amend as she comes closer, her perfume reaching me on the barely there breeze. She’s not the girl I fell for; she’s a woman.

Her long auburn hair falls in waves around her shoulders. My fingers twitch at the thought of how I used to run them through her soft curls. Her white blouse is open enough at the neck for me to see slender collarbones that I’ve kissed before. Her lips are painted a subtle shade of pink – invitingly so. And her features seem to hold more stories; they seem wiser.

I wonder if this version of Carrie would have been smart enough never to have gotten involved with me. Smart enough to have saved me from a whole load of heartache.

Speaking of which, that organ is currently thumping against my ribcage like a pneumatic drill.

Carrie makes straight for Joe but there’s a split second of hesitation, in which I know she clocks me in her peripheral vision.

‘Mr Hettich, it’s an absolute pleasure,’ she says, sounding unwaveringly confident, as if her world hasn’t just been knocked off its axis, as mine has.

‘Carrie, lovely to finally meet you,’ my so-called buddy says, hitting right off the bat with a reminder that we share a past. A heated, explosive, life-altering past. ‘Thank you for joining us for dinner. I like to get to know who I’m working with before we get down to business.’

Joe would have gone in for a hug – that’s his style, whether he’s in work mode or not – but Carrie thrusts out her hand and shakes forcefully, succinctly. ‘I’m thrilled to be here. Your island is stunning.’

‘Thank you, my wife will be delighted to hear it. She designed everything on it. Ella will be here in a minute or two.’

‘I can’t wait to meet her, Mr Hettich.’ She’s poised but stiff with it, increasingly so. Still not looking anywhere other than at Joe or out to sea.

‘It’s Joe or Hettich, I’ll respond to either, but no need for the mister.’

She smiles and I see the familiar shape of her face, the rise of her cheekbones, the softening of her emerald-green eyes. She’s magnetic, still. Impossible to resist.

Just like driving by a car crash on the I-95 and rubbernecking.

‘Joe,’ she says, nodding once.

‘Let me introduce you to Alisha,’ Joe says. ‘And you already know my CFO, Luke.’

Now, I feel her intentionally avoiding me, her cheeks flushing, her eyes laser-focused on Alisha, as she says tightly, ‘Really nice to meet you,’ and shakes her hand.

I think I’ve stopped breathing. Not to be melodramatic or anything but I might genuinely be experiencing the initial stages of a cardiac arrest as I wait for what I know is coming.

To anyone else, the way Carrie’s chest stutters with her next inhalation might go unnoticed, but I remember everything about her body and the way it reacts. I see it. I see her.

Yet I’m still unprepared for the moment our eyes lock on to each other’s. Still taken aback by hearing my name leave her soft, full, fucking annoyingly kissable lips.

‘Luke.’

She holds out a hand and I forget I’m holding a drink in mine as I thrust my Painkiller at her, splashing it over her outfit and somehow losing my grip of everything, as the glass shatters on the decking, the drink soaking my pants in the process.

‘Shit, sorry. I— Can somebody help?’ I ask.

Am I going to drop something every goddamn time I see her?

Monique appears from out of nowhere with a rag for the white tiles and another for Carrie’s clothes.

Fuck . If I was nervous before…

I see her jaw roll before she tells me, ‘Don’t worry about it. Clothes can be dry-cleaned.’

In her firm tone, I hear her meaning. Stains can be erased from clothes. Our history can’t be overcome so easily.

Her scathing look hits me like a proverbial slap across the face. It’s a look that reminds me that she blocked me . That she didn’t return my calls, my endless emails, my texts, my letters that were returned unread. She left no room for a second chance; she didn’t leave the door open for us to stay in touch, be friends. Even if platonically, I’d have taken it.

I feel my eyes narrow. All the pain. All the hurt.

No . She doesn’t have the right to be pissed at me.

She’s damn right history can’t be erased.

I loathe this woman.