Chapter 38
The next morning, Keston’s friend Alex picks us up early to drive us to the airport to collect Mikah.
The two men discuss everything from fishing to golf. I’m glad to see Keston is back to his cheerful self after the night we had.
I’m dying to get Alex alone to ask him about Kelley. I don’t get my chance until we reach the airport and Keston stops to chat with one of his old classmates.
“Oh, you met Kelley Harris Kips?” Alex says when I bring it up. “Don’t call him Keston’s brother. He’ll get angry.”
“But they have the same last name. They’re related, right?”
Alex nods in a noncommittal way.
“What do you know about Kelley?”
Alex scratches his head. “Not a lot. He didn’t go to school with us. He’s . . . I don’t know how Americans say it . . . umm, like he’s special.”
“He’s special?”
“Here, we say he’s a bit off.” Alex touches his head and spins a finger in a circle.
I smack down his hand. “That’s not nice.”
“He’s smart. He’s just not normal. I don’t know what you call that.”
“I think you’re saying Kelley is on the spectrum.”
“Yeah, that’s it. He’s special.”
I mull that over. That could explain the slightly off-kilter way he has of moving and speaking. Or that could just be his unique personality.
And then the way he ignored Keston and focused on me. Like he had tunnel vision.
But regardless of whether Kelley Harris Kips is on the spectrum, he has something to give me, and I bet it’s the other diary.
“Are they related?” I ask again. “It seems as if they must be. Kelley told me he and Keston are brothers.”
I don’t mention that Kelley has no reason to lie to me. But Keston has every reason to.
Alex hoots. “You better ask Keston. It’s his story to tell.”
“Shoot. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about what?” asks Keston, hugging me from behind.
At that moment, Mikah emerges from the glass doors, her long legs striking in a hot pink mini dress.
I hurry over to her.
“Where in the world do you think you’re going?” I hug my friend tightly.
“I just came from a party, dearie. No sleep for the wicked.”
“Thank you for coming.” I hug her again just to make sure she’s here.
“Oh, praise the Lord. There is a heaven.” Alex swoons in front of Mikah. “Welcome to St. Nicholas.”
While Mikah is getting a proper St. Nicholas Island greeting from Alex, which includes a cold beer at nine o’clock in the morning, Keston greets Mikah with a hug and a kiss on her cheek.
“I feel as if I already know you,” he says.
“Same,” she says.
A smile grows on his handsome face.
I look at him as if I’m Mikah meeting him for the first time. I would be swooning for sure.
“So, you’re going to be my future brother-in-law,” Mikah teases.
Keston does not hesitate. “I am.”
I blush.
Alex clears his throat. “And I’m available to drive you anywhere you wish to go for as long as you’re here.”
I raise my eyebrows at Keston. “That’s news to me.”
“Go with it,” he laughs. He tries to grab Mikah’s carry-on bag, but Alex gets to it first.
“Thank you, Alex,” Mikah purrs. “Boy, they make them big and brawny here.” She squeezes one of Alex’s biceps and his eyes bug out.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I forgot how it is with Mikah. She gets all the attention and the rest of us follow in her wake.
Keston smacks my butt as we walk to the car. “How am I doing?”
I laugh. “I think you passed.”
After dropping us off at my villa, Keston heads to the beach bar for his shift. Alex, who is an a/c man with his own business, offers to hang around but Keston peels him away.
“Let the women catch up.”
I mouth “thank you,” to Keston.
When we’re finally alone, Mikah fans herself with her hand. “Wooza, CJ. That man is a beast.”
I frown. “What?”
“Your man Keston. Body for days! Charm to boot. And you said he’s smart, too. I’ve been looking for a man like him for a long time. No wonder his ex is still hanging around.”
“Thanks?”
She bats very long fake eyelashes at me. “Good thing we’re besties.”
“Good thing,” I agree. For sure I wouldn’t stand a chance if Mikah decided to go after Keston. She pulls men with her looks alone. Add her flirtatious attitude and game over.
After strolling around the villa, ordering room service, and popping open a bottle of bubbly, Mikah yawns and says, “Okay, bring me up to date. I want the facts only. No commentary. Start with what you know for sure.”
Mikah’s long legs are propped up on the sofa. Her long hair is pulled back in a loose messy bun. As soon as the men left, she’d showered and changed from her hot pink mini to her “casual” wear; an all-in-one shorts body suit that hugs her every dip and curve, and gold strappy sandals.
For most people the ensemble would scream “trying too hard.” On Mikah it’s more, “I’m not trying at all.”
I stare at my friend. “Who taught you to talk like a . . . spy?”
She laughs languidly. “No, darling. It’s what I tell all the designers when I show up for a shoot or a call. People like to waste time. I don’t.”
“You got us all fooled, Mik.”
“I know. It’s what I do.”
“Remember when you told us that you were majoring in marine biology so you could wear a swimsuit to work?” I sip my glass of bubbly. It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning but I’m feeling relaxed, even festive, now that I have one of my loyal wingwomen by my side.
Mikah laughs. “And you all believed me!”
“And now you do get to wear a swimsuit to work.”
She screws up her nose. “But I have my degree.”
“That you do.” We click glasses together. “Here’s to college life.”
“Here’s to finding true love,” Mikah says seriously. “I want some of what you got.”
“It’s not all rainbow and butterflies,” I remark, remembering my and Keston’s blowout the night before. “Sometimes you have to . . . umm.”
“Beat their ass?”
“What?” I spit out champagne on the white sofa and instantly mop it up with the edge of my t-shirt. “Mikah!”
Just saying, “Got to keep ‘em in line, right?”
“The Lord alone knows the kind of men you date.”
She pouts. “That’s the problem. I don’t date. Hardly ever.”
“What are you talking about? You’re always with a new guy.”
“Emphasis on ‘new.’ I’d like to find a keeper.” She sighs.
I study my drop-dead gorgeous friend. Usually, we ignore Mikah’s laments about men, dating, and romance, because her comments are so outlandish.
But now, I wonder if her pretend jealousy at Katana’s married-with-children-lifestyle is real. Something to consider.
The morning whirls by between drinks, room service salads, and me relaying all the important information, sticking to the facts.
When I’m done, Mikah tells me to try on some of her clothing. She unzips her carry-on. Brightly colored silky fabrics burst out.
Shimmering greens and misty pinks. Startling fuchsia and dreamy blues.
“Wow! You brought so many clothes. Did you remember my Nespresso
machine?”
She flicks a long finger at her shoulder bag. “I managed to squeeze it in there.
Lighter than I thought.”
“Thank you so much.” I dive for her bag and extract my precious machine. I’m
ready to hook it up and start getting highly caffeinated.
Mikah stops me. “All the clothes are for you too. You’ve been looking like a hobbit lately.”
I glare. “Jeans and a tank top and sneakers are not hobbit clothes. They are good and practical. Besides I have a sundress . . . but a donkey wears it.”
Mikah doesn’t bat an eyelash. Instead, her tone softens. “You’re not going to get stranded on an island again, CJ. You can wear a cute sundress or a sexy beach outfit once in a while.”
My body tenses up at the idea of trading my safe clothing for impractical ones. “Maybe later,” I say.
“Maybe now!” Mikah throws me an outfit. “Go change.”
When I’m done, Mikah claps. “Look at you all Pretty Womanish!”
I spin around in front of the full-length mirror. The light rose-colored vintage sundress with a floaty skirt and a boat neck collar is darling. Like what I used to wear.
My legs feel tingly and happy as if I’ve freed them from a denim prison.
“Okay,” I grouse. “I’ll wear it.”
Part of me is excited to see what Keston thinks. It’s crazy how traumatic events can change you to your core. Even the way you dress. Maybe wearing clothes that I used to love is one way to practice healing.
I do a quick twirl before sliding into the golf cart.
“CJ is back.” My subconscious whispers. I roll my eyes at my subconscious, for no other reason than it can’t object.
“Give me the grand tour of your beautiful St. Nicholas,” Mikah says, sliding in next to me. She props her feet up on the golf cart’s console and drops her dark sunglasses over her eyes. My inadequacy pops up like a whack-a-mole.
Even in my pretty dress, I feel like a chauffeur driving a movie star. There are some feelings that can’t be remedied by new clothes.
“Well, over here is the garden. And over there is the beach,” I say, as I turn the key and the mini engine roars to life.
“Take the slow road,” Mikah says, totally missing my sarcasm. “I need to go over the facts.”
I chug along, my eyes on the cloudy sky. The sun has been slipping in and out from behind the dark canopy all morning. A storm is brewing on the horizon. The word “storm” scares me although I try not to show it.
I google the weather report twice a day just to stay abreast of sudden changes in the atmosphere. A tornado, a hurricane, a sea witch, anything unusual.
“Let’s see,” Mikah ticks off her fingers as I stay on the pathway between the manicured bushes and trees. “You have a man named Kelley who is a loose cannon, and who may or may not be Keston’s brother, or some other relative, and he has something to give you.”
“Right.”
“You found an old diary that may have belonged to Keston’s ancestor. It mentions a buried treasure.”
I nod vigorously. “And true love.”
“Commentary,” Mikah shakes her head.
“No,” I argue. “It’s a fact.”
Mikah taps her sparkly fingernails on the top of the golf cart. “Irrelevant fact then.”
“Love is never irrelevant,” I mutter.
Mikah ignores me. “You also have an anonymous caller who says you have something she wants.”
“I don’t know if it’s a woman.”
“It’s a woman. A man would tell you he’s coming for it.”
“Oh, okay.” I side-eye Mikah. “Are you sure you’re not a spy disguised as a supermodel?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
“Fine. I don’t want to know.”
I think back to Mikah’s work trips over the past twenty years. Some in international locations you wouldn’t think had fashion shows. Plus, there’s her shrewdness. The men she’s been with. The times she’s disappeared. Her ability to seem like a bimbo while being the sharpest person in a room.
“What did you get your degree in again?” I ask casually.
“We’re being followed.”
“What?” I slam on the brakes. Not that we were going very fast. One of Mikah’s arms shoots out to protect me from hitting the steering wheel.
“You want me to drive chickadee?”
“Sure. Did you say we’re being followed?”
She slides over to my seat and presses on the accelerator. “Let’s see what this baby can do.”
“Not much,” I mutter.
Spoken too soon, Mikah somehow gets the cart to reach max speeds of at least fifteen miles per hour. She zooms along the pathways knocking over a few bushes.
“What’re you doing?” I squeal.
“Losing our tail.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I don’t joke about being followed. It’s my biggest pet peeve.”
I stare at my glamorous friend, in her slinky all-in-one bodysuit, cute vest, and strappy sandals.
“Who are you?”
“Duck.”
I duck my head as Mikah drives the golf cart under a low-hanging branch very fast.
“Does Katana know about you?” I shout.
“Know what?”
“Your secret occupation as a spy?”
Mikah laughs. “She’s the only one who knows.” She drives the cart along the edge of the riverbank that flows to the sea.
I blink. “I was joking.”
No response. “We may have to ditch this buggy.”
I glance over my shoulder. “I don’t see anyone.”
At that moment, a loud thud hits the top of our cart. I scream and duck for cover.
Mikah chuckles. “It’s only a coconut.” Her lack of surprise is most worrying.
“How do you know that?”
She shrugs. “This is not my first time in the tropics. Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ve lost the tail.”
“What tail?” I plead.
She hot rods the golf cart through the gardens again. “This is cute. Maybe with a solar charge, it can . . . .”
“We’re here,” I interrupt her assessment of the golf cart, relieved to see Keston’s sexy smile and Dex’s warm one.
I put a hand on Mikah’s arm.
“Is it true? Did I guess a secret you’ve been keeping from our friend group for twenty years? Are you an international spy?” Just saying it out loud, I hear how ridiculous it sounds.
In a somber vein, she says, “Do you know how many women are spies? A lot of housewives and . . . models. The people most of society overlook as clueless.”
My mouth drops open. “That makes a perverse kind of sense.”
“Besides,” she says, catching my eye. “You’re not the only one with a twenty-year old secret.”
I shut up. I hadn’t told any of my friends I was pregnant and had a baby in college that I gave up for adoption until a few months ago. They’ve all said they understand. But I still feel guilty about it.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Mikah urges, and she’s not the urgent type.
I do a cutting-my-throat-with-a-knife gesture. “Or else?”
“Exactly,” says Mikah. “Now let’s go hang out with your lovely boyfriend. See what he’s got on tap.”
I sit for a moment digesting the shocking news. Adding it to all the other revelations I’ve had recently.
My friend is a spy. My boyfriend has a secret desire to kill a man who may be his brother. His ancestor is a pirate king with a hidden treasure. Or two. Not to mention someone is following me and calling anonymously with veiled threats. Did I leave out anything?
As if reading my mind, Tabitha St. Clair goes strolling by, laptop under her arm and a cheery wave for my man at the bar.
Oh yeah, I forgot the ex.