Yes; yes, they did.
Would the family of Russell Steele find out about Rosie?
Yes; yes, they would.
It was one of the taxi drivers, Chauncey, who witnessed a determined-looking woman marching down the National Park Service dock calling for Captain Sam Powers (we all know him as Huck), LeeAnn’s devoted second husband and Rosie’s stepfather, and then talking herself right onto Huck’s boat, the Mississippi. Chauncey remembers whistling under his breath because he had seen women on a rampage like that before and they always got what they were after.
The two sons appeared out and about in Cruz Bay, going to the usual places tourists go—La Tapa to enjoy the mussels, High Tide for happy hour. We saw these young men (one tall and clean-cut with a dimple, one stocky with bushy blond hair) in the company of two young women we were all very fond of (charming and lovely Ayers Wilson, who had been Rosie’s best friend, and Tilda Payne, whose parents owned a villa in exclusive Peter Bay), and that set us speculating, even though we knew that beautiful young people find one another no matter what the circumstances.
When we learned that one of the sons, Baker Steele, took his child on a tour of the Gifft Hill School and that the other son, Cash Steele, had joined the crew of Treasure Island, we began to wonder: Were they staying?
When we discovered that the Invisible Man’s wife, Irene Steele, was working as the first mate on Huck’s fishing boat, we thought: What exactly is going on?
We couldn’t run into one another at Pine Peace Market or in line at the post office without asking in a whisper: You heard anything new?
Sadie, out in Coral Bay, was the one who learned that the FBI had come looking for Paulette and Douglas Vickers, but Paulette and Douglas had taken their six-year-old son, Windsor, and fled by the time the FBI arrived. They went to St. Croix to hide out with Douglas’s sister in Frederiksted. Did one of us tell the FBI where they were? No one knew for sure, but Paulette and Douglas were arrested the very next day.
We’d barely had time to recover from this shocking news when the FBI sent agents in four black cars along the North Shore Road to whatever secluded villa Russell Steele owned to inform Irene Steele that the villa and the entire hundred-and-forty-acre parcel we called Little Cinnamon was now the property of the U.S. government, since it had been purchased with dirty money.
Whew! We woke up the next morning feeling like we had gorged ourselves. We were plump with gossip. It was, almost, too much.
We feel compelled to mention that this kind of scandal isn’t typical of life here in the Virgin Islands.
What is typical?
“Good morning,” “Good afternoon,” or “Good evening” at the start of every conversation.
Sunshine, sometimes alternating with a soaking rain.
Wild donkeys on the Centerline Road.
Sunburned tourists spilling out of Woody’s during happy hour.
Silver hook bracelets.
Hills.
Swaying palm trees and sunsets.
Hikers in floppy hats.
Rental Jeeps.
Turtles in Salt Pond Bay.
Full-moon parties at Miss Lucy’s.
Mosquitoes in Maho Bay.
Iguanas.
Long lines at the Starfish Market (bring your own bags).
Cruise-ship crowds on the beach at Trunk Bay.
Steel-drum music and Chester’s johnnycakes.
Snorkelers, whom we fondly call “one-horned buttfish.”
Driving on the left.
Nutmeg sprinkled on painkillers (the drink).
Captain Stephen playing the guitar on the Singing Dog.
Eight Tuff Miles, ending at Skinny Legs.
A smile from Slim Man, who owns the parking lot downtown.
Nude sunbathers on Salomon Bay.
Rum punches and Kenny Chesney.
Afternoon trade winds.
Chickens everywhere.
St. John has no traffic lights, no chain stores, no fast-food restaurants, and no nightclubs, unless you count the Beach Bar, where you can dance to Miss Fairchild and the Wheeland Brothers in the sand. St. John is quiet, authentic, unspoiled.
Some people go so far as to call our island “paradise.”
But, we quickly remind them, even paradise has its troubles. Irene
Cigarette smoke. Bacon grease. Something that smells like three-day-old fish.
Irene opens her eyes. Where is she?
There’s a blue windowpane-print bedsheet covering her. She’s on a couch. Her neck complains as she turns her head. There’s a kitchen, and on the counter, a bottle of eighteen-year-old Flor de Caña.
Huck’s house.
Irene sits up, brings her bare feet to the wood floor. A suitcase with everything she owns in the world is open on the coffee table.
She hears heavy footsteps and then: “Good morning, Angler Cupcake, how about some coffee?”
She drops her face into her hands. How can Huck be thinking about coffee? Irene’s life is…over. This time yesterday she’d been steady and stable, which was no small feat considering only a little over a month has passed since her husband, Russell Steele, was killed in a helicopter crash and Irene, who’d believed Russ was in Florida playing golf and schmoozing with clients, discovered that Russ had a secret life down here in the Virgin Islands complete with mistress, love child, and a fifteen-million-dollar villa. Irene handled that news pretty damn well, if she does say so herself. Another woman might have had a nervous breakdown. Another woman might have set the villa on fire or taken out a full-page ad in the local paper (in Irene’s case, the Iowa City Press-Citizen) announcing her husband’s treachery. But Irene adapted to the shocking circumstances. She found that she liked the Virgin Islands so much that she’s returned here to live—maybe not forever, but for a little while, so she can catch her breath and regroup. Just yesterday she was looking around Russ’s villa, thinking how she would redecorate it, how she might turn it into an inn for women like herself who had survived cataclysmic life changes.
Just last night, Irene
