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“Ms. Crawford!”
Feeling guilty for no reason, my head jerked up. The captain smiled and waved. “The shuttle is ready to leave.”
I stuffed the newspaper into my tote and climbed down the stairs. I definitely wanted to know more about Diana Harden. A single woman going missing at an exclusive resort in the Caribbean? A chill ran down my spine remembering Doug’s genuine concern that I was here alone.
Was Diana on St. Claire alone as well? Did Doug know more about her disappearance than he had said? Was my fantasy that Diana had gone off for a weekend of sun and sex about to be shattered?
Or maybe she did something stupid like hang glide off a cliff and drown in the ocean.
“Stop,” I whispered. My overactive imagination had kicked into high gear.
Maybe she ran away from an abusive spouse, like inSleeping with the Enemy. Or faked her own death à laGone Girl. Perhaps she was an heiress, kidnapped for ransom. Or the victim of a serial killer who stalked rich tourists on remote islands.
At that moment, I was glad I wasn’t rich.
The more likely story? Something completely innocuous, like she lost her cell phone. Or she was robbed. Or got drunk, fell off the dock, and was in a coma at the hospital.
Still, curiosity piqued, I was determined to learn more, starting with devouring this article—and anything I could find online about Diana Harden—as soon as I checked in to my room.
Chapter Two
“Push your boundaries, that’s what they’re there for.”
—Colleen Hoover,Slammed
When Stuart Cohn had handed me the brochure on St. Claire last month and said this was where they were sending me for R & R, the images were pretty enough. Blue ocean, green mountain, hidden waterfall, large, opulent rooms—each with a view of the water through wall-sized glass doors that opened onto a balcony or the beach. Private Jacuzzis, a pool that appeared to bleed into the ocean, beach volleyball, private cabanas, colorful umbrellas, palm trees, and flowering bushes taller than a man.
The printed photos had no dimension, though. Words were just words when you had no experience to give them life.
I felt like a tourist in New York, looking up and gawking at the simple majesty that was the St. Claire Resort, standing in the middle of the open lobby filled with more plants than people. Trees grew three stories to the skylights, some of which were open. Small, colorful birds flew inside and out, happily calling to each other—perhaps recognizing the luck of the draw being hatched in paradise. A waterfall seemed to come from nowhere out of the ceiling, cascading down rocks into a large pond filled with koi.
Every breath was a new experience. Jasmine and hibiscusand a hint of something I couldn’t place. Underneath the floral was the heavier scent of moist soil, then the fruity aromas of coconut and pineapple. I closed my eyes and wished for all the people to disappear so it was me and maybe a super-hot lifeguard with magic fingers who knew how to cook. Maybe that’s why everyone called the Caribbean paradise. I wasn’t simply on vacation; I had become a part of the island itself.
Unrealistic. All of it. What hot lifeguard would want me, Mia Crawford, who had to control everything and everyone for fear that something would go wrong? You know the phrase if you want it done right, do it yourself? My picture is plastered next to it. Letting someone else make decisions felt like I was on a roller coaster with no seat belt. Maybe that’s why I felt so out-of-sorts coming to St. Claire—the decision wasn’t really mine.
I wandered through the main building, in no rush to check in. Wide hallways, floors of large terra-cotta tile, potted ferns, and still more birds chirping. A pair of bright blue lovebirds perched on a branch above me as I strolled through the main hall. For a minute I thought they were fake, like in Disneyland’s Tiki Room. Then they flew across the hall to another tree, where they looked down on me and chattered. The sounds of nature—birds, ocean, waterfall—replaced the need for music.
Enchanting.
Nooks abounded. A bench here, a comfy chair there, a café that oozed rich coffee and sweet pastries where a foursome—an older couple and a much younger couple—sat chatting. A family vacation? Grandparents taking their favorite grandchild and spouse on a special trip? Or did they just meet and hit it off, a multigenerational friendship? I pictured coming here with Grams. She would have loved everything about the island. Grams had genuine joy. Sometimes, I wished I’d inherited that trait.
“Remember, drinks later,” a voice said. I jumped, then grinned when I saw David and Doug standing next to me.
“Yes,” I said. “Here?” I waved to the bar next to the waterfall.
Doug linked his arm with David’s and said, “Tonight, the Sky Bar, top of the mountain.” He motioned toward a sign that listed times the shuttle left for the Sky Bar each night. “You’ll love it. A buffettodie for, music, and the most exquisite sunset you will ever see. You’re coming.”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling out of place. They were so friendly and seemed so genuine that I didn’t want to decline, but I didn’t want to intrude on their anniversary either.
“Youare,” Doug said.
“I’ll try,” I said. “Thank you.”
An attractive forty-something man, lean and fit with black hair graying on the sides and dark blue eyes, approached us. “David?”
He smiled when David turned to him. “I thought it was you.”
“Andrew, great to see you again.” They shook hands, and David said, “You remember my husband, Doug?”