He took a deep breath, letting the feeling of the place settle over him. Sunshine, salt-tinged breeze, the distant murmur of the ocean: If this were a real vacation, it was the moment he’d know he had arrived at his destination, with nothing but relaxation ahead. But if he’d learned anything last night, it was that he couldn’t afford to let his guard down—least of all around Lillibet.
Jefferson could mostly forgive himself for the beach, when he hadn’t known better than to be dazzled. Some of the blame for yesterday evening could be laid at the feet of jet lag and tequila fumes. Today he needed to keep his head on straight. Fade into the background and pay a lot less attention to their hostess.
The spoon dipped into the soft flesh of the papaya as if he were scooping ice cream. Jefferson’s experience of tropical fruit was mostly of the canned variety, so the flavor ambushed him, impossibly mild and sweet, with a hint of tang from the citrus. It was rich but also delicate, almost perfumed. A perfect summer peach dripping with juice came close, but the difference between this papaya and the grocery store fruit Jefferson typically brought home—the mealy apples and bland bananas—was like comparing homemade pie to a goop-filled lump from a vending machine.
“Are you in love?” Hildy asked, pulling out the chair next to his.
Jefferson swallowed before he choked.
“With the papaya.” She slapped him on the back, sounding even more pleased with herself than usual. “Because your face got kind of dreamy, by Jefferson Jones standards. Like you were thinking about having an emotion.”
“I was enjoying a quiet breakfast.”
“Poor baby. Hermit time is over.” She had her own plate, with several other types of fruit, including a tiny banana, next to her papaya half. He watched her take the first bite.
“That is so freaking good. Did you try the mango?” Hildy transferred a slice to his plate. “No offense to everyone I’ve ever dated, but it’s better than sex.”
“I’ll have to tell my grandmother,” Keoki said, setting a carafe and two mugs on the table. “Not the sex part.” He pulled a sugar shaker from the pocket of his apron, placing it next to the mugs, before reaching back in for spoons. “It’s from her tree. I’ll be right back with coconut yogurt.”
After he disappeared into the kitchen, the sliding glass doors to the living room opened. Jefferson made a conscious effort to slow his spiking pulse before looking up.
It wasn’t Lillibet.
Her housekeeper slouched onto the lawn, one hand to her temple. What he could see of her face around the dark glasses was pale.
“Ouch,” Hildy murmured, watching her cross the grass to join them. “Looks like somebody has a tequil-er headache. That’s one thing spring break in Cabo will teach you. Check yourself before you get wrecked.”
Mrs.—the last name escaped Jefferson; McGillicuddy, maybe?—collapsed into a chair, sliding down until her head came to rest against the back of the seat.
“Coffee,” she rasped. Jefferson hadn’t touched his, so he slid the mug over. “Do you have any pain pills?”
Hildy rummaged in her bag, pulling out a travel-size metalcontainer of Advil. “Would you like some fruit?” she asked the new arrival, watching her wash two tablets down with coffee.
“Ugh, no.” The hungover housekeeper gulped more coffee. “Where’s Keoki? We need a bell.”
Jefferson held up the carafe, refilling her mug when she set it down.
“That’s better,” she said halfway through the second cup. “A wee bit better.”
Her accent wasn’t quite as strong this morning. Jefferson had once worked with a Hungarian photographer who reacted to alcohol the same way, his otherwise precise English twisting into borderline incomprehensibility after he’d had a few.
“Will Lillibet be joining us?” Hildy asked. “I know she likes to meditate first, to start the energy flowing from the inside. And she prefers not to rely on artificial stimulants.” She sighed at the mug cradled in her hands. “I tried switching to juice, but it’s not the same. I need coffee to wake up enough to make the juice.”
“Sure, an’ he’ll make it fer ya.” The housekeeper nodded at Keoki, who had emerged from the kitchen with a tray bearing yogurt and bowls.
“Make what?” he asked. “French toast? Omelet? Soufflé?”
“Juice us up some o’ that kale and ginger. Like Lillibet likes.”
He scowled as if she’d asked him to flambé roadkill. “I only cook real food. She needs eggs and Portuguese sausage. Safer for everyone,” he muttered, heading back to the house with his empty tray.
“I’ll have some as well,” the housekeeper called after him. “He dotes on her,” she confided to Hildy and Jefferson.
“I can tell.” Hildy shot Jefferson a knowing look.
“Aloha and guten morgen.” Their host, dressed in another suit, waved from the steps leading down from the porch, as if to make sure everyone watched his approach. He stopped behindan empty chair, scanning the table several times before settling his attention on the housekeeper.
“Where is my charmingwifethis morning?” He seemed to take pleasure in saying the word, though the extra emphasis wasn’t enough to get the housekeeper’s attention. She stared into her cup, ignoring his existence.
