Chapter Eighteen - Weston
I realize she’s been wearing skimpy clothes all day, but goddamn. I can’t take my eyes off Tori in this towel. She looks the way she did when we took that trip. That honeymoon practice trip. That’s what I called it. I made reservations for that resort on Great Exuma Island and we spent a week just acting like we were the only two people in the world. Like honeymooners.
I turned her into Naked Woman that week. Two of those days we rented a sailboat and just took our clothes off and acted primal as we cruised around all the different cays.
It was probably the best two days in my life.
There is a nice collection of guns. Four AK-47’s, two AR-15’s—I lean in to get a better look at the pistols and see a .45, a 9mm, and a little .380.
“Why do you think this is here?” Tori asks as I notice a stash of tactical knives. I pick up one, unsheathe it from the nylon case, and find a serrated blade.
“Hunting. Probably.”
“What do you hunt on a deserted island?” Tori asks, annoyed with my answer.
I want to say, People. But I don’t want to freak her out. So instead I say, “Sharks.”
“Sharks?” she asks, as I put the knife back and pick up another one, which does not have a serrated edge to it. “Nobody hunts sharks with guns, West.”
I shrug. “I’m sure there’s lots of people who hunt sharks with guns.”
“OK, whatever. Is this weird?” she asks. “That we have ended up on an island with a closet full of guns?”
Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. “Nope,” I say, taking the two knives and closing the closet door back up. “I think whoever owns this place is…” I search for the lie I need. “Some kind of survivalist. This is probably like, a cache, you know? A place some paranoid freak might bring his family if the shit ever hit the fan. Probably some nerdy accountant by day and zombie apocalypse prepper by night.”
“So it’s not weird that we’re here?” Tori isn’t buying it.
“It was a mistake,” I say, walking back to the kitchen to get back to the food. “That pilot probably dropped us off at the wrong cay. In fact,” I say, looking out the window and pointing to the many scattered islands, “I bet Wallace Arlington is probably somewhere within a five-mile radius. I bet he’s on another island and we’re so close to him, we’d be able to smell his money if there wasn’t so much wind.”
Victoria follows me into the kitchen and plants a hand on her hip.
She’s not buying it, Weston. Say something. Quick. “We’re gonna laugh about this when we get back to Miami, don’t you think? We’ll probably still be laughing about this in ten years.”
“I don’t think it’s funny. In fact, it’s all very unusual. We get dropped off at the wrong cay on the same day a huge storm is supposed to blow in? Our pilot had to know the storm was coming, right? That’s things pilots look into when they’re flying around in a tiny, unsafe place in the middle of hurricane season.”
“It’s really… the end,” I say. “Of hurricane season.”
Victoria ignores that. “And then we get here to find this little house with some kind of power grid and a closet filled with weapons. And you expect me to believe that this is just overzealous preparation by a pencil-pushing family man?” She has one of those, OK, buddy looks on her face. “Really?”
I smile sheepishly. “Yes?”
“And it’s not the end of hurricane season, we’re dead smack in the middle of it—about to go into the most active part, actually. I might not be some kind of weather expert, but we have beaches in Brooklyn, West.”
“Don’t overreact, Victoria. We’re only gonna be here a day.”
I know what I’m doing. And I know what effect the word ‘overreact’ does to her. But it’s all I’ve got left.
“I’m not taking your bait,” she says. “And I know you well enough to see your mind working. What aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you want me to say? Huh? I don’t know who owns this island. I don’t know why there’s a closet filled with guns. I don’t know why this house is here with a rain-catching cistern and solar panels on the roof. But it’s an island in the middle of one of the most beautiful places on Earth. The Exumas are nothing but a playground for the rich, Tori. Rich people get bored and do weird shit like this. But I do know that you often overreact. And I do know that I’m not the least bit interested in dealing with one of those overreactions while we’re stuck here. So you can wonder about all this all you want. I’m going to make dinner.”
She walks away with a huff and I take my attention back to the lobsters. “I’m fucking hungry. I only got two, which means we only have food for one night. And if the storm gets bigger before it’s over, then tomorrow I’m going to have to go fishing again.”
Victoria says nothing. Just picks up all our wet clothes and starts hanging them over the chairs pushed up to the breakfast bar. “At least your pants are dry.”
“And you have your scrap of a skirt.”
“A lot of good that does me. Unless I want to go topless.”
I shoot her a grin and a wink.
She doesn’t grin back.
“Tori,” I say, filling the pot up with water again.
“What?” she says, looking out the window at the purple clouds.
“Don’t worry. We’re fine.”
She nods, but doesn’t look at me. And I know her well enough to understand what that means. She doesn’t believe me.
I’d give her more reassurance if I really thought we were fine.
But I don’t.
We’re fucked.