Day 2
I wake up with every intention to enjoy this honeymoon. While I think mortal terror is a totally reasonable reaction to nearly becoming the lead story on the evening news, part of me feels bad that Tucker put so much effort into planning this trip, only to have it all practically blow up in his face. Now it’s time to put our near-death experience out of my mind and take advantage of our time away. The house is gorgeous, the weather is perfect, and we don’t have a single responsibility but to get a good tan.
So when Tucker first stirs, stretching through the morning grogginess, I make a peace offering. He moans when I slip my hand under the sheets to cup his balls and stroke his growing erection.
“G’morning, darlin.’”
“Morning,” I answer sweetly.
Then I slide down to wrap my lips around the head of his cock, licking the tip.
“Ah, I love your mouth,” he says, tangling his fingers in my hair.
I suck him deep, stroking and licking and squeezing until he’s thrusting his hips and fisting my hair. It doesn’t take long to get him there, and once he recovers, he returns the favor, which leads to skinny-dipping in the suite’s private plunge pool, shrouded within the lush vegetation that surrounds the house and affords us complete privacy. There’s an actual coconut grove separating us from the nearest neighbors, who are not even close to within earshot of the massive estate.
After toweling off and getting dressed for the day, we amble off to the kitchen to make breakfast. But the second we enter the enormous room, I scream bloody murder.
“What! What is it!” Tucker, whose head was bent over his phone, immediately snaps into fight mode. His long, muscular body gets into a defensive pose as he wildly looks around, ready to protect me from danger.
Without a word, I point to the counter.
His face pales. “No. Unacceptable,” he growls.
I feel honest-to-God tears well up in my eyes. “How is he here?”
We stand frozen, staring at Alexander, who’s propped up against a basket of fresh pineapple. The housekeeper must have brought him, I realize. But why? Why would she do this to us? My distrustful gaze sweeps over the doll’s eerie white face and that tiny red mouth, lips pursed in a creepy smirk as if he’s harboring a sick secret.
I’m half a second away from channeling my daughter and throwing an epic tantrum when a short woman with dark hair suddenly appears. Wearing a pink pastel tee and white slacks, she comes rushing into the kitchen, her face creased with concern.
“What has happened? Everybody is all right?” Her voice is heavily accented, but I can’t place it. Most of the people we’d spoken to on the other island sounded French, but this woman’s accent isn’t quite that.
“Yes, we’re fine,” Tucker answers. “Sorry if we scared you. You must be Isa?”
She nods warily.
“I’m Tucker, and this is my wife, Sabrina. Thank you for bringing us pineapple! It looks delicious.” His gaze flicks toward the doll. “Um. Any idea how this thing got in here?”
Isa looks confused. “The doll? I bring him. Mister Dean said it was wedding present. He said it is a, what is the word, collector toy? You want me to take away?”
It requires every ounce of willpower not to pick up Alexander and smash his porcelain face against the side of the counter. But poor Isa already looks shaken up, and I don’t want her thinking she just brought fresh pineapple for lunatics. It’s not her fault. She was unknowingly doing the devil’s work, and I can’t be angry at her.
Tucker reads my mind. And since it’s programmed in his DNA to rescue a lady in distress, he flashes a warm, reassuring smile. “No, no, you can leave him here,” he tells Isa. “We were caught off guard, but don’t worry, it’s fine. Just a little joke between us and Mister Dean.”
A joke? Yeah right. There is nothing even remotely comical about the spirit of a dead Gold Rush boy trapped inside a weird doll. I still can’t believe Dean actually thought my sweet innocent daughter would like that dreadful thing. She was only eighteen months at the time. Who does that to a baby? Who does that to grown adults?
I take a breath. No. I refuse to let Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis ruin my honeymoon.
I paste on a reassuring smile and direct it at the shaken housekeeper. “Thank you so much for dropping off the fruit and the newspapers. That was very thoughtful.”
“I go to boat now.”
She still looks unsure, so Tucker once again casts his aw-shucks Texas-boy smile and drawls, “I’ll walk you out. By the way, I love your accent. I take it you live on the Dutch side of St. Maarten?”
Dutch. That’s it. I forgot our neighboring island has a French side and a Dutch one, each one offering two distinct cultures.
Isa relaxes. “Yes, I do.”
“Born and raised? Or did you emigrate from somewhere else?”
He’s still chatting with her as they disappear out the front door.
Leaving me alone with Alexander.
I try not to shudder. Why is he wearing red shoes? And why are they so shiny? I hate him.
“I hate you,” I tell the doll.
His blank eyes burn a hole in the very fabric of my soul. I almost expect them to blink. Logan swears he’s seen them move on their own, but the three unfortunate times I’ve been in possession of Alexander, he hadn’t done any brazen haunting.
While I wait for Tucker to return, I move Alexander from the counter—because that’s where human beings eat, dammit—to the credenza across the room.
My husband is on the phone when he returns, his features tight with annoyance. “It’s one thing to send him out of the blue on a non-occasion,” he’s saying, “but our honeymoon, dude? Have you no shame?”
“Is that Dean?” I demand. Tuck nods absently. “Put him on speaker. Now!”
Tucker swipes his finger on the screen. “You’re on speaker now. Sabrina has something to say.”
“Mrs. Tucker!” Dean’s asshole voice chirps from the phone. “Happy honeymoon!”
“Don’t you dare happy honeymoon us,” I snarl.
“Tuck says you don’t like mine and Allie’s gift. I’m hurt. Almost as hurt as I am about the fact that you didn’t give us an engagement gift.”
“You haven’t even begun to hurt.”
“Oh, come on, you two. Let’s not be hypocrites now. You’ve sent him to all of us before.”
“We weren’t sending him to you. We were sending him away from us,” Tuck says darkly.
I draw a deep breath. “Dean.”
“Yes, Sabrina?” He has the nerve to chuckle.
“This ends today, you hear me? We’ve all been complicit in this, but no more. I don’t care how much he cost. The moment we hang up, I’m taking him outside and throwing him in the ocean.”
“You can’t pollute the ocean,” Dean protests.
“Watch me.”
Then I grab the phone and end the call.
Tucker grins at me. “Are we seriously going to give the little dude a burial at sea?”
“You down?”
“Oh yeah.”
And that’s why, five minutes later, we’re carrying Alexander to the beach, only a few steps down the hill from the house. Other than a dark, somewhat-ominous cruise from St. Maarten to the dock last night, I’ve never really seen the Caribbean Sea up close before. And it’s a gazillion times better than the Atlantic. I don’t think I’ve ever seen water this transparent. You can see the bottom, for Pete’s sake. I admire the gentle waves rolling ashore and the cloudless blue sky. The sand is crisp white against the turquoise water. Man, Jamie would go completely nuts for the hermit crabs scurrying from one tiny hole to the next.
“Ready?” Tucker says.
“Do it.”
Nodding, he winds his arm back and hurls Alexander as far as he possibly can. Then we stand there holding hands, watching the doll bob in the calm waves, slowly carried out to sea.
“Go with God,” Tucker says solemnly.
“Babe. He’s going to Satan and we both know it.”
“Truth, darlin’.”
When Alexander is finally out of sight, I don’t feel grief. Only relief.
Freedom.
An hour later, we’re stuffed from breakfast and lying on a pair of beach chairs. Tuck’s on his stomach, dozing. His sculpted back glistens from the sunscreen I rubbed all over it. I’m in a red bikini with a paperback thriller in my lap, but the book starts off too slow and I can’t seem to get into it. Eventually I set it on the table between our chairs, pick up my phone instead, and FaceTime home to check in.
“Hello, little one!” I say when Jamie’s adorable face fills the screen. “Miss you. Say hi to Daddy.”
“Hi, Daddy,” she says, waving at the screen.
“Hey, little darlin’,” Tuck calls without rolling over. “You being good for Grammy?”
“Yeah.”
“You brush your teeth this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Not yet,” Tuck’s mom says in the background where she’s holding the phone up for Jamie, who’s already dressed in her bathing suit and a tulle skirt. They were getting ready to go to the neighborhood pool when I called.
“Get upstairs and brush those teeth,” Tucker tells her. “Two minutes. And don’t use too much toothpaste.”
Once Jamie bounds off, Gail assures me the house is still standing and Jamie isn’t getting a leg up on her. When she asks how we’re doing after the emergency landing, we answer in unison.
“Still shook.”
“Already forgotten about it.”
“We almost died, Tuck!” I turn to glare at him, but he’s still got his face smushed against his forearm. His auburn hair shines in the late morning sun.
“Was it that serious?” Gail sounds concerned. “I thought it was a minor mechanical thing.”
“Don’t get her started, Mom. It wasn’t that bad. Although Sabrina was about to put a handwritten will in a bottle and toss it in the ocean.”
“The entertainment system exploded,” I inform her.
“It did not.” Tucker laughs.
“Grammy! My teeth are clean and they wanna go to the pool!”
Jamie’s return signals the end of the conversation. I send a bunch of air kisses into the phone which my daughter pretends to catch and smack onto her rosy cheeks. After we hang up, I settle back on my chair, enjoying the sun beating on my face.
Down the beach a few yards, I notice a guy, maybe early thirties, carry a camera tripod onto the sand. The bizarre sight captures my interest, and I spend the next five minutes blatantly spying on the dude. After attaching an iPhone to the tripod, he proceeds to do a series of push-ups followed by modified burpees, while animatedly narrating for the camera. He’s muscular, oiled, and well-tanned. One of those perfect Instagram fitness dudes.
When he catches me staring, I can’t even muster up any embarrassment for spying. I wave hello, mesmerized by watching him perform. It’s weird, watching from the other side of the screen. Which gets me thinking about an idea for a TikTok that’s just the backside of other TikToks. A brilliant idea if I had the time or inclination to pursue such a thing. Oh well.
Beside me, Tucker lets out a groan. “Ah, I’m melting away here, darlin.’ Wanna come for a swim?”
“Sure.” I’m starting to feel the heat too.
We go down to the water and wade into the surf. The water’s warm and crystal clear straight to the sandy bottom, like the kind you only see in cruise commercials. It’s incredible.
“Did you see that?” Tucker points over my shoulder as we walk into deeper water.
Dread fills my stomach. “Oh no, is it Alexander?” I search the waves but don’t see any nineteenth century porcelain dolls floating by.
“No, something popped out of the water.”
“What, a shark?” Oh hell no. I frantically back away toward the shore, but Tucker grabs my arm.
“There it was again.” When I don’t bite, he becomes more emphatic. “Seriously. You didn’t hear the splash?”
“I know you’re full of shit.” I smack water at him.
“Why would I lie?” he insists with those big, innocent eyes. “Look, there.” He points again.
I glance over my shoulder, humoring him. The moment I do, something grazes my leg underwater. I cry out louder than my dignity likes, momentarily fearful before rounding on a laughing Tucker.
“You, asshole. I knew you were going to do that.”
“But you still fell for it.”
I smack another handful of water in his face just as he lets out a pained cry.
“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes at him. “It’s just water.”
“Fuck. Fuck.” Tucker’s tone is laced with fake suffering. “Something got me,” he grinds out.
“I’m not falling for it twice, babe.”
“No. Damn it. Something really fucking got me.”
He then darts for shore. I’m not convinced until I see him twisting around to examine the back of his leg. I slosh through the water after him, and when I get closer, I realize there’s a big red lash on his flesh, like the mark from a whip.
“I was stung,” he growls. “I think I was stung by a jellyfish.” Tucker plops down on his ass and lies back on the sand, handsome face contorting in agony. “Fuck, this hurts.”
Yeah, he’s definitely not lying. The skin is already puckered and swollen, bumps forming around the bright red marks.
“What do we do?” I blurt out. “Should I pee on it?”
Tucker jumps back into a sitting position. “What? Hell no.”
“I think I’m supposed to, aren’t I?”
“Babe, I’m not letting you pee on me. That’s not even a real thing.”
“Pretty sure it is.”
He grits his teeth, still staring at the reddish-purple wound. “Man, it hurts.”
“Oh my God, do you think this was some sort of cosmic punishment for drowning Alexander? Did Willie’s spirit get its revenge?”
Tucker thinks it over. Then he says, “No.” He glares at me. “I think I just got stung by a jellyfish.”
“What happens if we don’t do something?” I bite my lip in anguish. “I don’t think calamine lotion fixes that.”
This isn’t exactly a little bee sting. What if his whole leg puffs up like that? Do they amputate for jellyfish stings?
“I think urine is the best solution, Tuck.” I do an internal body scan and then moan. “You know, I don’t think I can,” I realize. “I don’t have to go—”
I halt when I see the fitness guy approaching us. Oh thank God. I flag him down, waving my arms. His pace quickens as he jogs toward us.
“Sabrina, no,” Tucker warns. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Everything okay?” the guy asks when he reaches us. Dark eyes sharply assess Tucker.
“Will you pee on my husband?” I ask the stranger. “He got stung by a jellyfish, but I don’t have to go.”
“Ignore her. Sabrina, I’m telling you, it’s a myth. I’ll be fine.”
But he looks like he’s on the verge of tears and at risk of cracking a tooth with how hard he’s biting down, grinding his jaw. His leg looks horrible.
“I don’t know if it’s a myth,” Fitness Guy tells him. “I mean, why would everyone say to do it if it didn’t work?”
I implore Tucker with my eyes. “Let him try.”
My husband remains stubbornly against the idea. “I’d rather you cut it off with a rusty spoon.”
“I’m not bringing you home to Mama Tucker with one leg! Do you remember how long it took her to warm up to me?” I’m practically vibrating from the stress of the situation.
Fitness Guy glances at me. “Take a breath, sweetheart. I can help him out. It’s the neighborly thing to do, right?”
Then, to my relief and Tucker’s horror, the guy begins to unbutton his cargo shorts—just as another man in a linen shirt and panama hat comes tearing up the sand.
“Bruce, what on Earth are you doing to these people?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” I assure the newcomer. “I asked him to pee on my husband’s leg. He was stung—”
Tucker groans. “I’m still emphatically against this idea, Bruce.”
“Better safe than sorry.” Bruce shrugs. He’s in the process of unzipping now. “Right?”
The new arrival takes off his hat and dabs the sweat from his forehead, biting back a laugh. “That’s an old wives’ tale. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest urine soothes a jellyfish sting or any other kind. In fact, some studies suggest it would exacerbate the pain and swelling.”
At that, Bruce zips up his shorts.
“Really? You’re just taking his word for it?” I glower at the man who betrayed me.
“Oh, for sure. Kevin is a walking encyclopedia. He reads scholarly journals for fun.”
“See?” Tucker sighs with relief. “For fuck’s sake.”
“I’m Kevin,” the man says, offering his hand to me. He appears to be older than the oiled-up Bruce, maybe in his early forties. “I apologize for him.”
“Just trying to help.” Bruce gives Tucker an apologetic smile.
“You folks visiting?” Kevin asks.
“We’re staying at the Di Laurentis house for a week,” I tell them. “Sorry to rope you into all this.” I look at Tucker. “I really was just trying to help.”
“Let us introduce ourselves properly. We’d love to have you over for dinner tomorrow night,” Kevin offers.
I smile. “That’d be great. Thank you.”
“Get him sorted out,” Kevin says with a sympathetic nod at Tucker. “Run it under a hot shower or soak in a hot tub for about twenty to forty minutes. Take some pain medication. That’s about all there is to be done for it. I’ve been stung twice, so I know the drill.”
“We will, thanks.”
“That was for the plane, wasn’t it?” Tucker accuses as I’m getting him back to the house after we leave Bruce and Kevin.
“I would never.”
“You almost let a man pee on me, Sabrina.”
“That’s how much I love you.”
