A stray thought began to gnaw at him, a vague notion that there was something wrong with Mr. Right. What was it?
It only took a moment. It's so obvious, Steve thought, all the while realizing that his powers of reasoning might be tainted by jealousy, envy, and fear.
The son-of-a-bitch is just too good to be true.
Which meant that he was a phony. And with any luck, a murderer, too.
Eleven
"Do you remember the time your father took us to that hot dog place on the causeway?" Victoria asked.
"Fun Fair," Junior said.
"You ate ten chili dogs on a dare."
"Twelve. With onions. I got sick in the back of Dad's Bentley."
"And do you remember what we did on your fourteenth birthday?" she prodded.
"Skinny-dipped in the Venetian pool."
"Nope. We carved our initials on a banyan tree."
"Right. Bayfront Park," Junior remembered. "A security guard chased us."
"And we jumped over that concrete wall to hide. . "
"But it was a sea wall, and we landed in four feet of water."
Laughter. From two out of three, anyway. Steve's expression was both aggravated and distant, as if fretting about something he could do nothing about, the sliding value of the dollar, maybe. "Could I bring you two back from Memory Lane a second?"
"Sure thing," Junior said.
Do we have to? Victoria thought.
"I never saw anything in the papers about Oceania," Steve began, "never heard anyone in the Keys talking about it."
"Dad didn't want the gambling industry finding out what we were doing until we had the federal permits," Junior explained. "What do you think the lobbyists for Atlantic City and the Gulf casinos would do to stop us?"
"Bribe a congressman or two," Victoria suggested.
"And if that didn't work?"
"Kill Stubbs and frame your father," Steve said. "You're saying a competitor did it."
"Who else would have a better motive?" Junior said.
It had been fifteen minutes since Junior relocked the double doors to the Oceania room. The three adults- if you counted Steve-lay on chaise lounges on an outdoor deck overlooking the cove. A pitcher of margaritas with a platter of tortilla chips and fresh-made guacamole sat on a table in the shade of an umbrella. A man-made waterfall poured over rocks into a small pond stocked with fish and long-necked swans. Bobby was wading in the pond, trying to talk swan language to the big birds.
Junior's cell phone had rung several times, reporters calling. Following their instructions, Junior expressed his father's regret at Stubbs' demise and declined comment on everything else. Helicopters from three Miami TV stations hovered over the island like noisy mosquitoes. One buzzed so low, it stirred the cove into a white froth. The crews got their footage, then powered north again.
Now, as Steve ran through his questions, Victoria sorted out her feelings. She felt slightly decadent, reclining on a wicker chaise lounge, sinking into the cocoa-colored cushions, sipping tequila on a workday afternoon, with two hot guys. One was her lover and potential life mate and the other once seemed destined for that role. Over the years, she had wondered about Junior. What kind of man had he become?
To start with, an awesome hunkalicious man, but he seems so much more than his physicality.
A decent, smart, caring man. All that time and money he spent on worthwhile causes. And look at Oceania, something that could have been an environmental holocaust, but thanks to Junior could become an environmental showplace, a stunning blend of commerce and nature.
So, Steve, what do you think of Junior now?
Sure, Junior had enjoyed a privileged life. But he wasn't the spoiled rich kid Steve had predicted-and spitefully wanted-him to be.
Now, in the shade of an umbrella, the same cocoa print fabric as the chaise cushions, with Junior's coppery-bronzy tan accentuating his bright smile, with his sun-streaked thatch of hair, with his six-pack of abs rigid as body armor and his carved deltoids rippling with each movement of his bare arms, with his strong jaw with that devilish cleft, he was. .
Oh, hell, just say it, or at least think it.
If I were standing, my knees would have buckled by now.
Not to get overheated about it, but he was the closest thing to a Greek god she'd ever seen. A modern Adonis, who, if she remembered her course at Princeton, Fables and Myths, got it on with Aphrodite, notwithstanding the lady's marriage to somebody-or-other. Was she feeling a little like Aphrodite, the trampy goddess of passion, who also peeled grapes with Ares, Dionysus, and a few other guy-gods Victoria couldn't remember?
Jeez, am I so superficial that his looks, his luscious total maleness, turns me into mush?
No, of course not. It was just a healthy sexual fantasy, right? Like Steve studying the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue more closely than any appellate court decision. She wondered if Steve was picking up her vibes. Could he tell what she was thinking-and feeling-about Junior?
"Great margaritas," Steve allowed, sipping at his drink.
Okay, she thought, maybe he wasn't tuned to her channel just now.
"Fresh-squeezed lime juice," Junior explained. "No matter what anyone tells you, don't go for the cheaper tequila just because you're mixing drinks. Arette's best. Blanco Suave, if you're willing to spend a hundred bucks a bottle. Now, if you're sipping tequila straight, go for Tres, Cuatro y Cinco, blue agave, but that will set you back four hundred bucks."
"Seems like a lot of money for something that's gonna turn into piss in twenty minutes," Steve countered. Mr. Savoir Vivre.
"Depends what's important to you, I guess," Junior said.
What was important to Steve? she wondered. His nephew, Bobby, of course. His work. And her. But how important was she? Getting Steve to open up was a lot like opening a jar of martini olives. It helps if you bang on his lid a few times.
Steve's tongue flicked a salt crystal from the rim of the margarita glass. He had a faraway look, and Victoria knew he wasn't thinking about their relationship. Or the Florida Marlins. Or even Bobby. He was getting into the case, and his look told her something was bothering him.
"I still don't get it," Steve said. "A project as big as Oceania. How'd you keep it quiet?"
"Dad's good at keeping secrets," Junior said, "and not just about business."
"Meaning what?"
"After Nelson passed away-"
"Committed suicide," Victoria interrupted the Greek god, preferring plain English to euphemisms. "My father committed suicide."
That silenced both men for a moment. Victoria instantly regretted having altered everyone's mood, especially her own. But she was still furious at her father and probably always would be. The mention of his name, of his death, brought back the pain.
"After your father committed suicide," Junior continued, looking at her with tenderness, "I kept bugging Dad to tell me why he did it. The two of them were inseparable. Our mothers were best friends. You and I were, you know. ."
Destined to be a couple.
She had finished the sentence in her mind while sipping her drink. "What did your father say?"
"Nothing. Except, 'I'm sure Nelson had his reasons.' "
"He didn't even leave a note," Victoria said. "I was twelve, and all these years I've hated him for not even leaving a note. Why couldn't he just write, 'My darling daughter, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I always loved you.' "