Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Rose

“We need to turn around.”

I hug the child close to me, and she curls up in my arms, her plump body pressed up against mine. I can feel the engine vibrating through the boat as we pick up speed, and the spray on my face and in my hair. In any other circumstances, I’d sit back and close my eyes, enjoy the contrast of warm breeze and cool water on my skin, but everything about this situation is wrong, and I feel as if it’s all my fault.

Even if I’m not directly to blame, I’m the outsider. I’m being paid to look after the guests and the children, not to go gallivanting around on treasure hunts with Ruby Weiss’s eldest son and youngest granddaughter. Ruby will blame me for not keeping an eye on Georgie; Brandon will obviously blame me because the alternative is accepting some of the responsibility himself.

But worst of all, I blame myself. I allowed him to distract me for a moment, and this is the result.

“Not a chance.” Brandon doesn’t even look at me when he speaks and, even though he’s facing the other way, I can see it in the set of his shoulders that he’s in full-on game mode. He’s here to win.

“Brandon, please.” I raise my voice to be heard above the purr of the engine.

“Rose…” Georgie raises her head and peers into my eyes. “Where are we going?”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” I say. “Uncle Brandon is going to turn the boat around and take you back to Mommy.”

“Uncle Brandon is going to do no such thing.” He glares at me over his shoulder then, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes, and I force myself to concentrate on what he’s saying. Those eyes though…

I mentally shake myself. “You can’t prioritize a silly treasure hunt over a child’s welfare.”

“Watch me.” I don’t need to follow the direction of his gaze to know that he’s watching Damon and Jennifer’s speedboat in the distance. “There are life vests in the storage unit.”

“Seriously?” Anger wells inside my chest, threatening to spill out as red-hot lava. “That’s your answer to the child’s welfare?”

He glances at me with an expression I can’t fathom. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

I take a deep breath—the man is so infuriating it’s no wonder he came to his own father’s birthday celebrations with a business associate. Single-minded. Arrogant. Obnoxious.

“Rose, what’s swell-fare?” Georgie asks, dragging me out of the seething pot of angry words bubbling inside my head and back to the moment.

I smile at her, angry at myself for not taking control of the situation. A glance at the jetty and I can see Kelly and Ruby following us despite the sunglasses covering their eyes. Ruby turns away and heads back to the house first, leaving Kelly behind with her other two daughters.

Do they think I manipulated the situation to get close to Brandon? What has he said to them? I wish I knew because at this rate, I might not even have a job to come back to at the end of the day.

Georgie tugs at my top and I peer down at her wide eyes and pink cheeks. “It’s a life vest,” I say. “Want to help me find them?”

She nods, her eyes growing even wider. “I wear a yellow vest when I go to swimming lessons. Can I find a yellow one? Can I?”

“We’ll see, shall we?”

On our hands and knees, we rummage through the storage box, trying to find a vest that will fit Georgie; fortunately, the boat is equipped for children as well as adults. I slide her arms into a yellow vest, while she beams at me widely, no doubt convinced that I somehow managed to produce it using magic like Mary Poppins.

After zipping up my own vest, I find one to fit Brandon, my eyes instinctively drifting to his broad shoulders and narrow hips. I sit Georgie on a bench and take the vest to him—it’s not much of a peace-offering, but I refuse to spend the day dodging the barbs of his spiky comments all day. It isn’t fair on her.

“Here,” I say, holding the vest at arm’s length.

He blinks at me when he turns around as if he’d forgotten I was even there, and my stomach reflexively sinks. Is he so intent on beating his brother that Georgie and I are inconsequential, a distraction he could’ve done without?

“I don’t need it.”

I swallow the lump rising in my throat and lower the vest out of his line of vision. “Will you at least call Kelly and tell her that I’ll keep Georgie safe?”

He keeps his eyes fixated on the ocean, a tic appearing on his jawline. “Call her yourself. I’m busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

I breathe deeply, counting to three on the inhale, and barely making it before exhaling shakily. The boat is all blue lines and clean ocean smell, not that Brandon would ever notice with his tunnel vision and his eyes on the result. Jeez, when was the last time he looked up and remembered there’s a sky up there above his glass tower?

“I don’t have my cell phone.”

He puffs up his cheeks and lets out a long breath. “If you’re not bringing anything to the table,” he says eventually between gritted teeth, “I suggest you sit down and stay out of my way.”

When we dock at Key Largo, I feel scoured clean by the sea breeze, at least on the outside. Inside, I feel like a ragdoll with all its raggedy stuffing bursting at the seams.

“Damon’s already here,” he says, securing the boat to a free bay.

I don’t answer. I realize that I’m being petty, following his orders to literally stay out of his way, but I refuse to pander to the whim of a spoiled rich man.

During the boat trip to the northernmost Key, I talked myself in circles. Switching between cold determination to find another way back to Ruby Island with Georgie, and playing along with the treasure hunt challenges to help Brandon win in the hopes it will improve his mood. Now that we’re here, I wish life wasn’t so complicated and I could blend in with the tourists and enjoy the sights.

Brandon must not have required a response. He slides his cellphone out of his pocket and stares at the other boats and the tourists strolling along the walkway, while he calls Julia and asks her to find him the number of a guy called Artie.

He offers me his hand to climb out of the boat—which I don’t accept—and then scoops Georgie up into his arms and sets her down on the wooden walkway.

“I thought you were in a hurry to beat your brother.” I guess I still haven’t learned when to keep quiet.

“I am.”

Brandon’s gaze drifts lazily between me and Georgie who, I realize a beat too late, is standing precariously close to the edge. I take her hand and pull her away, resting a hand protectively on her shoulder. Even three-year-olds understand their uncle’s disinterest in them.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asks while he waits for Julia’s response.

“No.”

I turn away to watch a man selling souvenirs at the end of the boardwalk. He’s comfortable in khaki shorts, white T-shirt, and sliders, his tousled hair bleached blonde by the sun.

“Then you wouldn’t understand. If Damon wins, it’ll set the tone for the rest of the week.” Perhaps some kind of acknowledgement was expected during this pause, because Brandon fills the silence himself when I don’t play ball. “My father plays by his own rules, and he expects his sons to do the same.”

Before I can ask him to explain, he checks out a message on his phone and then makes a call. “Artie?” he says, walking a few steps away from us because he’s obviously used to speaking in privacy. “Brandon Weiss. Where can I find you?”

He ends the call with a smile of satisfaction which settles on me and Georgie for half a beat before he remembers that we’re not supposed to be there.

“Come with me,” he says. “I need you to record the evidence.”

“For prosperity,” I mutter under my breath, “or so that you can plead your innocence in a court of law?”

He must not hear me because he turns around and walks away without another glance in our direction. And we follow. Because Brandon Weiss isn’t the kind of guy who gets disobeyed, but I can’t help wondering if this is how his mom pictured the game being played when she was planning the birthday celebrations.

Artie greets Brandon with a wide smile and a clap on the shoulder when we find him on the busy marina strip next to a stand selling shiny pink conch shells. The women walking by check out his muscled tanned legs and broad shoulders. He waves to several people, and eyes up everyone else as if this is what he does for a living: professional tourist greeter. No one goes unnoticed.

His hands when he takes mine are warm, his eyes filled with sunshine. He kneels in front of Georgie and pulls a shiny pink shell from his pocket which he presents to her with a wink. “I’ve been looking for a princess to take care of my special shell,” he says. “Can you do that for me?”

Georgie, open-mouthed, takes the shell and nods.

Standing, Artie says, “Beautiful family you have here, Brandon.”

The color drains from Brandon’s face, and I suck on my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling. I could correct Artie, but after the silent treatment Brandon gave us on the boat, I don’t see why I should. He’ll make sure I’m on the first economy flight back to New York after today anyway—I might as well let him know that I’m not one of his employees he’s used to bossing around.

“So,” Artie continues, unfazed, “what’s this all about?”

“We’re taking part in a treasure hunt,” Brandon says. “We’ve been set challenges around the islands, and playing a tune on a conch is one of them.”

I don’t know if it’s because he is out of his comfort zone standing here in a busy resort in the Florida Keys, or because he’s so cool platinum to Artie’s warm gold, but I find myself wishing that I could inject some life into his voice. Inject some life into him. I wonder if Brandon Weiss ever laughs out loud or gets pizza sauce on his chin or slobs out in front of the TV with a cold beer and a packet of Doritos.

If he doesn’t, then someone should tell him what he’s been missing.

“Well, you’re in the right place.” Artie gestures to the man behind the conch stand who produces a large conch and hands it to Brandon. “I warn you now though—it isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“I only need to get a simple tune out of it,” Brandon says.

Artie’s eyes slide my way, and he winks at me. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

He hands the conch to Brandon who raises it to his lips and blows. He must not have heard the words ‘It isn’t as easy as it looks’ because his eyes narrow and his cheeks turn pink when the resulting sound is more asthmatic wheeze than soulful tune.

Artie smiles and takes the shell back. “See here,” he says, pointing to the cut-off spiral shape at the end, “you press your lips to the hole. Ever played trumpet or clarinet?” When Brandon tells him that he hasn’t, he demonstrates the correct way to shape his lips, and asks him to try again.

Brandon blows into the shell until sweat starts to bead on his forehead, and still only manages to sound like a cow with a cold.

Georgie giggles and tugs my hand. “What is Uncle Bran doing?” she asks.

“He’s trying to make the shell sing,” I say, suppressing my own laughter.

Brandon isn’t laughing. He’s clearly used to excelling at everything.

“Deep breath. Expand your diaphragm,” Artie says, placing a hand flat against Brandon’s stomach as he raises the shell to his lips again.

He barely produces a sound that’s even remotely tuneful before the conch reverts to its default mode of aging-smoker-lungs.

“Was that an A-flat?” I ask because I can no longer hold it in and because what’s to lose at this point?

Brandon sucks in a deep breath and examines the conch as if Artie has deliberately handed him a faulty instrument to make him look foolish. He offers it to me and says, “Why don’t you try?”

“No.” I shake my head and step backwards barely missing the front paws of a chihuahua wearing a diamante-studded collar. The owner yanks the dog up into her arms and scowls at me. “I’m so sorry,” I say to her receding back. She has dirt smudged across the seat of her white shorts, and I hope that no one tells her.

“Sure, you should try it.” Artie takes the shell and stands beside me, so close I can smell his coconut-scented shampoo. His fingers brush mine as he shows me the correct way to hold the conch, and he leans closer still, pursing his lips to demonstrate.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I can’t even look at Brandon. Is he wondering why he didn’t get the same level of instruction, or will he chalk this up to another instance of me interfering in his life? He probably thinks that Artie and I are distant cousins plotting against him to prevent him from winning the treasure hunt.

Like it’s a matter of life and death.

I remember what Artie said about expanding my lungs, trying to ignore his hand on my diaphragm, and blow. I almost drop the conch in shock when it produces a low sound that could potentially pass as a beginner’s first attempt at playing a wind instrument.

“Yay!” Georgie claps her hands. “Rose did it.”

“Not bad,” Artie says. “Try again, but this time, slide your hand inside the body like this.” Artie’s fingers close around mine.

Keeping my eyes on the shell, I try again. This time I move my fingers like a child playing the recorder and manage to produce two distinct sounds before I run out of breath.

Artie’s smile is genuine, and I can’t help smiling back.

“Can we go now?” Georgie asks.

“Not yet.” Brandon unlocks his phone and aims the camera at me. “We still need a tune.”

“I can’t play a tune,” I say.

I recall Kelly’s giggles when we set the challenge on Ruby’s porch over a shared pitcher of lemonade. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “Everyone comes to Key Largo to play a conch.”

“Something simple.” Brandon asserts his authority, letting me know that refusal isn’t an option.

“Like what?”

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” Georgie says.

“Easy.” Artie stands between me and Brandon and tells me to hear the tune inside my head when I blow. “Trust me, if you can hear it, we’ll hear it.”

I don’t share his confidence, but before I can come up with an excuse that Brandon might buy, he steps aside, and Brandon says, “Ready? Go.”

Deep breath. I forget my half-assed plans to ditch Brandon at the first stop and catch a ride back to Ruby Island with someone else. Instead, I close my eyes and remind myself that this is living the dream according to the world’s social media influencers.

I don’t even cringe when the first note slides painfully into the second. I do what Artie said and follow the nursery rhyme playing inside my head. When I reach the end, my brain cells are spinning, and I’m breathless.

But Brandon is smiling at me. I don’t know if it’s because we’ve completed the first challenge or if he’s pleasantly surprised at my conch-blowing skills, but it makes me feel like the sun came out from behind a cloud, just for us.

Then, a slow clap penetrates my fuzzy head, and I glance up to find Damon heading our way, Jennifer a couple of paces behind him.

“Technically, I’m not sure it counts as a tune,” he says, “but the fact that you’re playing, Rose, while my brother holds the camera is music to my ears. Have we finally discovered something that Brandon Weiss isn’t good at?”

“It’s called teamwork, Damon,” Brandon says, pocketing his cellphone. “You should look it up in the dictionary sometime.”

And, just like that, the sun goes in again. I don’t know what has happened in the past between the two brothers, but whatever it is, it’s a major contribution to Brandon’s chin-jutting stuffiness.