Chapter 18: Tropical Temptation
The steam from their shower had barely dissipated before the text came through. Reyna, in her infinite maternal persistence, had declared a family day at the compound. “No excuses,” the message read, followed by a string of sunflower and palm tree emojis that felt like a threat.
So they went.
The Barlowe family compound was not a house; it was a declaration. A cluster of terracotta-roofed villas nestled in Queens, surrounded by a high wall blanketed in bougainvillea. Inside, it was another country. The courtyard was a symphony of green, dominated by a massive almond tree whose branches shaded a long, rustic table. The air tasted of salt from the distant Rockaways and wet earth from Reyna’s immaculate flower beds, where hibiscus and bird of paradise blooms exploded like fireworks.
Veronica, in dark linen shorts and a tight black tank top, had retreated into a familiar, scowling neutrality. She manned the grill, tongs in hand, a sentinel in a cloud of spicy jerk smoke. Her earlier softness in the bathroom was locked away, replaced by a focus so intense the chicken seemed to char out of respect.
Stephanie floated, unmoored. She sipped iced sorrel, the tangy ginger and clove sharp on her tongue, and tried to follow the rapid-fire patois and Brooklyn slang flying around the table. Jace, a tall, genial man with Veronica’s green eyes and a laugh that shook the table, was recounting a story about Reyna chasing a possum from her orchid collection with a broom. Reyna swatted his arm, her gold bangles clinking.
“He’s a liar! It was a raccoon, and it was looking at my dendrobiums with intent!”
Marcus, the eldest brother, a quieter, broader version of Jace with a deep, calming voice, tended to a pot of rice and peas on a side burner. His presence was a steady drumbeat against the familial cacophony.
Adrien was there, but he wasn’t. He sat beside Jacqueline, nodding, smiling thin smiles that never reached his eyes. He actively did not look at Veronica. He actively did not look at Stephanie. His gaze fixed on his plate, on the tree, on the sky—anywhere but the two women who were living, breathing reminders of his failure. The air between him and Veronica was a frozen lake, thin and crackling.
Jacqueline, however, was a sunbeam. She flitted, refilling drinks, stealing a piece of plantain from the grill to Veronica’s faux-irritated grunt, her laughter too loud, too frequent. A performative joy.
“So, Stephanie,” Jace boomed, leaning forward. “Veronica says you’re from Paris. What’s a nice girl like you doing tangled up with this lot?”
“Dad,” Veronica warned without turning from the grill.
“I got lost,” Stephanie said, her dimples flashing. “I asked for directions to a good bakery, and instead I found a Barlowe.”
Jace’s laugh roared again. “She’s quick! You hear that, Rey? She’s keeping up.”
Reyna’s assessing eyes, which had been glancing between her daughters and the tense young man all afternoon, crinkled with a more genuine warmth. “She has good energy. Light. We’ll see how long it lasts around the storm cloud at the grill.”
The afternoon stretched, lazy and warm. Bellies grew full of smoky, fiery chicken, sweet plantain, and coconut-infused rice. The tension, while not gone, was buried under second helpings and third rounds of rum punch. Jacqueline stood, stretching her arms overhead with a theatrical groan. “Adrien, come, walk with me to the cooler shed. Need more ice.”
He followed, a silent shadow.
Twenty minutes passed. The ice was in a freezer just inside the main house, thirty steps away. Veronica’s chopping of a mango for dessert grew progressively more violent.
“They’re fine, Veronica,” Marcus rumbled, not looking up from sharpening the cooking knives.
“Didn’t ask.”
Finally, they reappeared from a side path lined with heliconias, not from the house. Jacqueline’s hand was tucked firmly in Adrien’s. And her smile was different. Not the bright, brittle one from before. This was slower, softer, settled deep in her eyes. Adrien’s shoulders, while not relaxed, had lost their hunch. He met Marcus’s gaze and gave a small, acknowledging nod.
Jacqueline floated to the table, dropped Adrien’s hand, and swooped down behind Stephanie, wrapping her in a sudden, tight hug from behind. “Thank you,” she whispered, her breath warm and sweet with rum against Stephanie’s ear.
Before Stephanie could respond, Jacqueline’s hand slid down and gave her backside a firm, unmistakable squeeze. It was quick, hidden by the table, more a punctuation mark than a pass.
She bounced away to help Marcus with the knives, leaving Stephanie flushed and bewildered.
A moment later, as Veronica placed the bowl of cut mango in the center of the table with a thump, Jacqueline sidled up to Stephanie near the lemon tree.
“So?” Stephanie asked quietly, nodding toward Adrien, who was now in quiet conversation with Jace about the Mets.
Jacqueline took a sip of Stephanie’s sorrel. “We talked. Really talked. No audience. No big sister looming like a wrathful goddess.” She peeked at Veronica, who was watching them, her expression unreadable. “He apologized. For the staring, for the disrespect, for… a lot of things. He said he got lost in his own head, seeing something shiny and new, and forgot what he had sitting right in front of him. That it was a weakness, not a desire.”
Stephanie nodded. It was the right thing to say. The expected thing.
“And then he cried,” Jacqueline said, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “A little. Said he’d been feeling like he was just ‘Jacqueline’s boyfriend’ in this family for years, never just Adrien. That he was insecure and acted like an idiot because of it.” She swallowed. “He promised to do better. To be better. For us.”
Stephanie felt a complex knot tighten in her chest. Relief for her friend. A pang of sympathy for Adrien’s confessed loneliness. And beneath it, a cold, slick thread of guilt. She had been the “shiny new thing.” Her presence had been the catalyst. She squeezed Jacqueline’s hand. “I am happy for you. Truly.”
“I know,” Jacqueline said, her eyes liquid and bright. She glanced over at Veronica again, then back to Stephanie, her smile turning knowing, tinged with her old mischief. “And I’m happy for you, too. Just… maybe next time, try not to break my boyfriend while you’re at it, huh? One project at a time.”
She winked and sauntered away, leaving Stephanie rooted to the spot.
The sunset began to bleed into the sky, orange and purple behind the palm fronds. The family began the slow ritual of clearing up. As Stephanie carried a stack of plates toward the outdoor kitchen, she felt a presence fall into step beside her. Veronica.
They walked in silence for a few paces, the chatter of the family receding behind them.
“You heard?” Stephanie asked quietly.
“Enough.”
“And?”
Veronica took the top few plates from her stack, their fingers brushing. “And he’s sorry. And he’s scared. And he’s right to be both.” She looked straight ahead, her profile sharp against the twilight. “But ‘doing better’ isn’t a promise. It’s a daily chore. Like taking out the trash. We’ll see if he remembers on Tuesday when the bin smells.”
It was the most Veronica-like blessing anyone would ever get.
They reached the sink. Through the kitchen window, Stephanie could see the courtyard. Reyna was laughing, her head thrown back, resting against Jace’s shoulder. Jacqueline was feeding Adrien a piece of mango, her other hand resting on his chest. Marcus was already smoking a cigarette, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the deepening blue.
It was a portrait of healing, fragile but real.
Stephanie felt Veronica’s pinky finger hook around her own, a hidden anchor in the warm, fragrant dark. The day ended not with a resolution, but with a conditional peace, hard-won and meticulously observed. And in that small, covert point of contact, Stephanie felt the future humming—a tense, beautiful, uncertain chord waiting for its next note.