Chapter 5: Family Interruption
The drive to the Barlowe compound was a silent, humid vacuum. Jacqueline had commandeered the front seat of Adrien’s SUV, twisting around every few minutes with a smile that was all teeth. Veronica sat stiffly in the back, a striped beach towel wrapped around her shoulders. Stephanie, tucked beside her, was engulfed in another towel and one of Adrien’s oversized flannels, smelling faintly of cedar and motor oil. She shivered minimally now, but the memory of the cold, and of Veronica’s hands on her, left a deeper chill in her bones.
“So,” Jacqueline said, her voice bright as a scalpel. “Fell in, did you?”
“It was an accident,” Veronica ground out, staring fixedly out the window at the blur of green hills.
“Looked very accidental,” Jacqueline agreed. “The two of you, all tangled up like that. Right before the splash.”
Stephanie felt a flush creep up her neck. “I tripped on a rope.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Jackie,” Adrien said softly, a warning in his tone. He caught Veronica’s eye in the rearview, offering a slight, sympathetic shrug.
Jacqueline turned back around, humming a tune that was suspiciously like the chorus of “Splish Splash.”
Veronica’s jaw tightened. Her fingers, resting on her own thigh, curled into a fist. The space between her and Stephanie in the backseat was only inches, but it felt charged, a field of unsaid words and seen-too-much. Stephanie watched her profile, the strong line of her nose, the damp, defiant curl of her eyelashes. She remembered the gold fire in those eyes, the rough promise in her voice. Let me show you how. Then the shocking cold. Then the rescue. Then the look on Veronica’s face when she’d seen her shirt.
The compound materialized through a wrought-iron gate choked with bougainvillea. The main house was a vision of faded grandeur, white columns holding up a wide veranda where ceiling fans turned a lazy rhythm. The gardens were a controlled riot of color—hibiscus, birds of paradise, thick clusters of heliconia.
Before the car had fully stopped, the front door flew open.
Reyna Barlowe was a force of nature condensed into a five-foot-four frame. She moved with a brisk, no-nonsense energy, her silver-streaked locs piled in a majestic crown. She took in the scene: her eldest daughter and a strange, pale girl emerging from the car, dripping and swaddled like refugees.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she declared, her patois sharp and musical. “What foolishness is this? Veronica Barlowe, you look like a drowned mongoose. And who is this child?”
“Maman, this is Stephanie. She’s… visiting.” Veronica’s voice was uncharacteristically small.
“Visiting the bottom of the bay, it seems! Inside, now! Both of you! Track no mud and seawater on my good tiles!” She herded them up the steps like a stern shepherd.“Marcus! Towels! The thick ones from the linen press! Vite!”
A man appeared from a side doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with Veronica’s same sharp green eyes but a far gentler expression. Marcus took one look and bit back a laugh. “Welcome to the family, stranger,” he said to Stephanie, his voice a warm rumble. He tossed a stack of fluffy, sun-warmed towels to Veronica. “Dry her off before Maman has a conniption.”
“I can dry myself,” Stephanie murmured, her French accent thickened by exhaustion and embarrassment.
“Hush,” Veronica said, but without her usual bite. She shook out a towel and, with a stiff, practical motion, began to rub it over Stephanie’s head, blotting the ends of her long, dark hair. Her movements were efficient, almost rough, but Stephanie closed her eyes, leaning into the friction. It felt like care, or something dangerously close to it.
Another man emerged from the cool, dark interior of the house. Jace Barlowe was leaner than his son, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that held a perpetual, thoughtful calm. He carried two glasses of ginger beer, the ice cracking softly. He handed one to Stephanie.
“For the shock,” he said, his voice quiet. Then his gaze settled on his daughter.
Veronica was focused on the task, her brow furrowed in concentration. But Jace saw what others missed. He saw the slight tremor in her fingers as they brushed the nape of Stephanie’s neck. He saw the way her eyes, usually so guarded and sharp, kept flicking down to Stephanie’s face, checking for signs of distress. He saw the rigid set of her shoulders, not just from annoyance, but from the effort of holding something powerful and new at bay.
He recognized that look. It was the same one he’d had forty years ago, standing on this very veranda, watching Reyna curse at a broken lawnmower and knowing, with terrifying certainty, that his life was about to change course.
“Well,” Jace said, a slow smile spreading beneath his beard. He took a sip of his own drink. “Quite a morning.”
“It was nothing,” Veronica snapped, too quickly. She stopped drying, stepped back, creating distance. “She fell. I pulled her out. End of story.”
“Of course,” Jace said, his tone agreeable. His eyes twinkled. “A simple rescue. No subtext at all.”
Reyna reappeared, clutching two large, folded cotton dresses. “Enough standing about. You both smell of low tide. Bathrooms are down the hall.Change. Then you,” she pointed at Stephanie, “will come to the kitchen. You need something warm in your belly besides seawater and my daughter’s bad attitude.”
Stephanie, clutching the soft dress, managed a small, dimpled smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Barlowe. You are very kind.”
Reyna’s stern expression softened, just a fraction. “Call me Reyna. Go on now.”
Stephanie hesitated, her eyes finding Veronica’s. A silent question hung between them. Veronica gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, a dismissal and an assurance all at once.
As Stephanie disappeared down the cool, tiled hallway, Jacqueline sidled up to her sister.“So. ‘Persuasive,’ huh?”
Veronica ignored her, turning to follow.
Jace gently caught his daughter’s arm before she could leave. He leaned in close, his voice for her alone. “The heart is a fierce and fragile thing, Ronnie. It doesn’t ask permission before it starts beating for someone.”
Veronica froze. She looked at her father, her defenses laid bare for a single, vulnerable second. The grumpiness, the anger, the reluctance—it all peeled back to reveal a raw, stunned fear underneath.
She pulled her arm away, not with anger, but with a helpless sigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will,” he said softly, letting her go.
In the quiet, sun-drenched bathroom, Stephanie shed the damp flannel and towel. She slipped the soft cotton dress over her head. It smelled of lavender and sunshine. She looked at her reflection: pale, hair a wild tangle, but her blue eyes were clear. She touched her lips, remembering the heat of Veronica’s breath against her cheek. The nearness of her. The shocking fall.
And then, the jump.
Veronica had jumped in after her without a second thought.
A different kind of warmth spread through her, one that had nothing to do with the ginger beer or the tropical sun pouring through the window. It was the warmth of a truth settling. This wasn’t just a crush on a handsome, grumpy stranger. It was something that could pull someone into cold water, that could make capable fingers tremble.
There was a soft knock on the door. “You decent?” It was Veronica.
“Yes,” Stephanie said, opening the door.
Veronica had changed into a similar simple dress. Her hair was a damp, magnificent cloud. She stood in the hallway, looking suddenly awkward, her tall frame filling the space.
“Maman’s making callaloo and saltfish,” she said, not meeting Stephanie’s eyes. “It’ll… help. With the cold.”
“Thank you,” Stephanie said. “For… for the swim lesson.”
A faint, reluctant snort escaped Veronica. “The worst lesson ever given.” She finally looked at her. The gold was still there, but muted, softened by confusion. “You should… you should probably call your people. Let them know you’re not… you know. Drowned.”
“In a little while,” Stephanie said. She took a small step closer, into Veronica’s space, echoing their position on the dock. “First, I think I would like this callaloo.”
Veronica held her ground. She didn’t retreat. She just looked down at her, and in the quiet hallway, with the scent of frangipani drifting through an open window, the unspoken thing between them pulsed, alive and waiting. Veronica’s fingers flexed at her sides, no longer trembling, but restless. Ready.