Judith Arnold - Right Place, Wrong Time

“He said a bad word,” seven-year-old Alicia announced in a stage whisper.

“Hell isn’t a bad word,” Gina assured her. Alicia didn’t have to know how often her aunt uttered words a lot worse than hell. “It’s just the name of a place.”

“A bad place.”

“We can turn that bad word right back on him, okay?” Gina stared boldly at the man and said, “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Gina wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the invasion or only for his language. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Obviously.” If he could be diplomatic, so could she. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re in the wrong unit.”

“Six-fourteen,” he said, glancing at the open door, on which the number appeared. He turned back to Gina and lifted his hand so she could see the key. “This is how we got in here.”

There’s obviously been a mistake, she thought, her brain scrambling to figure out just how serious it was and how she was going to get these strangers out of the unit. “Okay—this is a time-share. We’ve got a key. You’ve got a key. My guess is someone’s here the wrong week.” You, she wanted to say. You’re here the wrong week.

“We’re here the week of July 19,” the man said calmly.

“Um, no.” Gina smiled. “That’s our week…. And we’re not leaving.”

Dear Reader,

One of the problems with being a writer is that no matter where you go, no matter what you do, a part of your mind is always thinking, “Can I use this in a book?”

A couple of years ago, my family took a trip to St. Thomas. It was supposed to be a family vacation, a special getaway to celebrate my older son’s impending high-school graduation and departure for college. On the jitney from the airport, I wound up next to a woman who was planning to spend the week at a time-share condo just up the road from our hotel. It was her cousin’s time-share, she told me, but her cousin wasn’t using it that week and had offered it to this woman and her husband, instead.

Goodbye vacation—hello book idea.

It took me a while to get around to writing Right Place, Wrong Time. I was under contract to write some other books first. But I saved all my research from the week we spent on St. Thomas, all the brochures and maps, all the notes I took—and at last I’ve been able to write this story.

(No, it’s not autobiographical. I didn’t buy a “happy diamonds” watch, although my husband bought me a beautiful bracelet in Charlotte Amalie, in honor of our twentieth wedding anniversary. I also bought a bottle of nail polish that changes color, just like Alicia’s in the book. And the snorkeling was as magnificent as anything Gina and Ethan experience.)

The habit of writers to turn every experience into a research trip can be problematic. But the positive side of that habit is that when a writer finally sits down and puts her research into a book, she gets to relive the experience. Writing Right Place, Wrong Time allowed me to enjoy St. Thomas all over again!

JudithArnold

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ted and the boys

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“DO YOU HAVE any idea what you’re doing?” Kim’s father asked.

Good question, Ethan muttered. No, he didn’t have any idea what he was doing. But he was doing it anyway. When in doubt, he usually just plowed ahead and hoped for the best.

“You’re driving on the wrong side of the road,” Kim’s father pointed out.

Ethan glanced at the man who might someday be his father-in-law. Ross Hamilton sat rigidly in the front passenger seat of the rented Oldsmobile, his jowls just beginning to go soft, his silver hair thick and precisely styled, his skin preternaturally tan and his eyes framed with the sort of creases that implied he squinted a lot, presumably at people he didn’t approve of. Ethan suspected he fell into that category.

“People drive on the left side of the road in St. Thomas,” Ethan explained.

“St. Thomas is part of the United States,” Ross argued. “Why don’t they drive on the right?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is an American car. The steering wheel is on the left.”

“Yes.” Ethan was having a hard enough time getting used to left-sided driving. He didn’t need Ross undermining his concentration by badgering him with questions.

“Perhaps you should have arranged for someone to pick us up at the airport,” Ross chided.

“My friend Paul told me the cabs on the island are overpriced. By renting the car for the week, we’ll save a lot of money.” Surely his thrift would win him a few points in his potential father-in-law’s view.

“In the meantime, we might wind up in a head-on collision.”

“I’m on the right side of the road. The left side,” Ethan corrected himself. Even with cool air blasting from the vents, he felt dampness gathering at his nape. Ross exuded not a single drop of perspiration, despite wearing a linen blazer over his polo shirt. July in St. Thomas—it was hot on the other side of the windshield. Ross Hamilton didn’t sweat, though. He was obviously a chilly man.

Ethan wished Kim hadn’t insisted on including her parents in this outing. He’d gotten access to Paul’s time-share because, as Paul put it, no one in his right mind would want to go to St. Thomas in July. Paul’s regularly scheduled week at the resort on Smith Bay was in January, but last January he’d had the chance to go skiing in Aspen with friends, and he’d chosen that over the tropics. So he’d traded his week with a woman who owned a week in July in the same unit, and then offered the July week to Ethan if he wanted it.

Ethan had thought a week in St. Thomas, even in the middle of the summer, would offer Kim and him a fun getaway. Kim had been elated. “I hear jewelry is dirt cheap and duty-free down there,” she’d said. “Maybe we could do a little shopping.” Hint, hint.

Okay, she wanted an engagement ring. Ethan was willing to concede that the time for an engagement ring might be drawing near—and if that time arrived, why not buy one that was dirt cheap and duty-free? In March, when Paul had first offered him the week at the condo, this had all seemed like a good idea.

Then Kim had heard that the unit had two bedrooms, and she’d come up with the clever idea of bringing her parents along. “It will give them a chance to get to know you better,” she’d argued. “I want them to love you as much as I do. We could have great fun, Ethan.”

Kim had been naked when she’d mentioned this, sliding her hand in provocative ways over his chest while simultaneously stroking his shin with her toes. She and Ethan had been having great fun at that moment, and he hadn’t been thinking clearly. So he’d said, “Sure.”

The van behind him was tailgating so closely Ethan could practically see the pores on the driver’s nose in his rearview mirror. Steep hills rose to one side of the road and a turquoise sea spread along the other side. He was in alien territory, surrounded by palm trees and brilliant crimson flowers, squat stucco houses and sprawling, cliff-hugging mansions. Cars, jitneys and small buses kept coming at him on the narrow, winding road—and they were on his right. The entire experience was disorienting.