Killing Time in Paradise: A Daisy Greenwood Novel

By E. Blum

Best new beach read this year. Two playboys. One new-in-town woman. One scandal. And one laugh-at-loud road to small town justice.

Daisy Greenwood was an ambitious Manhattan executive struggling with a stressed out life until she quits her job, eBays her Manolos and starts life over in a quiet South Florida gulf town. Despite the culture clash and gator nuggets, most locals welcome her into the porch swing fold, including the sophisticated, sultry-eyed Cuban-American politician who runs half the county. It also helps to have a handsome wildlife biologist for a work partner. Her new, mindless job wearing jungle boots and saving the wetlands seems like salvation until a greedy developer tries to steal the town's parklands and threatens her life. Saving herself, her friends and miles of virgin forest draws Daisy into the harsh Florida backwoods where a fight for her life ensues. It takes the unlikeliest of alliances to unravel the mystery that almost forces her to do the one thing she vowed not to, admit defeat and go back to her safe life in the city

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. Blum
• Release date: Sep 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370250813

Book preview

Killing Time in Paradise

A Daisy Greenwood Novel

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

For B.B.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Prologue

One year ago, twenty-two minutes past sunrise on a bitterly cold Manhattan morning, I shot out of my lobby, eyeballs freezing upon contact with 20℉ air, directly into an idling Lincoln Town Car. I was going to John F. Kennedy International for a 10:00 a.m. nonstop to Hawaii for a dear friend’s wedding. The only other person outside in the blue-green twilight was our Croatian superintendent, half-smoked cigarette dangling at all times from his lips, who was building a cheerleader-style pyramid on the sidewalk with garbage bags. He threw the flyer to the top and gave me a wave.

Jen, the bride, had been my best friend since nursery school. In the 8th grade we both had crushes on our sandy-haired English teacher Mr. Sawyer even though he wore nerdy cardigans with elbow patches. Jen said he was adorkable. After class pretending to ask a question about a passage in Night, she’d flirt with him. I’d wait in the hall, huffing my bangs out and thinking she was gross. In high school she’d push me into maroon bathroom stalls to sneak a smoke with her. I’m running track, I’d say, always having an excuse.

We don't really have that much in common, I once pointed out. Yeah, we’re oil and vinegar, she replied. Oh boy. I figured she needed me.

Almost two decades later we’re still friends. On Saturdays we jog together in Central Park for about five minutes until she declares Endorphins released. I’m done, sees a park bench, lights a cigarette, and begins her critique of passing male joggers. She has this theory that a man’s jogging style is the same as his sex style. When he’s running if he pumps his shoulders back and forth or tilts his head, that’s exactly what he’ll do after he climbs on top of you. The facial expression will be the same, too. Basically this is your preview. Thanks to her I need therapy to watch the summer Olympics. She thinks I’m inhibited and uptight. I think she secretly goes through my closet and throws away my turtleneck sweaters.

As the car pulled away I sank into the backseat and felt guilty about the mountain of garbage moldering on the sidewalk. If my building generates this much crap, imagine what all the five boroughs of New York City produce? In college for my study abroad program, I boarded with a snotty French family that each week produced only enough garbage to fill up a Tropicana juice carton. Everything else was recycled. But they were psycho.

I did what I could for the environment. I take travel mugs with me to Starbucks, I drive a Mini, after work I wear the same black stretchy yoga pants replete with hole in crotch ten times before laundering them with chemicals that pollute the earth. I also discovered the way to offset your carbon footprint is to buy those big bottles of wine that’s equal to two regular bottles. Less glass.

I imagine how cool it would be to live a low-carbon-footprint life, like in the TV show Tiny House Nation. Off-the-grid, au naturel, earth-mother-composter-style (this style can probably be accomplished simply by spending $1000 in Whole Foods’ Whole Body department), where no one can bother me. No more marketing calls, junk mail, internet. No more make-up. No more stuffy suits. No more traffic. No more light pollution. But, I couldn't even imagine where to begin.

At JFK my friend Ace met me at security. We used to date. Ace has green eyes and light brown hair pushed off his forehead. He’s good looking and good in bed.

I remember the first time I saw him ten years ago—it was all over for me. He pursued me but only because he loves a challenge. I could just tell he would never be mine. New York men have very short attention spans. If I got out quick, I reasoned, I’ll never have to stand by and watch someone I was falling for become a stranger again. I ended things and he remained my friend. It was so My Best Friend’s Wedding.

I asked him to come with me because the thought of attending a wedding solo was nauseating. When we arrived on the island we fell back into our old routine. It was exactly the kind of fun artificial-romance we both needed. We went hiking, had fireside luau dinners, make-out sessions under waterfalls. I admit I was nostalgic—in the intervening years I hadn’t liked anyone as much.

The wedding took place on the Hyatt’s lush tropical grounds. Jen had landed a nice normal guy who managed the Sternz Trust, which funded charitable causes like PBS, the World Wildlife Fund and the Natural Resources Defense Council. When they first met she didn't know it was his trust. Geoff Sternz’s great-grandfather was known in certain circles as the quiet Rockefeller. Geoff loved to share his family history with anyone who’d listen. In 1430 his ancestors made their first western migration from Russia to Bohemia, a land famous for its glass manufacturing. The Sternzs produced glass until their final western migration in 1807 to Pennsylvania, where they expanded into steel. Their claim to fame was supplying steel for the Empire State building. They couldn't fill the orders fast enough. Their beams were so fresh that even after traveling two hundred miles on the highway in the dead of winter, the beams arrived at the worksite warm to the touch. Lucky bitch.

Ace and I had never quite adjusted to the time change and even on our last day of vacation we awoke at dawn. Spurred by the runner in me, we began the day with a five-mile sunrise run along a black beach flanked by emerald green mountains and turquoise ocean. The scenery produced a calmness in me I hadn’t felt in a long time. I’d been having problems at home, if you call barely being able to drag oneself out of bed a problem. I was stressed and depressed. I didn't want to do anything anymore. I dreaded leaving the apartment. Dreaded the onslaught of people and crowds everywhere. I hated the cold. I hated the sirens blaring all night long. Being a New Yorker had been fun for a few decades but now I wanted to hear my thoughts. Feel solitude. I love the city that never sleeps. If only she would pass out occasionally.

I worked for the Michael Page employment agency and loved my job. I was an excellent career coach and considered it a privilege to help people realize their goals. When I began to head the Financial Institutions division, the pressure increased. I stopped working with people. Instead I became tied to a computer screen doing analytics. Over time I worked more and saw my friends less. I stopped going to movies, out to dinner, the park.

After the sunrise run I took a shower and let the jets pound my head. Ace got in, put his hands on my hips and kissed my neck. He ran through our day’s schedule but I didn’t hear a word.

Earth to Daisy, he said.

Sorry.

What’s wrong?

I looked up at him with a head full of pink conditioner. If I tell you, don’t laugh.

"Okaay."

I can’t go home, I said.

You can’t go home, he repeated dumbly.

The thought is unbearable. Everyday when I come home from work I feel like I have Urban Stress. My brain becomes frozen. Someone talks to me but I can’t comprehend, can’t respond. I’ll be watching TV and during the commercial I forget what show I was watching.

You’re not making sense.

I told you, it’s Urban Stress. It’s real. I looked it up. I hate my life and my job is so monotonous that if I have to keep doing it for the next thirty years I’ll die. I’ve been in New York forever. I’m terrified of the thought that I’ll live in only one place my whole life.

I got out of the shower, put on a sundress and towel dried my hair.

Are you happy in New York? I asked him.

Of course. But I grew up in L.A. and I can’t stand it there.

I opened the balcony slider, draped the towel over a chair and gazed at the ocean. Brightly colored birds flitted here and there.

So my life was not glamorous or exciting. Plenty of peoples’ lives didn’t turn out the way they hoped. I still have a good life. I have a roof over my head, my health, friends. In all of my adulthood I’ve been in control of the key events in my life. I did well in my studies, I have a good career. I travel where I want. I can buy things. I’m catching green lights. If I’m not happy I have only myself to blame, right?

I’m not happy there anymore. It feels like there’s a weight on my chest.

Ace took my hand. "Everyone in New York feels the exact same way. Ace put an arm around my shoulders. Does your best friend getting married have anything to do with this? Would it help if I proposed?"

I punched him. He feigned a wounded look and rubbed his arm. I mean it. You’re my best friend. I always planned to have you as my second wife. That’s the good one, you know.

Hilarious.

I did want to settle down eventually but for now I needed change.

I wish I could stay here. I loved the damp smell in the air, the shocking bright-green of the jungle, the call of the frogs, coqui, coqui.

I dread going home. I want to be somewhere warm. I’m already considered middle-aged so I have only twenty summers left before I’m considered old. Twenty. It’s a shame each one will last just two months.

I realized I don't have much time left.

Ace said, Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time I saw you smile.

I made a facial expression that said You see?

You should move.

"Pfft. I can’t just move. What about…everything?"

You just do it, he said. If it’s what you want go for it. Believe. 

Ironically in my line of work I preached the same thing. If you don’t believe in you neither will they. I made candidates affix Post-it notes to their bathroom mirrors: You are THE top quantitative analyst in the city. I had kite surfing posters on my office walls with hollow slogans like Do What You Love.

Why not? Why can’t you? Ace pressed.

I’d like to move to a quiet small town. I just can’t imagine how to go about it. Or my mother’s reaction. 

I imagined the conversation:

My mother: Why do you want to get away from us?

Me: I'm not trying to get away from anyone. I want to experience a larger world.

Mother: That’s so selfish.

Ace said, You’re a big girl. You don’t have to do what you're told.

Well, not everyone can just up and move. That’s not reality. I’d have to find a job. And what would I do? I’m sick of head hunting. Plus, it took me a long time to find that apartment.

Ace replied, It is reality. People move every day. Life throws you curveballs. Sometimes you go with Plan B.

I tried to absorb this. I rubbed out the furrow between my brows and tried to relax my face. I’d worry more if I got wrinkles. The image of my yoga teacher Sarah popped into my head. She’d say, relax the space between your eyes, now relax your jaw, your tongue… This chick was so chill she could probably relax her earlobes.

As we left the hotel room and headed for the rental car I said, I think I know what to do.

Ace said, Don't waste your time complaining you don't like your life. Use the time you have left to make your life the one want.

Looking back on that trip I credit Ace for getting me thinking. I had a new vision of myself on a porch swing under a starry sky, palm trees rustling in the breeze.

We hopped into our rental car and drove to what the locals call da big rock. People at the wedding said jumping off was a bucket-list thing. I thought it was a great way to say goodbye to Hawaii.

When we got to da rock I realized it was higher than I’d thought. We climbed up the back. My heart was pounding.

People were milling around at the top, some sitting some standing. The atmosphere was pure adrenaline. I hung towards the rear. A little kid with black hair and caramel skin sidled up to me. You can do it, he said.

Ace had his arm around my shoulders and jokingly chanted my name. In short order the crowd joined him. Daisy. Daisy. Daisy.

I was horrified. My blood pressure dropped and I felt nauseated. Like an automaton I was passed along till I found myself standing at the edge.

The little boy said, Don’t look down. Just jump.

I took a breath, raised my arms and leapt.

As I flew through air I heard absolutely nothing.

Zhooosh. I splashed into the water. When I came up for air I had no stress or anxiety. It was like a cleansing, a baptism. It was so much fun I did it again.

That afternoon I set a date in my head and a plan in motion. This time next year I’d be out.

Chapter One

It was Monday morning and I was stuck in traffic on U.S. Route 41. Shoot. I didn't want to be late on the first