Baker kicks back and relaxes in the sun while Floyd sits in the shade of the bimini, still sluggish from his nap. The captain, Charlie, starts the engines and away they go, zipping around the towering cruise ships to open water. They pick up speed and cut a neat seam through the turquoise water to St. John. Baker takes a sip of his beer and thinks: This is my life now. He said goodbye to Ellen outside of IAH just this morning, but it seems like eons ago. If he were back in Houston, he would be getting ready to pick up Floyd from the Children’s Cottage. The two of them would go home, Baker would fix a snack, and then they’d head to the park or playground, or Baker would bribe Floyd with his iPad so that he could continue to trade until the markets closed, and by then it would be too late to go to the park and Floyd would have conked out anyway and Baker would think maybe he’d take a nap too, why not? And when the two of them woke up, the sun would be setting and Baker would start on one of his gourmet dinner menus as they waited for Anna to come home, and when Anna came home, she would say she had already eaten (pizza) at the hospital, and Baker would either throw half the dinner away or carefully pack it into a Tupperware container for Anna to take for lunch the next day, which she would inevitably forget to do and Baker would throw it away out of anger and disgust because his efforts around the house went unappreciated.
He’s so glad he’s not in Houston! He’s so glad he’s no longer with Anna!
Life in the Virgin Islands will be different. After school, Baker and Floyd will go on tropical adventures—to Salt Pond to snorkel with the turtles, to Scoops for ice cream, to the Reef Bay Trail to hike and see the petroglyphs. Even when they simply go home to the villa, they can swim in the dual-level pool or at their private beach. They can play shuffleboard. Baker will invest in field glasses and they’ll bird-watch on the hillside. Irene and Cash are both finished with work in the midafternoon, so one or the other can take care of Floyd while Baker coaches at the school. One or the other will be home at night when Baker wants to take Ayers to Dé Coal Pot or visit her at La Tapa or when they just hang out in Ayers’s studio apartment.
Here in St. John, he has a support system. Here in St. John, he has everything he needs.
The Olive Branch pulls up to the National Park Service dock in fifteen minutes flat. While they tie up, Baker texts his mother and Cash to see if either of them can come get him and Floyd; if they can’t, he’ll have to take a cab to the villa.
“Where do you live?” Baker asks. “We own a villa in Little Cinnamon.”
“I have a villa in the East End,” Dunk says. “I like the quiet.”
Baker nods, though he hasn’t been to the East End. Has he heard of the East End? He’s not sure. It must be special if Dunk lives there.
Dunk points at an island behind them. “That’s Lovango Cay,” he says. “My next project. I bought the island, and now I’m looking for partners to fund a resort, a beach club, and some world-class dining. In case you’re interested?”
Baker laughs. He’s drawn to Dunk, no doubt, but he can’t wait to get away from him. He shakes Dunk’s hand. “Thanks for the ride, man. It was a real treat to meet you. Right, Floyd?”
Floyd shrugs. “You talk funny.”
“Floyd!” Baker says, but Dunk just laughs.
“No worries, mate. You have my card, call anytime, we’ll shoot over to Foxy’s and have a painkiller.”
“All right,” Baker says. “I’ll take you up on that!” He picks up the biggest suitcase and tries to roll it down the dock while holding Floyd’s hand. He needs to check his phone to see if his mother or Cash responded.
“You gonna be okay here?” Dunk asks. “Someone is coming to get you?”
“Yep, all set, all set,” Baker says. It won’t be a G-wagon with a driver but someone will come, he hopes, or if everyone is busy, he’ll schlep every gosh-darn thing they own to the dock in the scorching heat and flag down one of the open-air taxis, the driver of which will probably balk when Baker tells him he lives on a hilltop in Little Cinnamon.
He should have returned Cash’s call from the Houston airport. Not setting up a ride was very shortsighted.
Floyd starts to cry. “It’s hot,” he says. “I want a snack and a juice. Where’s Grammy?”
Baker pulls Floyd along like a toy on a string. “You were asleep when they served the meal on the plane, honey, but I’ll get you something the second we get home. And you can swim in the pool for as long as you want. There are still three whole days until you start school, so we can do some exploring in the Jeep. We’ll take the top off and make it a convertible.”
Instead of placating Floyd, this agitates him further and a mini-tantrum follows. I want the pool now, I want a snack now…Baker swivels his head to check that Dunk Huntley has left and isn’t watching Baker. Dunk Huntley has no idea how difficult dealing with a four-year-old can be.
Sex app, artisanal weed edibles, real estate development. Wasps of Good Fortune. Baker wonders if it’s supposed to be WASPs, as in “white Anglo-Saxon Protestants.” That’s an obnoxious name for a band, and they probably stink despite the early–Men at Work sound, yet Baker can’t deny he finds Young Croc Dunk Samba WASPy Wunderkind Huntley fascinating.
Baker checks his phone. Nothing from his mother or Cash.
He calls Cash. Straight to voicemail.
He calls Irene. She answers on the fifth ring. Her “Hello” is little more than a whisper.
“Mom?” he says.
“Oh, Baker,” she says. Her voice is broken; something is wrong. Baker will ask once he’s off this dock and in one of the air-conditioned Jeeps.
“Is there any way you can pick us up?” Baker says. “We got a ride over from St. Thomas with this guy on his boat and so we’re on the National Park Service dock instead of the regular ferry dock.”
“What?” Irene says. “Where are you?”
“The National Park Service dock.”
“Here?” she says. “On St. John?”
“Yes, here on St. John,” he says. “It’s Thursday, Mom.” He tries not to sound so exasperated because if he’s learned one thing about the Virgin Islands, it’s that every day feels like Saturday.
“Didn’t Cash call you?”
“Yes, he called me—”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Baker says.
Huck
He doesn’t understand women—and how is that possible after so many years of loving them?
Huck grew up with a sister, Caroline, who was a scant two years younger than him and who learned to fish from their father right alongside Huck. But whereas Huck was all about sport-fishing—the hunt, the fight, the elation that came from landing a big one—Caroline liked the quiet elegance of fly-fishing. She showed an uncanny talent for it early on, which was unusual for a child that young. She preferred dancing her line over the flats of Islamorada to a trip out to blue water, and to his credit, their father, the original Captain Powers, nurtured her gift. By the time Caroline was thirteen, she had won every youth fly-fishing competition in the state of Florida, competitions in which she was always the only girl.