When Baker pulls the Jeep into the parking lot of Gifft Hill with the other parents, he feels nervous. “It’s going to be fine, buddy,” Baker says. “You’ve already met your teacher. She knows you’re smart, and you’re going to meet new kids.”
“I know,” Floyd says. He has his lunch box with the peanut butter sandwich that Baker made that morning in their hotel room.
A rental, he needs to find a rental—and a real job.
Being with Ayers was Baker’s primary motivation in moving down to St. John, but he has to push thoughts of her away for now. Food, clothing, shelter—then love. He called her; she didn’t answer, but she sent a text: I’ve come down with something. It’s bad and I wouldn’t want you or Floyd to catch it. I’ll call you when I’m better. Frankly, this was a relief; it bought him some time. He assumes she knows what happened from talking to Cash or Maia. As soon as Baker gets settled, he’s going to swing by La Tapa and see her. He’ll ask her out to dinner. They’ll start fresh, as though the whole fraught way they met (at Rosie’s memorial reception, where Baker lied about who he was) and their bizarre first date (they had sex in a beach chair that ended when the chair collapsed) and their one night together (which took place only hours after Ayers had broken up with Mick and two days before she became engaged to Mick) never happened.
They need a clean slate. They’ll get to know each other gradually, without any heavy emotional baggage weighing them down. Everything will be aboveboard, out in the open, uncomplicated.
“Hey there!”
Baker and Floyd have just climbed out of their new Jeep when Baker sees a tall, rail-thin blond woman in expensive yoga clothes (Baker’s eyes land on the woman’s nipples completely by accident) walking toward them and smiling.
“You must be the new dad,” she says. “I’m Swan Seeley. My older son, Colton, is friends with Maia, and my little boy, Ryder, is in kindergarten just like Floyd.” Swan bends over, hands on knees, and looks at Floyd. “Everyone has been waiting for you to get here, Floyd. There’s already a cubby with your name on it and a chair right next to my son Ryder at the blue table, which is where the cool kids sit.”
Baker tries to imagine his school wives’ reaction to the term cool kids. One of them would point-blank tell this woman not to project her own insecurities about social status onto children. Which one would say it? Debbie, he thinks. Unless Ellen beat her to it.
“Blue is my third favorite color,” Floyd announces. “Green first, then red, then blue.” He glances up at Baker. “Can we go in, Dad?”
“Yes, of course,” Baker says. He holds out his hand to Swan and is careful about looking her in the eye. “Thank you for the words of encouragement. I’m Baker Steele.”
She grasps his hand and lays her other hand on top. “Oh, I know who you are. We’ve all been waiting for you to arrive too.”
Floyd has a good first day, then a good second day. All the kids are cool kids. Floyd is happy. Baker is getting there. He has a new Jeep and money in the bank. He checks in with his mother and his brother. Irene is living with Huck, working on the fishing boat, driving around with Huck in his truck like a local. She seems fine…better than fine. Her former boss at the magazine is paying for a real lawyer, a woman who is unraveling the tangle of Russ’s deceits. Cash, meanwhile, is living high on the hog with Tilda from La Tapa, but that hardly seems like a sustainable arrangement.
Maybe, just maybe, Baker will be able to find a place that’s big enough for all of them.
Welcome to Paradise Real Estate, which was owned by Paulette and Douglas Vickers, is now out of business, so Baker decides to try an agency called the Love City Villa Experience, which sounds sort of like an adult film from the 1970s—but maybe that’s a good sign?
Baker walks into the agency and approaches the desk of a middle-aged West Indian woman wearing a cantaloupe-colored blouse and glasses on a chain. The nameplate in front of her says FRANCES.
“I’m looking for a villa rental,” Baker says.
“Good afternoon,” Frances says, sounding like a teacher correcting a student’s grammar.
“Good afternoon,” Baker says quickly. He chastises himself; the most important thing when speaking to anyone in the Virgin Islands is a proper greeting. Frances has probably already pegged Baker as a tourist from a busy place like New York—or Houston—where civility and manners don’t exist. “How are you today? My name is Baker Steele.”
Frances blinks. “Oh,” she says. “Hello.”
Does Frances know who he is? Does she know who his father was? Something about the way she said those two words conveys a yes on both counts. Will she work with him anyway?
He tells her his budget and says he’d like a villa with four bedrooms. She gives him the death stare. He says three. She shakes her head, tsks him. He says, “Two?” She picks up her keys and says, “Come along, son. Let’s find you a home.”
Baker has spent enough time lounging on the couch watching HGTV to know that the places you love are always too expensive and the places that are within your budget are always underwhelming for one reason or another. Frances takes him to look at an apartment on the first switchback of the Centerline Road. It’s fine but the traffic noise is a problem, plus the place looks run-down and the communal pool is green with algae. No. They look at a tiny cottage all the way out past Salt Pond in Coral Bay. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from town, which means ninety minutes spent commuting each day. No. There’s a place near the Cinnamon Bay campground that smells like rot and is swarming with mosquitoes and doesn’t have air-conditioning. No.
Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Frances says she’ll make a comprehensive list; they’ll look again on Saturday. In the meantime, Baker will continue to hemorrhage cash at the Westin. It’s starting to feel like home. There’s a young woman at the front desk named Emily who flirts with Baker, and he flirts back. It’s harmless! The morning after Baker’s fruitless house search, he’s getting his coffee in the lobby when Emily says, “I heard my aunt Fran is helping you find a place to live. And here I thought you were planning on staying with us forever.”
“I’m moving here,” he says. He wonders how his name came up in conversation with her aunt. He wonders if the entire island is whispering about him behind his back. “And I need to find a job.”
“Got a minute?” Emily says. She leads him outside and then across the Westin property to the building where they sell time-shares.
“Oh, I can’t afford to buy a time-share,” Baker says. “Though, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to live at the Westin permanently. It’d be a dream come true.”
“I didn’t bring you here to buy,” Emily says. “I brought you here to sell.”
What is she talking about? She’s talking about an opening they have for a sales associate in the time-share office. Emily leaves Baker with a woman named Jacqui who plops him down for an informal interview. There’s no experience required for the job, though Jacqui loves that Baker has a degree from Northwestern and an MBA. He’s personable. And he now knows the Westin property very well and can extol its many virtues. Baker wanted to get into real estate anyway, didn’t he? This is one way in. There’s a built-in clientele, Jacqui tells him. People show up at the hotel and fall so in love with St. John that they buy time-shares so they can keep coming back. The commission scale is generous—it’s real money—and the hours are flexible. He can work seven thirty to two thirty and then pick Floyd up from school. The job comes with full benefits, and he’ll be good at it. He knows he’ll be good at it.
“I’m a team player,” Baker says. “Sign me up!”
And the hits keep coming! On Baker’s next outing with Frances, they look at a villa called the Happy Hibiscus. It’s a beautiful stone home with cathedral ceilings, two bedrooms, two baths, a modern kitchen, a laundry room, and a small jewel of a pool out back in the garden. It has a gas grill, cable TV, and a yard planted with bismarckia trees. It’s a bit beyond Baker’s budget but he likes it so much, he bend
s. The house is on the flat part of Fish Bay and has no view; frankly, looking at it, you wouldn’t even know you were on an island. Is Baker going to let this bother him? He’s not. The house is directly across the street from Ayers’s place; he can see her little green truck in the driveway when he stands at his front door. This is more of a downside than the price or the lack of a view; Baker doesn’t want to crowd Ayers or have her think he’s stalking her. How will he ever explain that he’s now renting the house across the street? She’s going to think he’s psycho. It’s a small island, but not that small. If he rented any other house, it would give her more breathing room.
Frances must sense his momentary hesitation because she chimes in, “You’d be a fool not to take it, son.”
“I’m no fool,” Baker says, though he suspects he’ll feel like one when he tells Ayers they’re neighbors. “I’ll take it.”
Baker and Floyd go out to dinner to celebrate. Baker stays away from La Tapa. It’s too fancy for Floyd, plus Ayers works there, plus Swan Seeley was lurking in the school parking lot that afternoon (waiting for him?), and she told Baker that she would be having dinner at the bar at La Tapa that evening around seven and why didn’t he join her? The invitation had unmistakable romantic intent, so now Baker has to avoid Swan at all costs.
They try the Banana Deck, but from the bottom of the stone steps, Baker can see Cash sitting at the bar by himself. It’s surreal, bumping into his family around the island (Baker saw his mother at the market). Under other circumstances, Baker might say, What the heck, let’s eat with Uncle Cash and catch up. But the truth is, he’s not quite ready to fill his brother in on everything that’s been happening, meaning that he doesn’t want to break the news to Cash that he’s renting a two-bedroom place that doesn’t have space for him (except a sofa to crash on in case of emergency) and that is directly across the street from Ayers’s house. Ayers might not call him a stalker to his face, but Cash most certainly will.
“Let’s go, buddy,” Baker says, wheeling Floyd around. They check at Lime Inn, but there’s a forty-five-minute wait, and that won’t work—Floyd is four years old; Baker has to get him fed. The Longboard has a line, and High Tide is still filled with happy-hour revelers.
What about Cruz Bay Landing? Someone at the Westin pool this past week was raving about the shrimp appetizer, which sounds good to Baker, and he can get Floyd a burger. They go over, and there are a couple of seats at the bar and a guitar player singing “Waiting on a Friend.”
“Ooh, making love and breaking hearts, it is a game for youth,” Baker sings quietly. He orders a beer for himself and a ginger ale for Floyd and checks out the menu. He’s so happy to not be eating ramen noodles with hot dogs again tonight that it takes him a minute to realize that he knows the guy sitting a few stools away with a rum punch and a Corona and a velvet ring box in front of him, a bucket-headed American Staffordshire terrier leashed to his bar stool.
It’s Mick.
Baker is halfway off his bar stool, ready to leave—they can just go to Ronnie’s for pizza—when Mick sees him.
“Hey,” Mick says. “Banker! It’s Banker, right?” Mick sounds like the town drunk, his voice overly loud and his speech slurred. The guitar player ends the song; the bartender says, “Easy, Mick,” as though he’s expecting a scene. But there’s not going to be a scene. Floyd is there. Does Mick see Floyd, Baker’s little boy?
“Baker,” Baker says, extending a hand. “How’ve you been, man?” Baker asks the question in earnest, though anyone can see Mick has not been well. What’s with the velvet box? (Baker can guess.) And the poor dog. Floyd clambers down off his bar stool and stands a respectful distance away, regarding the dog.
“Can I pet him?” Floyd asks Mick.
“Sure!” Mick says. “His name is Gordon. Old Gordie-Gordo. You can take him for a walk around the park if you want. He could use the exercise.”
“Is it okay, Dad?” Floyd asks.
No! Baker thinks. It’s getting dark and Powell Park is cast in shadows. But the park is only a couple steps away from the restaurant patio and what kind of father tells his son he can’t walk a dog? “Why not?” Baker says. “Once around only, okay? Stay on the path. Don’t let him go.”
“Gordie won’t run off,” Mick says. “He’s a good dog. Likes to sniff things.”
Floyd takes Gordon’s leash and, looking self-important and three inches taller, leads him a few steps away. Baker puts in an order with the bartender for the shrimp appetizer, a grilled mahi sandwich, and a kid’s burger.
Then Baker drains his beer and pretends to watch the basketball game on TV, Duke against North Carolina. Mick is here, and Floyd is walking Mick’s dog, so there are no hard feelings. Everything is fine. Is everything fine?
“Word on the street?” Mick says.
“Excuse me?” Baker says.
“Word on the street is that Ayers is pregnant,” Mick says.
Baker flags down the bartender for another beer, then puts his eyes on Floyd. Floyd has stopped to let Gordon sniff. Ayers is pregnant.
“Really,” Baker says. He thinks of the text she sent him. I’ve come down with something. It’s bad and I wouldn’t want you or Floyd to catch it. I’ll call you when I’m better. She’s pregnant?
“That’s what I heard,” Mick says. He raises his Corona to Baker. “So I guess congratulations are in order.”
Baker feels like he’s suffered a grave injury—lost a limb, maybe—but has yet to feel the pain. “Yeah, man, congratulations.” He would like the congratulations to be accompanied by giving Mick a sock in the mouth or pouring Mick’s drinks over his head. Mick doesn’t deserve Ayers. He sure as hell doesn’t deserve to have a baby with Ayers. But that’s the way the world always works, isn’t it? The jerks win.
“Congratulations to you,” Mick says. “The baby’s not mine.”
“What?” Baker says.
“It’s not mine,” Mick says. He drains his rum punch in one long swallow and bangs the empty glass on the bar. “It’s yours.”
Huck
He sees the Jeep with the tinted windows idling at the base of Jacob’s Ladder in the morning when he and Irene take Maia to school, then he sees it again in the National Park Service lot when he and Irene are letting off their charter clients. The clients were a couple, the husband reeking of weed and high as a kite and the wife spending the entire six-hour offshore trip glowering at him from under her wide-brimmed sun hat. Irene had tried to draw the woman out, tried to put her on a mahi, but the wife was having none of it. That was fine; Irene cut bait and left her alone. It wasn’t her job to make friends or play marriage counselor.
“Some people like being miserable,” Irene murmurs to Huck as the couple head off the dock like two of the Seven Dwarves—Dopey and Grumpy. “It’s what brings them joy.”
I love you, Huck thinks, and that’s when he notices the Jeep again. Black Jeep, tinted windows. He checks the license plate and repeats it in his head—TP 6756—but two seconds after the Jeep drives away, he’s forgotten it.
Could be just a coincidence, a tourist driving around. Tinted windows are legal, though you don’t find them on rental vehicles.
He shakes his head. He’s thinking of Oscar Cobb, Rosie’s old boyfriend, the one with the Ducati motorcycle who, after he was released from prison, drove a Jeep with tinted windows. Oscar’s Jeep called attention to itself; it was jacked up, sitting on top of thirty-five-inch BFG mudders.
Huck is thinking of Oscar Cobb again because even though he promised himself he wouldn’t, he has been reading steadily through Rosie’s journals. It was as simple and irrevocable as Eve taking the first bite of the apple; one taste and Huck was damned.
The journals were a trip back in time. Rosie was single, working at Caneel Bay, living with Huck and LeeAnn. Oscar Cobb came sniffing around, and Rosie resisted. (LeeAnn, Huck thought, would have been so proud of how Rosie resisted!) Russell Steele had stepped between Rosie and Oscar one night. He put Oscar into some
kind of death grip, and despite himself, Huck cheered for the guy. That was the beginning of the relationship; it was damn near accidental. Russ hadn’t been on the prowl looking to hook up with anyone. He’d seen a person in trouble and he’d helped out. The affair lasted the weekend, and that, Huck supposed, would have been that—were it not for Maia.
There are two places in the journals where Huck choked up. The first was the description of the morning Rosie announced she was pregnant. If Huck had had to remember this on his own, he would have come up blank. But reading the scene in Rosie’s handwriting carried him back to the exact moment—his own kitchen, a typical morning. LeeAnn was wearing her raspberry scrubs, her nails painted to match. She was drinking the cup of coffee that Huck always made for her, awaiting her egg and toast. Huck had been dressed for a charter. He wonders now who he’d taken out on the boat that day and what they’d caught and if he’d seemed distracted because of the news his stepdaughter had dropped at breakfast. What Huck does remember is his fear about LeeAnn’s reaction. LeeAnn’s number-one priority since the day Huck met her had been keeping Rosie from messing up her life in exactly this way. She had gotten Rosie through high school and through college without her becoming pregnant with Oscar’s baby.
That day, Rosie swore the baby wasn’t Oscar’s. She said it was a white fella’s, a businessman who’d stayed at the hotel. A pirate. Huck was skeptical. LeeAnn was more than skeptical.
“We’ll know the truth when this baby is born,” she said.
The second place Huck tears up is at Rosie’s description of Maia losing her first tooth. Again, the breakfast table, again toast, because at some point, Huck began making an egg and toast for Maia as well as for LeeAnn. The tooth popped out and skittered across the kitchen floor. Huck found it after a few minutes of hunting—Maia had been worried, the Tooth Fairy and all that—and when he held it up, she’d wrapped her arms around his legs. That was right before LeeAnn got sick and died. The end of the golden days, though of course, none of them had any idea it was the end. And that, Huck supposes, is why it makes him emotional. His life was blessed and he hadn’t appreciated it like he should have.
Troubles in Paradise Page 12
