Granger wraps the towel around his waist. He’s about Cash’s size, five nine or so, and is in extremely good physical shape, possibly even better shape than Cash, and he’s fifty-six years old. The villa has a full gym with two Peloton bikes; Granger and Tilda’s mother, Lauren, get up at five thirty every morning to ride together, then Granger does his weight regimen, then he swims.
“Want some green juice?” Granger asks Cash. On the counter of the outdoor kitchen is a carafe of liquid the color of shamrocks. It was most likely put there by Virgie, the housekeeper, who moves around the villa with the stealth of a ninja and who, this past week, has refused to let Cash do so much as take his own dishes to the sink.
Guilt—his mother; Baker; Floyd. If they knew how Cash was living, what would they think? “Sure,” Cash says. He accepts a glass of green juice, takes a sip, and immediately wants to spit it out. It’s liquefied kale, he suspects, with maybe a thin slice of apple or one green grape thrown in.
“Lauren and I are very protective where Tilda is concerned,” Granger says. “She tends to show all her cards. She doesn’t have much of a poker face, I’m afraid.” Granger gulps down the entire glass of juice and Cash shivers just watching; he’s unsure he can manage even one more sip. “It’s clear how much she likes you. She says you have other places you can go, so it’s not like you’re using her to avoid being homeless.”
“Right,” Cash says quickly. “That’s right, sir.”
“Please, call me Granger.”
“Granger, sir,” Cash says. He can’t help it; the sir comes automatically. Granger Payne is a sir as surely as Johnny Cash or Muhammad Ali would be a sir. “I could move in with my mother or my brother. And I’ll do that if it makes you more comfortable.” Here, Cash holds Granger’s gaze, willing the older man not to call his bluff. Irene is presently living in Maia’s bedroom at Huck’s house, and Baker is still at the Westin hemorrhaging five hundred dollars a night while he looks for an affordable year-round rental. Cash told Baker that if he found something big enough, Cash would happily move in, share the rent, provide child care for Floyd.
“Okay,” Baker said. “But you’d better have a backup plan.”
Cash had initially considered asking Ayers if he could take over her lease, since she had gotten engaged to Mick and would likely move in with him. He wasn’t sure how much she paid but if she could afford it, then he could, right? They worked at the same place. But Ayers had a second, very lucrative job waiting tables at La Tapa. Cash would likely need to get a second job as well. He should be looking now instead of goofing off every day with Tilda.
The plan of taking over Ayers’s place vanished when Tilda came home from La Tapa with the news that Ayers was no longer engaged. She had given the ring back to Mick.
“Stay here for the time being, please,” Granger says. “I have to admit, I like the idea of having another man around. Tilda and her mother tend to gang up on me. I could use some support.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cash says. He needs to excuse himself so Tilda can drive him to work. He’s dependent on her for everything, and she has been a total rock star, accommodating him and never making him feel bad. I have more than enough privilege for both of us.
“Tilda tells me you used to be in the outdoor-supply business in Colorado,” Granger says. “What happened?”
“Ah,” Cash says. He has any number of responses ready: I got tired of the cold, the lack of oxygen, the stoner teenagers who worked for me stealing from the register. But he suspects that Granger Payne has run a background check on him and maybe also investigated his credit. “I blew it. My father bought me the stores and expected me to know how to run them. But I didn’t learn how to manage them properly until it was too late. I got behind with the bank and they went under. It was quite a learning experience.”
“I’m happy to hear you learned something,” Granger says. “Because I have an exciting business proposition on the horizon, and Tilda is dead set on having you be a part of it. Sweat equity, boots-on-the-ground type of stuff. You’re good with people, I can see that, and you seem to have personal integrity. Another man might have lied to me about the stores or tried to blame the failure on someone else.”
Cash nods. Integrity he has. It’s everything else he’s lacking.
“How well do you handle unexpected setbacks?” Granger asks.
“Um…” Cash says. “Pretty well. I mean, yeah, my life has been one unexpected setback after another recently, but I’m still standing. So I’d say I can deal with just about whatever life throws at me.”
“Good,” Granger says. “Because although Lauren and I are happy to welcome you with open arms, your dog has to go.”
Cash feels like Granger has just taken him into a headlock and is squeezing his windpipe. “Winnie?” he squeaks.
“Winnie,” Granger says. “Lauren and I are far too peripatetic to have pets, and the way she decorated the house—”
“In white,” Cash says. “Right, I get it.” He swallows. “We’ve kept Winnie mostly outside…”
“‘Mostly outside’ won’t cut it with my wife,” Granger says. “And it’s not fair to the dog. So best to find another place for her to wait out this time of transition you’re in.”
“Yes, sir,” Cash says. He’s saved from breaking down in tears in front of Granger when Tilda honks the horn of the Range Rover. “Steele, let’s go!” she calls out.
“Exactly like her mother,” Granger says. He claps Cash on the arm. “All right, Cashman, glad we understand each other.”
On the steep, twisting drive from Peter Bay to town, Tilda says, “How was the inquisition?”
“Most of it was okay. But—”
“But it was a complete ambush,” Tilda says. “I know. I’m sorry. They normally text or call to let me know they’re coming so I can go to Starfish and get their soy milk or whatever. This is highly unusual. I think after I told them you were staying here, they wanted to catch us unawares.”
They succeeded, Cash thinks. The night before, Tilda got home from La Tapa bearing goodies from the kitchen in to-go boxes—a gorgonzola Caesar, pork belly, and wood-grilled sirloin. They lit the candles on the patio table; Tilda opened a good bottle of cabernet from Granger’s wine collection—the Lail 2016 Blueprint—and after she tasted it, she winked at Cash and said, “Notes of fire coral, DEET, and the Tide Pod challenge.”
“Good one!” Cash said. Nonsensical wine descriptions had become a verbal tic of Tilda’s ex, Skip, the bartender at La Tapa, and Tilda and Cash couldn’t stop themselves from riffing on it.
They had just picked up their forks to dig in when they heard voices, and Cash, for one panicked moment, feared another FBI raid—were they coming for him?—but then Tilda scooted back her chair and said, “Well, hello, parents!”
“Don’t you two look cozy,” Lauren Payne said. She was tall with a slender yoga physique like Tilda, but while Tilda sported a pixie cut, Lauren had long golden-brown hair that she’d pulled up in a ponytail. She wore a white linen dress and a pair of leopard-print wedge sandals. She was…pretty. And looked way younger than Cash had expected.
Granger followed close on Lauren’s heels. He wore a tan suit, white shirt, and no tie; he had his hair slicked back, and reading glasses were perched on top of his head. His handshake was brutal, but somehow Cash had anticipated this and gave his firmest effort, complete with eye contact and smile. On the inside, however, Cash felt his confidence evaporate. Her parents were here. What would they think about Cash moving in? Did they know what had happened to his father? His mother? The optics weren’t great; Cash realized this. His father, now dead, had been revealed to have a second family hidden down here, and his sketchy—indeed illegal—business practices had been uncovered. His mother was newly destitute and worked on a fishing boat.
It wasn’t exactly the platinum pedigree that the elder Paynes no doubt wanted for the romantic partner of their only child.
However, the only thing Tilda’s parent
s had objected to in that moment was her opening the 2016 Blueprint. Granger fetched two balloon goblets from the crystal cabinet (Tilda and Cash were drinking the wine out of regular tumblers) and poured wine for himself and Lauren, then they retreated to the master wing, which was so far from Tilda’s wing that it was like a separate house.
When Cash asked how much Tilda’s parents knew about his situation, she said, “I tell my mother everything and she tells my dad.”
“And do they…care?”
“Granger will probably have questions in the morning,” Tilda said.
But neither Tilda nor Cash had thought about the dog.
“So most of it was okay,” Tilda says now. “But not all of it?”
Cash thinks back to the first time Tilda brought him to the Peter Bay villa. Tilda and Cash were caring for Tilda’s very drunk friend Max, and Cash had noticed the villa’s terrifyingly white furnishings because he was afraid Max might vomit on them. And then later, at dinner, Tilda told Cash she volunteered to walk dogs at the shelter because her parents wouldn’t let her get a dog of her own.
But Tilda hadn’t balked for even one second about Cash bringing Winnie with him, though she did suggest Winnie stay only in Tilda’s wing of the house. (The line about Winnie living mostly outside was a lie.) And Virgie, the housekeeper, had seemed not only unbothered by Winnie but downright delighted by her. She had even brought Winnie treats!
“Your dad told me Winnie has to go,” Cash says.
They have reached the parking lot across from Mongoose Junction. Tilda pulls in. “I was afraid of that.”
“I’m not sure what to do,” Cash says.
“Your mom?” Tilda says. “Baker?”
“Maybe?” Cash says. Baker is at a hotel, so the answer is no, or not yet. His mother…argh. She loves Winnie, but she’s a guest herself, just like Cash. He manufactures a smile. “I’ll figure something out. Can you come pick me up at four? If not, I’ll hitch.”
“If you think I’m going to let someone else pick you up, you’re crazy,” she says, and she leans over for a kiss.
“Thank you,” Cash says.
“You’re not allowed to thank me.”
“I know, but…I want you to know that I’m grateful. The timing on all of this was so…bad. Our relationship is still so new and you’ve done so much.”
“All I’ve really done is save you from pining after Ayers,” Tilda says. “I told my mother you used to have a crush on her.”
“You did not,” Cash says. “Why did you do that? It wasn’t even a thing.”
“It was a thing,” Tilda says. “But it’s over now.”
“Over before it began,” Cash says. “Please don’t tell me you’re worried about Ayers.”
“She’s newly single,” Tilda says, shrugging. “And you’re with her every day.”
Cash takes Tilda’s face in his hands. He did have quite an intense crush on Ayers when he first got down here—he and Baker both did—but she ended up with Mick, and Cash’s feelings for her vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. He can still see she’s attractive, but all he feels for her is a brotherly fondness.
“I like you,” Cash says. He looks into Tilda’s hazel eyes. She’s so young, and yet so self-possessed and clearheaded and unspoiled despite her parents’ wealth.
“You’d better.”
“I do.”
“I feel bad about Winnie,” Tilda says. “But my parents will not be moved on the topic of a dog. I’m so sorry.” She kisses him again. “See you at four.”
What is he going to do about Winnie? What is he going to do? He feels unreasonably angry at Tilda’s parents. Winnie is such a good dog—the best of dogs. She’s more human than dog. They would realize that if they took the time to get to know her.
My parents will not be moved on the topic of a dog.
It’s their villa, they make the rules, and they aren’t bad people just because they aren’t dog people. What Cash is angry about is that he has no power. He’s at the mercy of others.
Peripatetic. Cash Googles it: “Of or relating to traveling or moving frequently; in particular, working or based in various places for short periods. Synonyms: nomadic, itinerant.”
Fortunately or unfortunately, there’s no time to ruminate on the situation with Winnie. Treasure Island has a completely full charter today since the boat has been out of commission for over a week, and the first person Cash sees is the captain, James, who does not look happy.
James is six foot six, West Indian, and though he’s only a little older than Cash, Cash thinks of him as a sir.
It’s seven thirty on the dot, so being late isn’t the issue, though there’s already a line of passengers waiting to check in, including a group of forty-something women who, Cash can tell, are ready for a good time. He thinks back to the charter when he babysat Tilda’s drunk friend Max and decides then and there that he’s not opening the bar until the snorkeling part of their trip is over.
“Hey, bruh,” James says and he shakes Cash’s hand. “Ayers isn’t coming. She called in sick.”
“Called in sick?”
“Yeah, bruh, so you’re on your own today.” James glances over at the group of women, who are making no secret of checking out James and Cash. “Good luck.”
Cash can’t believe Ayers called in sick on their first day back. She had all of last week to be sick. He wonders if maybe “sick” has something to do with her broken engagement. Maybe she’s depressed? Should Cash be worried? He’ll text her later. Right now, he has to check in twenty-seven people, record their passport information (since they’re heading to the British Virgin Islands), and collect their money. Mr. and Mrs. Bellhorn from Coral Gables would like to talk to Cash about getting a partial refund since the boat’s mechanical issues pushed this trip back five days, which was quite an inconvenience.
The phrase partial refund spreads like a virus. Everyone in line starts to repeat it because every single person—except for the group of women, who are from Wichita, Kansas—was originally scheduled to come on a different day.
Cash nearly makes a stern announcement that he isn’t the person who handles refunds and if they want to explore that possibility, they need to call the office, but then he realizes that without Ayers, he has an opportunity to shine—and by shine he means “make some serious tip money.” In an instant, his attitude changes. He’s not going to be grouchy Cash who has been left to do the paperwork and make the breakfast and wash the snorkel equipment and check the lines and make sure no one goes overboard and give the historical and ecological details of the Virgin Islands by himself. He is going to be warm, funny, solicitous, helpful Cash. He is going to go out of his way to ensure this is the best charter these twenty-seven people have ever been on.
“This is the number for the main office,” Cash says, sliding Mr. and Mrs. Bellhorn a card. “You want to ask for Whitney. I certainly hope she offers you a partial refund, though of course I can’t guarantee it. I’m very sorry about the inconvenience. I’m a planner myself and I do appreciate your patience.”
Cash smiles. The Bellhorns smile back.
Okay, then. Next!
Somehow, Cash gets it done—everyone present, documented, paid up, and on board enjoying the fruit platter and the coconut-banana bread. People are applying sunscreen. Cash puts on Kenny Chesney’s “Get Along.” The ladies from Wichita belt out, “We ain’t perfect but we try!” That’s Cash’s motto today as well. No matter that he’s flying solo, no matter that he’s been on this job only a few weeks, no matter that his father is dead and his mother broke and his dog homeless. He’s in the Caribbean; the turquoise water is smooth, and the emerald-green islands create an artistic landscape. He doesn’t want to leave St. John, ever. He needs to find someone to take Winnie, at least for a while. He needs to find a way to make his life work.
Granger has a business proposition “on the horizon” that Tilda wants Cash involved in. Yes, Tilda has been talking ambitiously about opening a b
usiness—adventure ecotourism, which would be right in Cash’s wheelhouse. Boots on the ground, sweat equity. He doesn’t have to front any money; he just has to show up. Cash wishes that on the horizon meant next week or even tomorrow.
Cash is the only crew member and James thinks the planned itinerary—a trip to the Baths, snorkeling at the Indians, and then two hours of merrymaking on Jost Van Dyke—will be too much for Cash to handle alone. Instead, James says, they’re going to Smuggler’s Cove, on the western tip of Tortola, followed by stops at Sandy Spit and Willy T’s.
“Oh, man,” Cash says. “Are you sure about that? I’ve never been to any of those places.”
“They’ll snorkel first thing in Smuggler’s Cove,” James says. “There’s a beautiful beach and they can have lunch at Nigel’s. Then back on the boat to Sandy Spit. Then Willy T’s for an hour, then home.” James starts the engine. “Trust me.”
What choice does Cash have?
He’s afraid the passengers will rise up in protest. Not only have many of them had this trip rescheduled, but now they’re not even going where they were supposed to go. They aren’t going to the Baths on Virgin Gorda, which is an experience like no other, and they aren’t going to the world-famous Soggy Dollar.
He expects a mutiny.
But then he gets an idea.
He heads up to the top deck where the nine women from Wichita are sitting. Midwesterners are nice, they’re helpful—Cash knows this because he is one. When Cash checked the women in—Christine, Stephanie, Kelly, Amy, Jennifer P., Jennifer A., Michelle, Tracy, and Donna—he learned that it was Donna’s fiftieth birthday. Over their bathing suits, the women all wore navy T-shirts that read DONNA, DO YOU WANNA?, which Christine told him was a private joke.
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