“For the record,” Huck says, “at the time, I had no idea any of this was going on.”
“Your wife did,” Irene says. “LeeAnn!”
“Watch it,” Huck says. “Please.”
“LeeAnn knew I existed. She knew my name!”
“Yes, and if you read carefully, LeeAnn said that if Rosie didn’t stop seeing Russ, she would call you.” Huck clears his throat. “LeeAnn didn’t condone the relationship for one second, Irene. She never would have. She wasn’t like that.”
“What about you, Huck? You expect me to believe that LeeAnn didn’t tell you what was going on? You weren’t informed that Rosie was seeing a married man?”
“LeeAnn kept her business with Rosie between herself and Rosie.”
“But you were her husband.”
Huck gives Irene a hard stare. “I’m not sure I owe you an explanation.” He sighs. “LeeAnn and Rosie’s relationship was tumultuous, Irene. It had deep fault lines that weren’t visible to the casual observer. Although most of the time things were fine between them, there would be tremors. And some of those tremors turned into earthquakes. I didn’t get in the middle. So, no, I didn’t know Rosie was seeing a married man.”
“And when she started seeing Russ after LeeAnn died? The Invisible Man, Huck? You didn’t ask questions?”
“After LeeAnn died…I was lost for a long time. I was self-absorbed. I knew Rosie was dating someone; I asked to meet him, and Rosie was dead set against it. I didn’t push. Maybe I should have, but she was a grown woman.”
“She was living under your roof! She was your—”
“Daughter,” Huck says. “Yes, yes, she was. But you have two grown children of your own, Irene. Are you accountable for their actions?”
“My sons are good people,” Irene says. “I raised them right.”
“Fine, I agree, you did. That’s not my point. My point is you can’t control how they act. Cash lost the stores in Colorado. Was that your fault? Both Baker and Cash lied to Ayers about who they were when they first got here. Was that your fault?”
“No,” Irene says.
“Rosie made a mistake, Irene, but as the saying goes, it takes two to tango. That affair was fifty percent her fault.” Huck feels his blood pressure rising. “I could just as easily be furious that Russ led Rosie on for so many years. That Russ’s business dealings got her killed. Leaving my granddaughter without a mother!” He’s losing control—and it feels good! Irene isn’t the only one allowed to feel angry and hurt. The affair was 50 percent Russ’s fault, but the illegal business was 100 percent his fault.
Irene stares at Huck for a long second, her eyes narrowed. “‘Love is messy and complicated and unfair,’” she says. “Quote, unquote, from Rosie herself, and I agree. It’s not fair that I have feelings for the man who should be my enemy. Your words just now crystallized our problem. You should be furious with Russ. He was to blame for their deaths, at least indirectly. We’re on different sides of this, Huck. And because of that, I can’t work for you and I can’t live here. I’m sorry.”
“So—what?” Huck says. “You’re quitting and you’re moving out? Where will you go?”
“To Baker’s for the time being, then I’ll figure something out,” Irene says. “It’s none of your concern.”
None of your concern. How can she say that? “What you told Jack and Diane is true?” Huck asks. “You’re striking out on your own? Getting your captain’s license? Starting your own charter? Any idea how difficult that’s going to be? You don’t know anyone on this island except for me.” This comes out all wrong; he sounds like a complete bastard when what he really wants to say is Please don’t leave me.
“I’m going to pack my things,” Irene says. “Which shouldn’t take long, but I’d appreciate it if you weren’t here when I left.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” Huck says. “You’re ordering me out of my own house. After I took you in and gave you a home and gave you a job and…” He wants to say Gave you my love—but no, he won’t let her have the satisfaction. She wants to leave? Fine, she can leave. She wants to throw away the relationship? Great. Maybe she’s right, maybe they are on different sides of this goddamned situation, maybe the stupidest thing he ever did was let her on his boat that first day.
But even as Huck is thinking this, he knows it’s not true. They are on the same side because they’re alive. They’re the survivors. “I’ll leave,” Huck says. “But just remember what you told me yesterday, Irene.”
She cocks an eyebrow. Her expression now is more sassy than angry; she looks like a rebellious teenager.
“You said you would find a way to forgive them.”
Irene retreats to the bedroom and slams the door behind her.
When Huck gets out to his truck, he lights a cigarette and flies down Jacob’s Ladder faster than he should. He checks the spot where the black Jeep with the tinted windows was waiting that morning, but it’s not there. Too bad, because he’s in the mood for a confrontation. He wonders if the woman is a reporter. Or someone sent by the FBI to watch them. Or…someone sent by Croft to watch them. Maybe it’s good that Irene is leaving. He doesn’t need strangers lurking around him and his granddaughter.
When Huck reaches the bottom of the hill, he has to decide where he’s going. He could pick up some barbecue from Candi’s but he won’t be able to eat a thing and Maia would be just as happy with peanut butter and jelly.
Her own charter boat. Ha!
He should have passed the journals on to Vasco. People think they want the truth but they can’t handle the truth! Huck supposes it’s possible that Irene would have reacted like this if he’d given the journals to the FBI without telling her about them. He was damned either way.
He toys with the idea of going to a bar for a beer and a shot, something to calm him down, but that’s not the answer tonight. He could only too easily end up like Mick, chained to a bar stool at CBL making a spectacle of himself.
Huck drives through town, past Mongoose Junction, and up the wide, sweeping hill to the sunset-view spot over Cruz Bay. He pulls over and parks. There are a dozen or so people, several couples and one family, waiting for the sun to drop into the ocean. They have their cameras out—of course. These days, a picture of a thing is more important than the thing itself. But Huck is old enough to remember otherwise. He’s old enough to watch the sun go down and the fiery pink brush-stroking the clouds and do nothing but think.
At first he’s melancholy. The sun is setting on the last day he will ever spend with the Angler Cupcake, Irene Steele.
But then he thinks, No, that won’t do.
He’s a pretty smart guy, resourceful. He’s going to find a way to get her back.
Ayers
The phone rings at midnight but Ayers doesn’t wake up until she feels Winnie’s cold nose pushing against the back of her hand. The dog has proven to be eerily in touch with the human world. Your phone is ringing! Yes, Ayers hears the muffled tone; she digs it out from under the rumpled covers of her bed.
The screen tells her it’s Mick.
Ayers huffs and hits Decline. She was so tired after her shift at La Tapa that she face-planted on her bed still in her uniform, still in her clogs, and when Winnie jumped onto the bed with her, she didn’t protest. The phone goes dark for a second, then lights up again, and again Winnie nudges Ayers.
“Argh,” Ayers says, but she answers. “What? What, Mick, what?”
Mick is crying.
“What’s wrong?” Ayers asks, then remembers that she no longer cares what’s wrong.
“Can I come over?” he asks.
“No,” Ayers says.
“Please?”
Ayers summons her resolve. It would be only too easy to relent. Okay, fine, you can come, but you’re not staying long. Mick would step inside, bringing their nine-year history with him. It’s not that Mick is even that attractive, but he’s attractive to her. He has that something. Ayers loves his hands, and the tattoo of Gordon�
�s paw print under his left rib, and the way he squints when he looks at her like he’s looking at the sun. They have good memories, years of them—snorkeling and hiking and partying on the water and on land. How many times had Mick anchored a boat off Water Island so they could swim ashore and get bushwackers from Dinghy’s? How many times had they played the brass-ring game at the Soggy Dollar or rolled the dice at Cruz Bay Landing? How many times did they stand in line together at the post office or at the bank to deposit their paychecks, pinkie fingers entwined? How many brunches up at the Banana Deck, how many hikes to Ram Head, how many times had Mick dropped Ayers off at Driftwood Dave’s on their way home from the beach so she could run in for two rum punches to go while he drove around the block? How many times had Mick saved Ayers the corner seat at the Beach Bar while he was working so she could have a front-row view of the band? He used to sneak up behind her and kiss her shoulder, take a surreptitious sip of her drink.
“I’m asleep,” Ayers says. “Go home to bed, Mick. Or call Brigid.”
“I don’t want to call Brigid. I don’t care about Brigid. That night at the beach, she trapped me.”
“You kissed her, Mick,” Ayers says. “Right?” They haven’t had a conversation since Ayers broke their engagement, so she hasn’t heard Mick admit his guilt.
“Yes,” Mick says. “I kissed her. We kissed.”
Something inside Ayers zips shut, a tiny compartment where she held out hope that maybe it wasn’t true. “Thank you for telling me. We’re done. I gave you a second chance, and you blew it. I have self-worth and self-respect and you, my friend, have a problem with commitment, fidelity, and honesty.” Ayers runs her hand down Winnie’s back for comfort. “This theater production you’ve been starring in at Cruz Bay Landing is a pathetic plea for attention but it’s also a subtle way to make everyone we know think that this is my fault. You’re playing the injured party when you’re the one who screwed it up.” Ayers’s anger energizes her; she sits up, kicks off her clogs. “You’re making an ass of yourself. You’ve become the village idiot.”
“I kissed Brigid,” Mick says. “I own that. But even if I hadn’t kissed Brigid, the engagement would be over. And why? Why, Ayers? Because you’re pregnant with Banker’s baby, that’s why.”
Ayers falls back. Winnie gets to her feet and stands over her. “Who told you that?”
“It’s all over town,” Mick says.
“No,” Ayers says. Did Cash tell Tilda, who then told Skip, who then told Mick? “I haven’t told anyone.”
“You didn’t have to,” Mick says. “You took a leave of absence from the boat, you missed shifts at La Tapa, Skip said he heard you retching in the ladies’ room before service. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. Skip actually congratulated me, thinking I was the father. But I’m not. Both you and I know that I’m not.”
“No,” Ayers says.
“And now Banker knows too.”
Ayers feels dizzy, like she’s on some kind of crazed rocking horse. “What?”
“He and his little boy sat next to me at CBL earlier tonight,” Mick says. “I told him.”
Ayers is so addled that she’s certain there’s no way she’ll be able to fall back to sleep.
But she does, immediately.
When she wakes up in the morning, there’s a text from Baker. Good morning! You feeling any better?
He knows.
Does she tell him that she knows he knows? Or should she just pretend the phone call with Mick never happened and tell him herself?
The latter. Mick is irrelevant.
She thinks about sending a text back, something along the lines of Not sick, pregnant. It’s yours!
Whoa! The room is spinning. Ayers races for the bathroom and throws up. When she emerges, Winnie is stationed outside the door.
“Do you need to go out?” Ayers asks. Winnie trots over to the front door and waits. “I can’t walk you this second, I’m sorry. Just do your thing and come right back, okay?” Ayers opens the door and Winnie obeys, taking care of business efficiently and then slipping back inside past Ayers’s legs. She’s such a good dog; much better than Gordon, if Ayers is being honest. Gordon would have sniffed around for twenty minutes and couldn’t be trusted if a car or another dog came past. Of course, Winnie is female, so that alone explains it.
Ayers takes a four-seven-eight breath and pours herself half a glass of warm ginger ale. She calls Baker, who answers on the first ring.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning?” Ayers says. He sounds awfully chipper. It occurs to Ayers that maybe Mick lied about telling Baker that Ayers is pregnant. “Listen, Baker, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“If you want to talk in person, I can be there in two seconds,” Baker says.
What she wants is to hang up and go back to bed. She sighs. She can’t put this conversation off much longer. “Okay.”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three—there’s a knock at the door. Winnie shoots over and starts barking.
“Just a minute!” Ayers says. Is that him? Had he been standing outside when she called him? Ayers hurries to the bathroom, takes in her pasty complexion, her bed-mussed hair, her rumpled uniform shirt. Does she stink? Probably. She tries to rub deodorant on without taking off her shirt. She piles her hair on top of her head. Better? Worse? Worse, she decides. She lets it go. Oh, well.
When she swings the door open, there’s Baker, looking tan and relaxed. He’s gorgeous—tall, broad, smiling in that gee-whiz midwestern way. Ayers is struck by something she has willfully ignored until now. She likes Baker. A lot.
Winnie barks. She wants to jump on him, Ayers can tell; her slender golden body is shimmying with energy, her tail is going nuts. It’s not her daddy, but close—his brother.
“Hey, I recognize you,” Baker says to Winnie. And then, to Ayers, “Hello, beautiful.”
If Ayers weren’t pregnant, this moment would be so sexy. She would be wearing a bikini or a sundress or hiking shorts and they would be heading out into the sunshine to start their relationship.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
“I know,” he says. “Can I come in?”
Ayers figures she’s about six weeks along. A check of the internet reveals that her baby is likely the size of a pea.
Will there come a day twenty-five or thirty years from now when Ayers tells Sweet Pea about the morning she invited Baker Steele inside her tiny, disheveled home to discuss Sweet Pea’s very existence? What will Ayers remember? Baker’s handsome face may be forgotten, but what will stick with Ayers is her own sense of bewilderment. She’s attracted to Baker, but she doesn’t know the first thing about him. He might as well be a stranger at the airport who asks her to travel with a mysterious piece of luggage.
They settle on the sofa. Winnie is at Baker’s side now—fickle girl.
“It’s your baby,” Ayers says.
“I heard.”
“I want to make that clear. It’s yours, not Mick’s. Also, I’m finished with Mick.”
“You’re sure? Because you said that last time and it didn’t end up being true. I was gone for two days and you got engaged to the guy.”
When he says it that way, it sounds awful. It was awful. In agreeing to marry Mick, Ayers was unfair to all parties involved—Baker, Mick, and, most of all, herself. “I thought it was what I’d been waiting for,” Ayers says. “It was validating after what happened with Brigid to feel like he was choosing me, to feel like I’d won.”
“You told me that story about your parents in Kathmandu. The hiccup, your mother with another man.” Baker’s gaze wanders over to the travel photographs Ayers has on her wall. “In telling me that story, you made me feel like the hiccup.”
Ayers can’t believe she told Baker the story about her parents in Kathmandu. Her mother had had a brief affair with a British expat bar owner…or she hadn’t; Ayers isn’t sure to this day. Ayers pulled that story out, she supposes, becaus
e she wanted to justify forgiving Mick. She was making excuses for him. But she was finished with that now.
“This doesn’t have to look any certain way,” Baker says. “First question: Do you want to keep the baby?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Great. Second question: Do you want to have the baby and still be with Mick, Ayers? If the answer is yes, I will understand.”
“You will?”
“Yes. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Ayers says. “I told you, I’m finished with Mick. That’s my final answer, in the name of self-respect.”
Palpable relief emanates from Baker.
“But,” Ayers says.
“But?”
“I don’t know that I can be with you either, not right away. I think I need to be alone for a while.”
“Alone.”
“Romantically alone, yes. I need some time and I need some space.” This is something Ayers has given a lot of thought to. If she weren’t pregnant, she might have climbed right into bed with Baker, forging ahead without any introspection. On to the next guy! She would have used Baker like a bandage, plastering his love and devotion over the wounds that Mick left. But being pregnant changes things. Ayers needs to be alone. She needs to worry less about falling in love with someone else and instead fall in love with herself. It’s the best gift she can bestow on this child: a mother who is happy and capable and whole.
Ayers puts a hand on Baker’s arm. “But we can be friends.”
“Friends.”
“Until I feel like I’m ready to start something new. I don’t want this baby to dictate my love life. I want my heart to dictate that.”
“We’re not exactly starting from ground zero,” Baker says. “We have something to work with. I fell in love with you the second I saw you—”
“Don’t say love.” Ayers collapses back into the cushions. “Before I found out I was pregnant, I figured we could just start over, go on some dates, take things slow, do it properly.”
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