“That’s what I thought too.”
“Nothing says taking it slow like instant family.”
They laugh. It’s funny for a few seconds.
“You heard we lost the villa?” Baker says.
“Maia told me. She said you were looking for a rental?”
“Yep, yep. I stayed at the Westin for so long that they offered me a job selling time-shares, which I accepted.”
“Seriously?”
“I start Monday,” Baker says. “And I got Floyd settled at Gifft Hill with the cool kids.”
“All the kids at Gifft Hill are cool,” Ayers says.
“My feelings exactly,” Baker says. He gives her an uncomfortable smile. “And I found a villa.”
“You did?” Ayers says. “Where?”
“Across the street,” Baker says. “The Happy Hibiscus.”
At this, Winnie barks in a way that sounds like a laugh.
“The Happy Hibiscus? Right across the street?”
“Yes,” Baker says. “Floyd and I are moving in…today.”
“Today?”
“I was just over there dropping off groceries.”
“Ah,” Ayers says. She rubs Winnie behind the ears. So much for space, she thinks. She and the Steeles are becoming one big extremely nontraditional family. She casts her eyes skyward. Rosie is either laughing or crying up there. Or both.
Cash
The night before Tilda leaves on her weeklong research trip with Dunk, she and Cash drink a bottle of Granger’s Cristal while skinny-dipping in the pool (Granger and Lauren are gone, off to LA) and then Cash makes love to Tilda on the round sun bed under a crescent moon. Later, when they’re wrapped in the luscious Turkish towels, gazing at the twinkling lights of Tortola, Tilda cries a little. She doesn’t want to go away without him, she says. She’s going to miss him.
“It’s only a week,” Cash says. His casual attitude is an act. He can’t believe this is happening. Tilda is going to Anguilla, St. Lucia, and a tiny private island called Eden, home to a resort so exclusive that you have to be invited to stay there; management curates its guests as though it’s selecting art for a museum. (How did Tilda and Dunk make the cut? Cash wonders. He hopes it was through Granger’s prodigious network and not Dunk’s influence.)
Tilda and Dunk have separate rooms at Midi et Minuit, the resort on Anguilla, and at Emerald Hill on St. Lucia. But of the dozen freestanding villas at Eden, only one is available during Tilda and Dunk’s stay. So they’ll be sharing.
“You’d better behave yourself,” Tilda says, resting her head on Cash’s chest. “No picking up women at the Soggy Dollar.”
“What about you?” Cash asks. “Are you going to behave yourself?”
“Oh, please,” Tilda says. “You never have a thing to worry about with me. But especially not with Dunk.”
The next day, as Cash is aboard Treasure Island heading for Virgin Gorda, a boat cuts in front of them going at least sixty knots—it’s coming from the direction of the East End and heading for St. Thomas. It’s the Olive Branch, of course. Tilda and Dunk are sitting in the stern, laughing. Cash hears the captain yell out and Cash wonders if this will finally be the time James calls the Coast Guard to complain. Or maybe Cash will call the Coast Guard himself. Dunk did this on purpose; is he trying to make a point to Cash? I’m taking off with your girl. Tilda is wearing a black sundress Cash has never seen before; it’s sleek and sophisticated, possibly borrowed from her mother’s closet. She’s also wearing a pair of dark cat’s-eye sunglasses, Tom Ford, that Cash knows she lifted from Lauren.
When Tilda sees Cash, she waves and blows a kiss. She seems older and more glamorous, as though she outgrew him overnight.
“Hold on!” Cash calls to his passengers as the boat slams into the Olive Branch’s wake.
With Tilda away, Cash has the villa in Peter Bay to himself; Virgie, the housekeeper, has been given the week off. Another guy might revel in the freedom, might make a list of all the ways to push the envelope. Cash can borrow liberally from Granger’s wine fridge and make a trip to Starfish Market for thick, marbled steaks and charge them to the house account. He can snoop through the master wing—Granger and Lauren’s bedroom, sitting room, closets, offices, and bathroom—and see what secrets he can dig up. Money? Pills? He can bring Winnie back; he can let Winnie swim in the pool. Of all these ideas, only the last one holds any appeal—although Cash suspects that the villa has cameras placed so strategically that he can’t even find them and block them.
The first night alone, Cash cracks a beer and checks his phone frequently to see if Tilda has texted or called. She and Dunk were taking his boat all the way to San Juan and flying to Anguilla from there. Tilda sent the full itinerary to Cash’s phone and when he looks at it, he sees that she was supposed to land in Anguilla at three o’clock. At seven, he still hasn’t heard from her and so what is he to think but that she has forgotten all about him? She and Dunk landed on the tiny airstrip and were whisked away by a private car—Cash pictures a vintage Peugeot—to the lush tropical entrance of Midi et Minuit. Midi et Minuit, built in the 1920s, was the private beachfront estate of French perfume heiress Helene Simone until the early 1980s, when it was transformed into a resort. In those days, it attracted guests like John and Cristina DeLorean and Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson, and it was famous for its midnight disco parties. The owners went bankrupt in the crash of 1987, and Midi et Minuit closed until the year 2000, when it was bought by a businessman from Monte Carlo who poured fifty-five million dollars into the property and turned it into the epitome of “low-key luxury” and “barefoot chic.”
Cash wonders if Tilda and Dunk were greeted with welcome cocktails and chilled towels while the hotel’s most famous resident, Bijou, a Yorkshire terrier, yipped around Tilda’s ankles until she scooped him up and gave him kisses. Were Dunk and Tilda mistaken for a couple? Undoubtedly yes, despite the reservation for separate rooms. Or maybe during their day of travel, Tilda and Dunk had bonded over their excitement about this new venture; maybe they’d had drinks on the plane, and maybe Tilda fell asleep with her head accidentally leaning on Dunk’s shoulder. Maybe by the time they reached the resort, they asked to share a room. But no, not yet, not the first night. Cash has enough faith in Tilda to know that nothing has happened between them yet.
Why hasn’t she called? Or at least texted to let him know she arrived safely?
Cash’s fingers hover over his phone. Should he text her?
No, he won’t. And he’s not going to sit around the villa pining away either. He doesn’t have money to waste on going out to dinner, but, oh, well, he’s doing it anyway. He drives Tilda’s Range Rover into Cruz Bay and sits at the bar at the Banana Deck. He orders the shrimp curry and chats with the bartender, Kim, who immediately says, “You hang out with Tilda Payne, right? I saw you two at Christmas Cove a few weeks ago. Is she working tonight?”
“She’s…away,” Cash says. Kim seems friendly enough for Cash to spill his guts to. He could tell her that Tilda is away for a week with some millennial millionaire who lives out in the East End, but how pathetic would that sound? Instead, Cash raises his beer glass. “I’ll have another one, please.”
He stops at two beers, eats his curry, and chats a little more with Kim, telling her that he works on the Treasure Island.
She says, “Oh yeah?” and studies him for a second. “You know, rumor has it that Ayers is pregnant.”
Whoa! This is unexpected. Cash’s face must register genuine shock because Kim leans across the bar. “I shouldn’t have said that, it’s probably not true, please don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Cash says. Kim moves down the bar to help another customer and Cash realizes their conversation is over. He scans the place to see if anyone looks familiar or even promising to talk to; he needs some friends. He thinks about stopping by La Tapa on his way home to give Ayers a heads-up that her secret is out, but that will only upset her, and swinging by Tilda’s place o
f work while Tilda is away feels weird and desperate. Besides which, Skip will be working, and he hates Cash’s guts.
Cash pays the bill, waves to Kim, and tries to look like a man who has important people to meet. He could check out Beach Bar, see if a band is playing tonight, or he could try his luck at the Parrot Club, though he definitely does not have money to gamble away. Another drink sounds appealing—maybe at the Dog House Pub, where he can watch basketball on TV? But he’s driving Tilda’s Range Rover, it’s a seventy-thousand-dollar vehicle, and two drinks is a wise limit.
He checks his phone, which he miraculously avoided doing all through dinner (there is nothing more pathetic than a dude alone at dinner looking at his phone) and finds nothing from Tilda. For an instant, he wonders if she’s okay. Did her plane crash? Was she kidnapped? Or, a more likely possibility, did something happen to her phone? Did she leave it in the airport restroom? Did it fall into her personal plunge pool? If anything dire had happened, Cash assumes he would have heard from Granger or Lauren. If something happened to her phone, she would have simply texted from Dunk’s phone.
Tomorrow, maybe he’ll see if James the boat captain wants to grab a drink. James will say no; he has a wife and a baby girl out in Coral Bay, and he likely gets his fill of Cash while they’re on the boat.
Well, it’s not like Cash doesn’t know anyone else on the island. He calls his mother—gets her voicemail. Then he calls his brother—gets his voicemail.
Cash tosses his phone onto the seat beside him and yells as loud as he can. The sound, desperate even to his own ears, is absorbed by the expensive leather.
Cash wakes up in the morning to a new day—chirping geckos, singing birds, blue sky, pearlescent sunlight. There’s a text from Tilda. Finally. Cash opens it.
It says: Arrived! Followed by a single kissy-face emoji. Sent at…12:47 a.m.
Cash stares at the text, willing it to say something else, something more. She was supposed to land yesterday at three in the afternoon. Why is she only texting him at a quarter to one the following morning? He checks to see if there’s a missed call from her. Nope. So this is it. Technically, it checks the box—she’s let him know she made it safely—but it feels perfunctory, like an afterthought. Oops, forgot to text Cash. Does she miss him? If the answer is yes, why doesn’t she say so? She used to text that she missed him if the Treasure Island was a few minutes late pulling into Cruz Bay or if he got held up in the customhouse coming back from the BVIs. This feels like a blow-off. Why did she wait so long to text and what was she doing up so late?
Cash texts back: Glad you made it safely. I miss you!
He waits to see if she responds, but there’s nothing. She must still be sleeping.
While Cash is driving to work, his phone rings and his whole body relaxes. There she is.
He’s on the dicey curve above Hawksnest so he answers without checking the display. “Hello?” He has the radio up, 104.3 the Buzz out of San Juan, which is playing Michael Franti, and he makes no move to turn it down. He wants to sound happy, busy, unconcerned.
“Cash?”
It’s not Tilda. It’s his mother.
Cash is so crushed, he nearly hangs up.
“Hey,” he says, and he does turn down the music. He’s no longer in a “Sound of Sunshine” mood.
“Cash? It’s Mom. Listen, I have some good news.”
Good news at this point would be Tilda calling to say that Dunk’s picture should be next to douchebag in the dictionary and that she can’t stand him another second and is on her way home, hotel research be damned. He can’t believe how strongly he feels about Tilda. He knew the relationship was promising but his feelings have ratcheted up to the next level now that she’s gone. Gone with Dunk. “Oh, really?” Cash says. He wonders briefly if Irene’s attorney somehow managed to get the villa back. What a major relief that would be! He could leave Peter Bay and regain at least a little of his self-respect.
“Milly’s estate is through probate,” Irene says. “She had stocks that your grandfather bought back in the late 1970s that were sold for us. To the tune of a hundred and seventeen thousand dollars. Now, I wanted to split that four ways—you, your brother, Maia, and myself.”
“Good call including Maia,” Cash says. “That’s really decent of you, Mom.”
“Well, just listen. It turns out Baker doesn’t need the money. He got money from Anna. So Milly’s money will be split three ways. By next week, you’ll be thirty-nine thousand dollars richer.”
Thirty-nine thousand dollars. Cash knows he should be grateful but all he can think is that Dunk has enough money to buy an island. Buy! An! Island! This little jaunt Tilda is on must be costing nearly thirty-nine thousand dollars, if not more.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says. “That is good news. I can buy a truck.” Used, he thinks.
“Your brother bought a Jeep,” Irene says. “And he found a rental.”
“He did?” Cash says, perking up. “How big?”
“Two bedrooms,” Irene says. “In Fish Bay.”
Cash’s mood darkens. “I thought he was looking for something bigger. I can’t stay at Tilda’s forever, Mom. And what about Winnie? She’s living with Ayers.”
“The villa Baker rented is across the street from Ayers,” Irene says. “I forgot to ask Baker if he’s allowed to have pets. He might be.”
Which means that Winnie might have a home—but Cash does not. “Thanks for the call, Mom. I’ll get you my bank information but I’m at work now, so I should go.”
“Honey?” Irene says. “Is everything okay?”
Cash sighs. His mother knows him; his mother loves him. They have always been allies, and if anyone on this earth can relate to feeling abandoned, it’s his mother. Except she seems pretty happy with Huck. “Tilda went away for a week with another guy,” Cash says. “Some super-wealthy investor who’s funding this eco-resort that Tilda and her parents want to build on Lovango Cay.”
“They went away together? Like, together-together?”
“Supposedly all business,” Cash says. “Tilda said he turns her stomach.” Had Tilda said this? No; this is how Cash feels. Dunk turns his stomach. “Whatever. I guess we’ll see.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Irene says, “she’d be a fool to leave you.”
Cash shakes his head. “Thanks, Mom.”
On the second day, Tilda texts Cash a selfie. It’s just her face. She has her mother’s sunglasses on; she’s lying back on a chaise in the sun.
Cash responds by texting her a selfie he takes on the bow of Treasure Island, his sunglasses and headset on, wind blowing his hair. He feels like a jackass.
The third day, Tilda sends a text that says, Off to St. Luscious! With a kissy-face emoji.
Cash texts back: Have fun. He can’t believe the minimalist nature of her communication. One text a day? No calls at all? Of course, Cash hasn’t called her either. Should he? No, he thinks. But an instant later, he does call her. The phone rings six times, he hears the funny tone that means she’s in another country, then her voicemail picks up. She texted only two minutes earlier; is she so busy that she can’t say a quick hello? Maybe she’s on the plane, or maybe she’s frantically packing, trying to get out of the hotel room to meet her car to the airport. There could be lots of reasons she can’t talk. Cash hangs up.
Cash realizes he hates being trapped in the villa in Peter Bay and—hidden cameras be damned—he starts flagrantly breaking the rules. Okay, maybe not flagrantly, Cash doesn’t have a rule-breaking bone in his body. He cautiously breaks the rules. He drinks six of Granger’s Island Hoppin’ IPAs and samples the whiskey in the crystal decanter that he finds in Granger’s study. Granger’s study is dark and serious—there’s a portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the wall. Then again, the Payne family is from Illinois, so maybe this makes sense. The desk is backed by a wall of books, nothing leather-bound, though they’re all hardcovers; fiction, it looks like—Tilda mentioned that Granger is a prodigious and serio
us reader. Cash sees they’re alphabetized by author, like in a bookstore—Nabokov, Nesbo, Ng. The surface of Granger’s desk is clear, and the drawers are all locked (Cash checks; he’s looking, of course, for notes, some record of Granger’s impressions of Duncan Huntley or possibly even their financial arrangement), so Cash takes only the whiskey, but even that feels like getting away with something.
Before going to sleep on the third night, Cash moves out of Tilda’s wing and into the guest wing, which is where Cash brought Tilda’s friend Max after Max got drunk and sick on Treasure Island. Tilda’s wing of the house is cluttered with Tilda’s clothes, books, magazines, sunglasses, bikinis, hair products, a bunch of half-burned Nest scented candles, corkscrews, the cheap vinyl drawstring backpacks she likes to carry, and pairs of hiking boots, water shoes, and work clogs as well as receipts and piles of cash, her tips from various nights that she doesn’t ever bother to count or deposit, but the guest wing is immaculate. The wing is two stories connected by a floating staircase that appears to be magically suspended in air. Upstairs is a comfy sitting room with a huge television and a perfect little palm-green-and-white-tiled kitchenette that has a petal-pink minifridge filled with soft drinks and beer. How did Cash not know about this? He takes an Island Hoppin’ IPA, thank you very much. The bedroom is downstairs. There’s a four-poster mahogany bed draped with white sheers that looks like what a bed in heaven must look like. Out a sliding glass door is a private garden and a deep, circular plunge pool.
Home for the night, Cash thinks. He doesn’t have to go into the main house at all.
He’s getting thirty-nine thousand dollars free and clear. After he finishes his beer, he feels happy about this. He can buy a truck and stop driving Tilda’s Rover around like he’s the errand boy.
Cash has a difficult time falling asleep in the guest wing. The bed is too soft and it doesn’t smell like Tilda. It’s quarter to eleven; he could still go out. Cruz Bay isn’t exactly a late-night town but Cash knows the Parrot Club will be open. He can take what’s left in his bank account and gamble, now that he knows there’s more money coming.
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