Dunk draws a circle with his finger. “So, Cash, how do you fit in with these bludgers?”
Cash would like to ask Duncan Huntley the same thing. “I’m a friend of Tilda’s,” he says. He doesn’t use the word boyfriend because he is already having some manhood issues.
“Well, then,” Duncan says. “That makes two of us.”
The wine arrives, there’s an enormous amount of theater involved in the tasting and decanting, and then Jena runs through the specials. She asks if it’s anyone’s first time eating at Extra Virgin, and Cash admits that he’s an Extra Virgin virgin—only Jena laughs—and she tells them that they have a rooftop garden where the herbs and vegetables are grown, that they use local farms for eggs, and that they get their seafood from local fishermen.
“The mahi for the special tonight was caught just this afternoon by Captain Huck of the Mississippi.”
“Hey,” Cash says. That’s cool, right? Huck caught tonight’s fish? But nobody is paying attention and Jena is off describing how the pasta, the stracciatella cheese, and the sausages are all made in-house.
“Would you ask Chef to do the tuna preparation I like?” Granger asks. “I don’t see it on the menu tonight.”
Cash expects Tilda to give her father a hard time—ordering off the menu is a gratuitous flex—but Tilda seems unbothered. She orders the lamb, Cash the mahi, Lauren the gnocchi. Dunk has a bunch of questions about the short rib preparation and Cash wonders if Dunk will be the first Aussie he’ll ever hate.
He wants to go home—and by home he means…he’s not sure where. He now lives under Granger’s roof.
He throws back several mouthfuls of the cabernet, which is the most incredible wine he’s ever tasted. All other wine hasn’t been wine; it’s been Kool-Aid, lacking the layers of this complex liquid. No, Cash is kidding. The wine is fine, nothing special. The best thing about it is it’s getting him buzzed.
And once he’s buzzed, he notices that Tilda is sitting with her chair pivoted toward Dunk; Cash has a fine view of the back of her shoulder. Is she into him? he wonders. Or just mesmerized by his accent, like a typical American? Tilda and Dunk are discussing something in depth, though it’s hard to tell what exactly because Lauren, gracious, wonderful Lauren, is thoughtfully asking Cash about his years skiing in Breckenridge. How does it compare to Aspen? she wants to know. Deer Valley? Jackson Hole? Cash has answers for her because if there’s one thing he knows about, it’s the ski resorts of the Rocky Mountains. Cash is probably saying too much; he’s had a large, seemingly bottomless glass of wine, and although Tilda and her mother ordered salads and Granger the hand-pulled stracciatella, Cash didn’t order an appetizer. He lifts his empty glass and says, “I’ll try some of the Penfolds. See what all the fuss is about.”
Dunk eyes his glass, and for one instant, Cash thinks he’s going to say no, that Cash isn’t worthy of a $140 glass of wine. Dunk is going to call him out for what he is—a wine hack.
“Let’s get you a clean goblet, mate,” Dunk says in the most patronizing way possible.
The Penfolds Shiraz is heavier on the tongue, thicker; it’s the consistency of ink. Everyone is watching Cash as he tastes. Even Tilda has swiveled toward him.
“Notes of goose fat,” Cash says. “And the rain in Spain. And Russian interference in our elections.”
“Now, now,” Granger says. “No politics at the table.”
“It’s a joke, Dad,” Tilda says. She rolls her eyes. “An old, tired joke.”
Is it old and tired? Cash wonders. Because he thought it was their joke.
As soon as their entrées arrive and they all toast “to the next step,” Granger says, “I guess it’s time to talk particulars about what that next step is. Cash, you need some background about the meetings that Tilda and Lauren and I have been holding with Dunk.”
Dunk has the short rib in all its gorgeous, umami glory in front of him but he makes no move to eat. “I bought Lovango Cay, the island just across the way from Cruz Bay, and I’m partnering with Granger, Lauren, and sweet Tilda here to build an eco-resort. We’re thinking of selling off a number of lots for private homes, and then we’ll build both hotel units and glamping tents. We’ll have a world-class restaurant and a beach club with an oceanfront pool.”
“That’s ambitious,” Cash says.
Tilda bubbles over like a glass of champagne. “It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted. And Lovango is the perfect location. We’ll run ferries to Red Hook and Cruz Bay, but because it’s a separate island, it’ll have built-in exclusivity.”
“A boaters’ paradise,” Granger says.
“We’ve needed a destination like Lovango for a long time in the USVIs,” Lauren says. “Just think about all the people who spend their money at the Baths and Jost and the Willy T.”
“Yeah—I mean, you’re right,” Cash says. Tour stops in the USVIs versus the BVIs is another topic he knows something about. “I had a woman the other day who booked a trip on Treasure Island with her husband and their kids but she forgot her passport and couldn’t go.” Cash drinks some wine; he wonders if he has blue teeth like everyone else at the table. “We offer our USVI itinerary only once a week, and it’s never as popular because there aren’t as many destination stops.”
“You work on Treasure Island?” Dunk says. “I guess I should apologize. I make a bit of a habit out of bouncing you blokes around in my wake.”
“What’s the name of your boat?” Cash asks, though he fears he already knows: the Olive Branch.
“Olive Branch,” Dunk says.
Yep, it’s the sixty-five-foot Sundancer that not only routinely buzzes by at top speed but also cuts Treasure Island off. James, the captain, hates the Olive Branch.
“The boat is named for Dunk’s dog,” Tilda says. “He has a harlequin Great Dane.”
“We love Olive,” Lauren says.
Cash turns to face Lauren. She loves Olive? Is
