The Olive Branch pulls up to the National Park Service dock in fifteen minutes flat. While they tie up, Baker texts his mother and Cash to see if either of them can come get him and Floyd; if they can’t, he’ll have to take a cab to the villa.
“Where do you live?” Baker asks. “We own a villa in Little Cinnamon.”
“I have a villa in the East End,” Dunk says. “I like the quiet.”
Baker nods, though he hasn’t been to the East End. Has he heard of the East End? He’s not sure. It must be special if Dunk lives there.
Dunk points at an island behind them. “That’s Lovango Cay,” he says. “My next project. I bought the island, and now I’m looking for partners to fund a resort, a beach club, and some world-class dining. In case you’re interested?”
Baker laughs. He’s drawn to Dunk, no doubt, but he can’t wait to get away from him. He shakes Dunk’s hand. “Thanks for the ride, man. It was a real treat to meet you. Right, Floyd?”
Floyd shrugs. “You talk funny.”
“Floyd!” Baker says, but Dunk just laughs.
“No worries, mate. You have my card, call anytime, we’ll shoot over to Foxy’s and have a painkiller.”
“All right,” Baker says. “I’ll take you up on that!” He picks up the biggest suitcase and tries to roll it down the dock while holding Floyd’s hand. He needs to check his phone to see if his mother or Cash responded.
“You gonna be okay here?” Dunk asks. “Someone is coming to get you?”
“Yep, all set, all set,” Baker says. It won’t be a G-wagon with a driver but someone will come, he hopes, or if everyone is busy, he’ll schlep every gosh-darn thing they own to the dock in the scorching heat and flag down one of the open-air taxis, the driver of which will probably balk when Baker tells him he lives on a hilltop in Little Cinnamon.
He should have returned Cash’s call from the Houston airport. Not setting up a ride was very shortsighted.
Floyd starts to cry. “It’s hot,” he says. “I want a snack and a juice. Where’s Grammy?”
Baker pulls Floyd along like a toy on a string. “You were asleep when they served the meal on the plane, honey, but I’ll get you something the second we get home. And you can swim in the pool for as long as you want. There are still three whole days until you start school, so we can do some exploring in the Jeep. We’ll take the top off and make it a convertible.”
Instead of placating Floyd, this agitates him further and a mini-tantrum follows. I want the pool now, I want a snack now…Baker swivels his head to check that Dunk Huntley has left and isn’t watching Baker. Dunk Huntley has no idea how difficult dealing with a four-year-old can be.
Sex app, artisanal weed edibles, real estate development. Wasps of Good Fortune. Baker wonders if it’s supposed to be WASPs, as in “white Anglo-Saxon Protestants.” That’s an obnoxious name for a band, and they probably stink despite the early–Men at Work sound, yet Baker can’t deny he finds Young Croc Dunk Samba WASPy Wunderkind Huntley fascinating.
Baker checks his phone. Nothing from his mother or Cash.
He calls Cash. Straight to voicemail.
He calls Irene. She answers on the fifth ring. Her “Hello” is little more than a whisper.
“Mom?” he says.
“Oh, Baker,” she says. Her voice is broken; something is wrong. Baker will ask once he’s off this dock and in one of the air-conditioned Jeeps.
“Is there any way you can pick us up?” Baker says. “We got a ride over from St. Thomas with this guy on his boat and so we’re on the National Park Service dock instead of the regular ferry dock.”
“What?” Irene says. “Where are you?”
“The National Park Service dock.”
“Here?” she says. “On St. John?”
“Yes, here on St. John,” he says. “It’s Thursday, Mom.” He tries not to sound so exasperated because if he’s learned one thing about the Virgin Islands, it’s that every day feels like Saturday.
“Didn’t Cash call you?”
“Yes, he called me—”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Baker says. Huck
He doesn’t understand women—and how is that possible after so many years of loving them?
Huck grew up with a sister, Caroline, who was a scant two years younger than him and who learned to fish from their father right alongside Huck. But whereas Huck was all about sport-fishing—the hunt, the fight, the elation that came from landing a big one—Caroline liked the quiet elegance of fly-fishing. She showed an uncanny talent for it early on, which was unusual for a child that young. She preferred dancing her line over the flats of Islamorada to a trip out to blue water, and to his credit, their father, the original Captain Powers, nurtured her gift. By the time Caroline was thirteen, she had won every youth fly-fishing competition in the state of Florida, competitions in which she was always the only girl.
All through high school, instead of dating or hanging out at the Green Turtle with her friends, Caroline would sit at her desk and tie flies. Caroline Powers became famous for her flies; grown men paid good money for them—good money, the price jacked up to an almost absurd level because Caroline didn’t want to sell them. Her flies were works of art; she had the patience, the attention to detail, the slender, nimble fingers. She had the love and devotion.
While Huck was in Vietnam at the tail end of the war, 1974 to 1975, Caroline went to college in Gainesville, met a boy from the Florida Panhandle, followed that boy when he went to law school in Tallahassee, married him, and gave up fishing altogether. That, Huck didn’t understand. Whenever Caroline and her new husband, Beau, came back to Islamorada to visit, they would go sport-fishing with their father on the big boat, and although Caroline was impressive the way she cast and reeled
