Troubles in Paradise Read online

  When Baker and Floyd check in with all their luggage, Floyd is carrying his copy of The Dirty Cowboy under one arm, and the woman at the United desk is so taken with him that she bumps them up to first class. “You’re the only child I’ve seen in years who isn’t mesmerized by a screen,” she tells Floyd.

  Baker wills his son not to mention the iPad that’s tucked in Baker’s carry-on or the fact that Floyd has watched Despicable Me 3 ten times in the past week.

  “Thank you,” Baker says. First class! He’s already dreaming of a Bloody Mary and a decent nap.

  Turns out, Baker’s and Floyd’s seats are across the aisle from each other. Is this going to be okay? Sitting next to Floyd is a West Indian woman who is already situated, watching a movie with headphones on. The seat next to Baker is empty. Maybe Baker will ask about switching.

  Baker stows his carry-on and Floyd’s backpack but tells Floyd not to buckle up just yet. “I’m going to see if we can switch seats. That way you can sit next to me and have a window.”

  “I want a window!” Floyd says.

  There’s a guy in a knit cap with a hipster beard getting ready to take the seat next to Baker. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads WASPS OF GOOD FORTUNE—a band, maybe?—and jeans and a Gucci belt and a pair of black Sambas exactly like the ones Baker used to wear to soccer practice when he was nine years old, and on his wrist is a forty-thousand-dollar Rolex Daytona with a light blue pearlescent face. He has AirPods in.

  The guy—he looks to be somewhere in his mid-twenties—nods at Baker and goes to lift his duffel into the overhead space.

  Baker says, “Hey, man, any chance you would mind switching spots with my son so we can sit together? He’s only four.”

  The guy blinks at Baker and says in a broad Australian accent, “Sorry, mate, I prefer the window.”

  “No problem, mate,” Baker says. He slides out of the way so that Mr. Samba, Mr. Wasps of Good Fortune, Mr. Young Crocodile Dundee can take his seat. Baker tries not to feel put out. It’s the guy’s seat, Baker has no right to it, but still—who says no when asked to help out a four-year-old child? Baker glances at the woman next to Floyd, but she has fallen asleep.

  “Looks like we’re staying put, buddy,” Baker says, and he fastens Floyd’s seat belt.

  “Daddy?” Floyd says. “May I please have the iPad?”

  Baker doesn’t speak to Young Croc during the flight, though he does keep tabs on him out of the corner of his eye. Young Croc orders Maker’s Mark straight up (two) to Baker’s Bloody Mary (one). Young Croc watches Deadpool 2 (no surprise there); Baker chooses old episodes of The Office. Young Croc declines breakfast; Baker inhales the kale and sausage omelet, the soggy home fries, and even the sad, wrinkled cherry tomatoes. Young Croc does the sudoku puzzle in the in-flight magazine astonishingly quickly, which actually makes Baker like him a little better. He doesn’t get up for the bathroom at all, whereas Baker gets up once for himself and twice for Floyd.

  As the plane descends, Young Croc finally turns his attention to the window, tapping on the glass with his forefinger in apparent anticipation. And isn’t that an emotion he and Baker share?

  When the plane’s wheels hit the runway, people sitting in coach clap and cheer. Baker checks on Floyd, who is fast asleep, then turns to Young Croc. “You going to St. Thomas?” he asks. “Or St. John?”

  “St. John.”

  “Us too,” Baker says. “We’re moving down for good.”

  “Oh yeah?” Young Croc says. “You running a business down here? Doing the EDC deal?”

  “EDC?” Baker says.

  “Yeah, that’s the tax-incentive plan for businesses that relocate to the USVI.”

  “Legal?” Baker asks, because this sounds like something his father might have been involved in. Anyway, it would explain why the hedge fund was run down here instead of in, say, New York or Chicago.

  Young Croc laughs. “Yes, legal. Lots of people do it. I moved my company here from Houston in the fall. I’m saving tons of cash.”

  “From Houston?” Baker says. “Are you American?”

  “Naturalized,” Young Croc says. “Originally from Perth.”

  Perth is in…Australia? New Zealand? Baker should know but he hasn’t got a clue and he’s embarrassed to ask. “What’s the name of your company?”

  “Huntley International?” he says, like maybe Baker has heard of it. “Real estate development.”

  Baker is rendered temporarily speechless. The dude looks twenty-five. But that would explain the watch. It’s probably his father’s company. Or—he hears his ex-wife’s voice in his head asking him to think and act in a way that promotes gender equality—his mother’s company. “Baker Steele,” Baker says, offering his hand.

  “Dunk,” the kid says and they firmly—aggressively?—shake. “Duncan Huntley. Nice to meet you, Baker. What do you do?”

  Baker isn’t eager to admit that he’s a stay-at-home dad supported by his superstar-surgeon almost-ex-wife. He could say that he day-trades and has accepted a coaching job at the Gifft Hill School, but does that sound any more impressive? “Investments,” Baker says.

  “Oh yeah? For whom?”

  “I have my own shop,” Baker says. “Coincidentally, I’ve been thinking about getting into real estate myself.” By this, Baker means he’s considered getting his real estate license because he isn’t sure what else he can do that will make a sustainable living on St. John.

  “Take my card,” Dunk says. “I’m always looking for investment partners.”

  Baker accepts the card even though he knows he has severely misrepresented himself. Baker has money in the bank—both a healthy brokerage account and a fund that he day-trades with—but he immediately realizes that he’s not in a position to be anyone’s “investment partner” unless Dunk Huntley is looking for an investment of five hundred dollars.

  Still, it can’t hurt to know people. DUNCAN HUNTLEY, CEO AND FOUNDER, HUNTLEY INTERNATIONAL LLC.

  Founder? Baker thinks.

  He’s distracted by the business of getting off the plane. He pulls down his carry-on and Floyd’s Toy Story knapsack, then he bends at the knees—protect the back—to pick Floyd up without waking him.

  Baker gravitates toward Dunk while they’re standing at the baggage carousel waiting for their luggage. Baker is sweating despite the air-conditioning. Floyd is as hot as a glowing coal.

  Dunk smiles. “Seeing you with him makes me miss my girl.”

  “Your…” Baker isn’t sure if Dunk means his daughter or his girlfriend. He doesn’t seem like the paternal type.

  “My girl, Olive. She’s a harlequin Great Dane.”

  “Oh,” Baker says. “Your dog.”

  “Yep,” Dunk says. “Olive stays here and I fly back and forth to Houston. She weighs a hundred and fifty pounds, so she’s too big to crate. I had to fly down private with her when we came initially.”j

  “Right,” Baker says, nodding, although, honestly, every new sentence out of this guy’s mouth is crazier than the last. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem pretty young to be a CEO.”

  “I’m twenty-eight,” Dunk says. “I look older without my hat.” He shrugs. “Losing my hair.”

  “Still, that’s really young to have your own company. How’d you do it?”

  “I went to Baylor, majored in business…I’ve always sort of had a nose for what’s hot. For my senior project, I developed a simple sex app. The user checked in every time she or he did the deed and joined a community of others who were reporting their sexual activity. People could add what positions they’d tried and a few other details.” He glances at Floyd. “And then there was a rating system, points they could accrue, status they could gain. I did it as a riff on the swipe-left culture but it took off. Especially among the marrieds. Like my sister, Andi. She lives in Bellaire—you know it?”

  Yes, Baker knows it. Wealthy Houston.

  “Everyone in her neighborhood was on my app. She claims they were all lyi
ng about how much action they were getting.”

  “Well,” Baker says. “Yeah.” If Baker was ever on a sex app, he would have no choice but to lie. He and Anna got it on approximately twice a year.

  “I sold the app for fifteen million and I got into the weed business in Colorado, making artisanal edibles.”

  “Ah,” Baker says. “Now you’re talking.”

  “We made gummies, lollipops, high-quality chocolate bars in nine flavors, cookie dough…we even had pot pasta sauce.”

  Pot pasta sauce? Who thinks of this stuff? “I can see where that would be popular,” Baker says.

  “As more states legalized marijuana, the business grew and I sold that company last year for ten times what I’d made with the app.”

  A hundred and fifty million? Baker thinks. Surely this is hyperbole.

  “So I’ve given up the sex and the drugs,” Dunk says. “And now I’m into the rock and roll.” He points to his T-shirt. “Wasps of Good Fortune is my band.”

  “Oh yeah?” Baker says. “What do you do?”

  “I sing,” Dunk says. “I have kind of a Colin Hay sound, you know, early-period Men at Work?”

  Baker blinks. He’d thought there was only one period of Men at Work, the “Land Down Under” period.

  He’s saved from commenting when the alarm sounds and the conveyor belt starts rolling. “Hey, do you guys want to ride over to St. John with me?” Dunk asks. “I have my driver coming, then we’ll hop on my boat.”

  “Aw, man, that’s kind of you, but we have so much stuff, it’s just not practical. I’m going to need one of those big taxis all to myself.”

  “Just come with me,” Dunk says. “It’ll be way easier. My boat has plenty of room.”

  “Okay…” Baker says. “If you’re sure.”

  Dunk helps Baker get all the luggage out to the curb, and seconds later, a forest-green G-wagon pulls up. It’s unclear to Baker whether the G-wagon belongs to Dunk or a service he hires, but no matter—it’s cool and comfortable, and Baker is finally able to set Floyd down. The driver delivers them to the dock at Havensight, where they climb aboard a sixty-five-foot Sea Ray Sundancer called the Olive Branch.

  “Wow,” Baker says. The boat is brand-new and beautifully outfitted; the salon is all leather and gleaming wood. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers, a bowl of tropical fruit. Dunk opens the fridge; one side is lined with bottles of Veuve Clicquot, the other with beer. Dunk grabs two Heinekens, hands one to Baker, and says, “Let’s go sit in the cockpit. Charlie will have us to Cruz Bay in fifteen minutes.”

  Baker kicks back and relaxes in the sun while Floyd sits in the shade of the bimini, still sluggish from his nap. The captain, Charlie, starts the engines and away they go, zipping around the towering cruise ships to open water. They pick up speed and cut a neat seam through the turquoise water to St. John. Baker takes a sip of his beer and thinks: This is my life now. He said goodbye to Ellen outside of IAH just this morning, but it seems like eons ago. If he were back in Houston, he would be getting ready to pick up Floyd from the Children’s Cottage. The two of them would go home, Baker would fix a snack, and then they’d head to the park or playground, or Baker would bribe Floyd with his iPad so that he could continue to trade until the markets closed, and by then it would be too late to go to the park and Floyd would have conked out anyway and Baker would think maybe he’d take a nap too, why not? And when the two of them woke up, the sun would be setting and Baker would start on one of his gourmet dinner menus as they waited for Anna to come home, and when Anna came home, she would say she had already eaten (pizza) at the hospital, and Baker would either throw half the dinner away or carefully pack it into a Tupperware container for Anna to take for lunch the next day, which she would inevitably forget to do and Baker would throw it away out of anger and disgust because his efforts around the house went unappreciated.

  He’s so glad he’s not in Houston! He’s so glad he’s no longer with Anna!

  Life in the Virgin Islands will be different. After school, Baker and Floyd will go on tropical adventures—to Salt Pond to snorkel with the turtles, to Scoops for ice cream, to the Reef Bay Trail to hike and see the petroglyphs. Even when they simply go home to the villa, they can swim in the dual-level pool or at their private beach. They can play shuffleboard. Baker will invest in field glasses and they’ll bird-watch on the hillside. Irene and Cash are both finished with work in the midafternoon, so one or the other can take care of Floyd while Baker coaches at the school. One or the other will be home at night when Baker wants to take Ayers to Dé Coal Pot or visit her at La Tapa or when they just hang out in Ayers’s studio apartment.

  Here in St. John, he has a support system. Here in St. John, he has everything he needs.

  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.

  “M
om?” 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.