“They would do anything to make me happy,” Tilda says.

Cash doesn’t love the implication of this statement—that Cash’s involvement on Lovango is due solely to his relationship with Tilda. If Tilda comes home from St. Lisa or St. Roger and announces that she’s fallen in love with Dunk, Cash will be heartbroken, but will he be out of luck on the project as well?

Yes. If the whole mess with Cash’s father has done nothing else, it has prepared him for the worst.

Baker

Every now and then, when Baker is sitting by the pool at the Westin watching Floyd play with Aidan/Nicholas/Parker/Dylan/Maddie/Eli—it’s a revolving cast of best friends for the day when you live at a hotel—he wonders if things are really as bad as they seem. The room—garden-facing with two queen beds and a balcony that is off-limits to Floyd—is five hundred bucks plus tax plus resort fee plus service charge, which is obviously a lot. But if Baker can ignore his mounting bill, he’s able to appreciate the fine weather and all the amenities on offer—the pool, an excellent gym, daily housekeeping, the playground, kayaks and paddleboards, a private beach featuring a water trampoline, and a plethora of organized kid-centric activities, like movie nights and ice cream socials. Temporarily, anyway, Baker and Floyd are living the life.

The villa is gone. Russ was laundering money using offshore accounts and shell companies to hide profits for some of the most evil human beings on earth. According to Irene’s lawyer, Russ’s is the name that shows up most often on the incriminating paper trail, and his boss, Todd Croft, is claiming Russ and the third principal, Stephen Thompson, masterminded the illegal underbelly of his legitimate business without Croft’s knowledge. This assertion is outrageous. And yet, what does Russ have to recommend him in the way of personal character? Zero, zip, and zilch. He had a second family—a mistress, a love child. Plus, he’s dead and not able to defend himself.

Baker’s determination faltered for a moment when he and Floyd arrived and he heard the news. He checked into the Westin thinking he would have to turn tail and run back to Houston. He couldn’t make a life here without a place to live and without a car. Anna had agreed to let him bring Floyd down only because she had seen the villa—and even then, she had expressed reservations.

The second Floyd fell asleep their first night at the Westin, Baker had taken a cold beer (thirteen dollars for a six-pack of Island Hoppin’ IPA at St. John Market, which was nearly the same price as a single beer from room service) out to their balcony and called Anna. She was, technically, still his wife, and she would forever be Floyd’s mother, and Baker couldn’t hide their reduced circumstances from her. He figured Anna would insist they return to Houston or else make a plea for Baker and Floyd to move to Cleveland, where she and Louisa would be living.

But Anna surprised him. “First of all, you need to know it wasn’t me who sent you that text,” she said.

Louisa and I have some concerns about you uprooting Floyd.

“Louisa stole my phone,” she added.

“Sounds like you’re finally in a healthy relationship,” Baker said.

“Please stop,” Anna said. “Weez was concerned. Once I tell her the villa is gone, she’ll go ballistic.”

“You do realize that Louisa isn’t Floyd’s parent,” Baker said.

“I do realize that,” Anna said. “Which is why I’m not going to tell her.”

Baker took a nice long pull off his beer. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was talking to his wife. “Thank you.”

“I never expected you to move to Cleveland with us,” Anna said. “But the job offer was too good to turn down. It’s the top job in my field in the whole country.”

“Anna, I get it. I’m proud of you. Floyd is proud of you.”

“Since I’m chasing my dream, you should too,” Anna said. “Give it a try down there. You have a lot of potential, Bake, and it’s gone untapped for a while now. Put Floyd in school, then follow your passion.”

“I’m supposed to be coaching,” Baker said. “Which pays approximately five dollars an hour. So I’ll need to find something else.”

“I believe in you,” Anna said. “You’re a hands-on, involved father, an eleven out of ten. Maybe I didn’t tell you that as much as I should have.”

You didn’t, Baker thought.

“You’re incredibly smart and you’re wonderful with people.”

“Not as wonderful as Cash…”

“Every bit as wonderful,” Anna said. “The two of you always claim to be polar opposites, but you do share similar strengths—and shining in social situations is one of them. You both have a magnetism. People gravitate toward you. All those mothers at Floyd’s school, for example. They love you.”

“Well, thanks,” Baker said. He was surprised at how this little bit of validation boosted his spirits. He’d assumed Anna left him because she thought he was a slacker, weak and useless, good for nothing except taking care of their child, a job that she felt was beneath her.

“Just remember that this isn’t the end of the world,” she said. “Ischemic heart disease—now, that’s the end of the world.”

“You’re right,” Baker said. Anna saved lives every single day. Losing a villa that wasn’t his to begin with fell into the no-big-deal category.

“I’m getting an absurd signing bonus at this new job,” Anna said. “I’ll wire you half in the morning. Buy a Jeep. And rent a place, something comfortable.”

“Oh, Anna, I can’t—”

“Sure you can,” she said. “You helped me get where I am. You were the wind beneath my wings.” She cracked up in a way that was very unlike her. “And, yes, I have just had a glass of wine.” She sighed. “Kiss Floyd for me.”

The next morning, there is a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in Baker’s bank account.

The wind beneath her wings, he thinks. Hot diggity dog.

His first order of business is to buy a Jeep. Why not ask right there at the Westin? They have a rental-car concern that must have turnover. And yes, sir—he scores a 2017 four-door soft-top bluebird-colored Jeep Wrangler with 1,200 miles on the odometer for half its original price.

Next up is getting Floyd settled in school. Floyd had loved the Gifft Hill School when they’d visited and Maia was there to show him around, but this, of course, is different. This is for real. Floyd is now the new kid; he doesn’t know a soul, and it’s the middle of the school year.

Floyd takes getting ready in stride. He protests about the shower but submits and then eats four bites of Cheerios. (They have been eating like paupers. Baker bought Cheerios and milk, a carton of OJ, a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, a package of hot dogs, and a twenty-four-pack of ramen noodles at St. John Market, and even those low-end groceries had cost him thirty-five dollars. It has been a week in his life that he’s not anxious to repeat.)

When Baker pulls the Jeep into the parking lot of Gifft Hill with the other parents, he feels nervous. “It’s going to be fine, buddy,” Baker says. “You’ve already met your teacher. She knows you’re smart, and you’re going to meet new kids.”