Irene closes her eyes. All of that pain…for nothing? Huck should have buried the diaries in a drawer and given them to Maia ten or fifteen years from now. In ten or fifteen years, the love affair between Russell Steele and his Mona Lisa wouldn’t hurt Irene the way it does now.

“That guy Croft,” Natalie says. “He’s the mastermind. There’s no other way.”

“He’s such a mastermind, he managed to walk away unscathed,” Irene says.

“Fined,” Natalie says. “Heavily fined. But make no mistake, that guy has money hidden.”

“He killed Russ,” Irene says. “And Rosie. And Stephen Thompson. And he’s getting off scot-free.”

“I thought for sure we were going to help send him to jail,” Natalie says. “I’m sorry, Irene.”

She received the study materials for her captain’s test, but when she starts reading the introduction, she sees that, in addition to passing the test, she has to have at least three hundred and sixty days logged on the water as a mate or crew member.

Three hundred and sixty days!

She has, maybe, thirty.

Irene sags at this news. She chastises herself for not realizing this would be the case. If it were just a little studying and a test, then every clown out there would have a captain’s license. She feels so naive. Here she announced her grandiose plan—her own charter, Angler Cupcake, direct competition for Huck. She had cinematic fantasies of standing proud at the helm of her own boat with a full charter, puttering past the empty Mississippi. In some versions, she waves to Huck. In others, she ignores him.

He must have known she didn’t have enough hours on the water when she mentioned her plans to Jack and Diane. How embarrassing.

How will she get three hundred and thirty more days on the water? Who would hire a fifty-seven-year-old woman as a mate?

Treasure Island? she wonders. Maybe. Cash and Ayers could definitely use a third crew member to cover their respective days off, and once the baby is born…Cash says all they’re looking for is a warm body, and Irene is much more than that. She’s good with the clients. It’s a little babysitting, a little psychology. Irene has the touch.

How would Cash feel about working all day with his mother? Not great, she predicts. Living together is taxing enough.

She could approach a different fishing boat, like What a Catch! But those guys are young, single, wild. They don’t want Irene on their boat.

Could she work on Pizza Pi as a delivery person, zipping the pizzas to yachts on a little Zodiac? Would that count? What about asking at Palm Tree Charters or the Singing Dog? There’s a new charter Irene heard about, a Midnight Express called New Moon owned by a very cool couple named Brian and Michelle Zehring—that boat might be too sexy for Irene, but she could always ask.

Even if she can cobble something together, it’s still going to take an entire year for Irene to realize her dream. She has an appointment to see a 2006 forty-five-foot Hatteras on St. Thomas next week. The asking price is fifty thousand, but on the phone the guy said he’s willing to work with her and she can hopefully take out a loan at FirstBank.

Baker’s new friend Swan Seeley is scheduled to come over tomorrow after dinner to talk to her about a marketing strategy. Irene considers canceling but this woman Swan might be well connected and could have leads on where Irene might look for work. Irene confirms with Swan, then texts Lydia to see if Brandon the barista is willing to part with his recipe for lemongrass sugar cookies. Irene needs to have something to offer the woman. Other than wine, of course.

Swan arrives right on time. She’s tall, blond, and stunning; Irene puts her at thirty-five or thirty-six. She’s wearing white pants, a formfitting white T-shirt, a slender gold watch, and gold hoop earrings. Irene peeks behind her in the driveway and sees an ivory Land Cruiser.

“Hello, Mrs. Steele, I’m Swan Seeley.” Nice handshake, smile; she’s wearing makeup and she smells divine, some kind of expensive perfume. Maybe Swan thought tonight was going to be more formal than it is?

They sit at the dining-room table. Swan pulls a Moleskine notebook out of her supple leather hobo bag. This woman is smooth, polished. Wealthy. She’s the Mavis Key of St. John.

Irene offers Swan wine—“Yes, please”—and sets out a plate of the lemongrass sugar cookies, which turned out splendidly. (Brandon’s suggestion to undercook them by two minutes was spot on; they’re pale golden and have alluringly crinkly tops.) Irene offers the plate and Swan takes not one but two—oh, Irene likes this woman already.

Irene says, “I’m not sure what Baker told you…”

Swan’s head swivels around. “Is Baker here?” she asks. “I saw his Jeep out front.”

“He’s reading to Floyd,” Irene says. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

“He’s such a good father,” Swan says. “Not just a good father but a good parent. My ex…well, this time of night you could usually find him in front of the slots at the Parrot Club.”

Irene suddenly understands that Swan’s presence here has little to do with Irene and much to do with Baker. Does Swan know that Ayers is pregnant with Baker’s baby? Maybe that doesn’t matter. Baker and Ayers have hardly seen each other at all. The week before, Ayers’s parents came over and Ayers stayed home. Irene figures she’d better state her case before Baker comes downstairs and distracts Swan.

“I want to start my own fishing charter,” she says. “Here’s what I’ve found out…”

Swan agrees the three-hundred-and-sixty-day requirement is a bummer and means it’ll be another year before Irene’s charter is up and running.

“I would hire you as a mate on my boat,” Swan says. “But it looks like I have to sell it to pay off my ex.”

“Divorces are tricky,” Irene says. She’s had a glass and a half of wine, so she nearly adds, But better than staying married and finding out your husband has a secret family!

“I’m confused about why you’re not working for Huck anymore,” Swan says. “He’s such a great guy. Such a wonderful grandfather. Completely devoted to Maia.”

“That he is,” Irene says.

“You know, I saw him on Friday night out at Skinny Legs.” Swan sips her wine. “He was with a woman, a very pretty redhead. I saw them leave together, so I think maybe Huck got lucky!” She leans in conspiratorially and bumps Irene’s shoulder.

Irene nearly falls over in her chair. “A redhead?” she says. “Was she his age?”

“Younger,” Swan says. “Closer to my age, I’d guess. Go, Huck!”

The wine and cookies churn in Irene’s stomach. Her neck flushes. She has to get out of there.

“Hey, ladies.” Baker saunters into the kitchen. “I don’t mean to interrupt—”

“Baker!” Swan says. She jumps up from the table to give him a hug. Here is Irene’s way out.

“Thank you for all your help, Swan. I’ll let you two kids chat. I need to hit the hay.”

“Hit the hay,” Baker says. “Can you tell we’re from the Midwest?”