Huck is wearing a blue button-down shirt, ironed khakis, and if Irene isn’t mistaken, there’s a navy blazer folded across the back of the captain’s seat.

This is a real date.

Huck has wine on the boat. He pours her a glass of Cakebread chardonnay—she can’t believe he remembered what kind of wine she likes—and he opens a beer for himself.

“We aren’t going far,” he says. “Just over to the yacht club in Red Hook. Fifteen minutes.”

They cruise out, nice and easy, across Sir Francis Drake Channel as the sun sets. Irene considers sitting in the bow and letting the wind catch her hair—it’s out of its braid tonight—but instead, she sits next to Huck where she can listen to the music, Jackson Browne singing “Running on Empty.” The sky glows pink and blue and gold; Huck is humming; Irene’s wine is crisp and cold. There is nothing wrong with this moment.

The world is a strange and mysterious place, Irene thinks. How is it possible that Russ’s web of deceit and his secret second life led Irene here? She laughs at the absurdity of it. Huck never met Russ but Russ certainly knew that Huck existed. What would Russ think if he could see Huck and Irene now? It turns Irene’s mind into a pretzel just considering it.

They pull into a slip at the St. Thomas Yacht Club and a cute young man in white shorts and a green polo hurries over to help with the ropes. He offers Irene a hand up to the dock.

“Captain Huck,” he says. “Good to see you again, sir. It’s been a while.”

“Good to see you, Seth,” Huck says. “Are we all set inside?”

“Yes, sir,” Seth says. “They’re ready for you. Enjoy your dinner.”

Huck offers Irene his arm and walks her down the dock. He’s wearing his blazer now and Irene is soothed by how at ease he seems and how gentlemanly he is as he opens the door to the club and ushers Irene inside.

The hostess, a stunning young West Indian woman, greets Huck with a kiss and introduces herself as Jacinda to Irene, then leads Huck and Irene to a table by the front window that overlooks the docks and the water. Irene can see the twinkling lights of St. John in the distance.

Theirs is the only table set. They are the only people in the dining room.

“Is it…always this empty?”

“The kitchen normally isn’t open tonight,” Huck says. “But they owe me a favor.”

So they are having a private dinner. The whole club, all to themselves.

“The prime rib is very good here,” Huck says. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of fish.”

They eat like royalty: Warm rolls with sweet butter, organic greens with homemade papaya vinaigrette, prime rib, baked potato with lots of butter and sour cream, and, for dessert, sabayon and berries. Huck and Irene drink wine with dinner, then end with a sipping rum, a twenty-five-year-old El Dorado that is even better than the Flor de Caña, Huck says.

They do not talk about the Vickerses’ arrest or what it might mean. They don’t talk about Russ or Rosie or real estate fraud or Todd Croft or frozen accounts. Irene pushes all that away, though during the natural lulls in the conversation, it feels like she’s holding an unruly mob behind a door. It feels, as they finish up dinner, like Agent Vasco has just taken a seat at the table; that’s how badly Irene wants to talk about it.

Instead, she says, “The mother on the boat today thought we were married. She said, ‘You have a good man there.’ She said she could tell how much you cared for me.” The instant these words are out, Irene feels her cheeks burn.

“I hate to break it to you, AC,” Huck says. “Everyone who gets on that boat thinks we’re married.” He reaches for Irene’s hand. “And everyone can see how much I care for you.”

They head back to the boat, hand in hand. There are stars overhead and it feels like there’s a bright, burning star in Irene’s chest. What is happening?

Huck helps Irene down into the boat. Before he turns on the running lights, he takes Irene’s face in his hands and he kisses her. The kiss is sweet but intense—and there is no room for thoughts of anything or anyone else, not even Agent Vasco.

Ayers

There’s no such thing as a clean breakup, Ayers thinks.

When she and Mick hashed it out, Ayers told him exactly how she felt—his infidelity with Brigid was insurmountable. Mick said that he had bumped into Brigid on the ferry and Ayers believed that—but she still didn’t trust him, with Brigid or with anyone else.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.

Deep down, she acknowledges that the fault is not entirely Mick’s. Ayers wanted a chance to be with Baker and she refused to sleep with him while she was still with Mick. She had only gotten back together with Mick as a way to exact revenge on both Baker and Cash for withholding the truth about who they were, and then once she and Mick—and Gordon—were back in their routine, Ayers was comfortable, if not particularly happy.

Now that she has slept with Baker—and without protection, like an irresponsible idiot—and now that Baker has left to go back to Houston, Ayers is neither comfortable nor happy.

She had meant to take it slow and steady with Baker. She had vowed to wait until he came back from Houston to consummate their relationship. But passion and high emotion had ruled and although their night together had been unforgettable—at least for her—now the anticipation is gone. Baker might decide Ayers isn’t worth returning for.

Monday morning, there’s a knock on her door. Ayers is in bed. Mondays she’s off from both jobs, though she has Maia tonight. Ayers is picking Maia up in town at six and they have plans to get takeout from De Coal Pot.

Ayers doesn’t like unexpected knocks at the door. Who could it be at nine thirty in the morning? Her landlady? Jehovah’s Witnesses?

She pulls a pillow over her head. The door is locked. Whoever you are, she thinks, please go away. Monday is her day of rest.

“Hello?” a voice says, loud and clear. “Ayers?”

It’s Mick. He still has a key. Why didn’t she ask for her key back?

A second later there’s a flutter of footsteps as Gordon comes running into the bedroom and jumps up on Ayers’s bed. Mick is no dummy, she thinks. He sent his goodwill ambassador in first.

But Mick soon follows. “Get up,” he says.

Ayers flips over and partially opens one eye. “What are you doing here?” Does she need to remind him that they’ve broken up? What if she had company?

“It’s Monday,” Mick says. “We’re going to Christmas Cove. The boat is anchored in Frank Bay. I have rum punch, I have water, I have snacks, I have your snorkel and fins.”

“It’s over, Mick,” Ayers says. “We’re through.”

Mick sits on the bed and brushes Ayers’s hair out of her eyes. “We’re not through,” he says. “We’ll never be through.”

He looks unreasonably good, for Mick. He has a day’s worth of scruff, which is how she likes him best, and he’s gotten some sun on his face, making his eyes look very green. Gordon has already snuggled against the curve of Ayers’s back. Ayers closes her eyes for one second and travels back in time to before the disgusting discovery of Brigid, back when Mick and Gordon were “her boys,” back when life was calm and happy.