“I told you, Anna and I separated,” Baker says. “She came home on New Year’s Day, I kid you not, like five minutes before Mom called with the news, and she said she was leaving me. She said she was in love with someone else.”

“Really?” Cash says. He has never thought of Dr. Anna Schaffer as someone who would be “in love” with anyone, Baker included. She had appeared decidedly unenthusiastic at the wedding, but Cash understood that Anna was in thrall to her work. People took a distant second. Irene had long intoned her concern that Anna didn’t even have warm feelings for Floyd. Her own child. “Who is she in love with?”

“Dr. Louisa Rodriguez,” Baker says. “Another cardiothoracic surgeon. Friend and colleague.”

“Luis?” Cash says. He’s confused. “Or Louisa?”

“Louisa,” Baker says. “Woman.”

“Really?” Cash says. “Anna’s a lesbian? I guess I can see that.”

“I’m not sure we need to label her,” Baker says. “It might just be that she has feelings for Louisa in particular.”

“Fair enough,” Cash says. At that moment, his phone starts ringing and he thinks it must be his mother, calling to say the coast is clear and they are free to come home—because who else could it be? When he checks the display, he shakes his head. Anna, it says. Wait. He looks at Baker, then back down at his phone. It’s almost as if she heard them talking about her.

“Hello?” Cash says.

“Cash,” she says. “Hey, it’s Anna. Anna Schaffer. Baker’s wife.”

“Hi,” Cash says. It speaks volumes that she has to explain who she is. Still, he tries to keep his voice neutral. “How are you?”

“Do you know where Baker is?” she asks. “I’ve been calling him all night but he won’t answer.”

Cash nearly says, Yeah, Baker is right here—but something stops him. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Everything’s fine,” Anna says. “Would you please let Baker know that Floyd and I are flying down there tomorrow? We land at one fifteen and should be on the two o’clock ferry out of Red Hook that will get us to St. John by three.”

To St. John tomorrow by three.

“Okay,” Cash says. He can’t believe this. Didn’t Baker say he had a date with Ayers tomorrow?

“You really need to remember to tell him,” Anna says. “Baker has no idea we’re coming. It was basically impossible for me to clear it with work until the very last minute.”

“Will do,” Cash says.

“I can count on you?” Anna says.

“Absolutely,” Cash says.

“Okay,” Anna says, and she sounds happier, maybe even a little excited. “See you tomorrow!”

Cash hangs up the phone. He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe it.

“Who was that?” Baker asks.

“That?” Cash says. “No one.”

HUCK

This is right up there with the craziest things Huck has ever done. A dozen times on the way over, he thought, For the love of Bob, turn around, go home to your book and your beer. Getting mixed up with this woman, the wife, is going to be nothing but trouble. Rosie is dead and nothing will bring her back. The voice in Huck’s head was one of reason, loud and clear, and yet still he drove to the north shore and found the utility pole with the two yellow stripes. Still he ascended the steep, winding road—there were no other homes, only dummy driveways that led to nowhere, until you reached the gate at the top, which had been left open. Huck wondered if this bastard had enough money to buy up the entire hill, just to make certain he had no neighbors.

Still he knocked on the door.

Irene looks pretty. It’s not a thought he should be having about Russell Steele’s widow, but there it is, plain and simple. Huck is a man, built like other men, and so he appreciates Irene’s chestnut hair hanging loose and damp down her back, and the black sundress that shows off her arms, her neck, and her pretty feet.

She’s nervous, he can tell—her hands are shaking as she accepts the rum. Huck thinks, Better do a shot right away. Why did God provide humans with alcohol if not for situations like this?

They make casual chitchat while Huck prepares the mahi. Irene pours white wine, it’s her favorite, from Napa, she says, and Huck makes a sound of general appreciation, as if he cares where the wine is from. Irene has set out cheese and crackers but she doesn’t touch them, and Huck holds back to be polite. Or maybe it’s rude not to eat? He can’t tell; he should have reviewed his Emily Post before coming up here. Huck asks Irene if she has a job. She says yes, she’s the editor of something called Heartland Home & Style. It’s a glossy magazine, she says, with a hundred seventy-five thousand subscribers and a quarter-million in advertising each month.

“So it’s like Penthouse, then?” Huck says.

This gets a laugh out of her, which must come as a surprise, because she claps a hand over her mouth.

“It’s okay,” Huck says. “You’re allowed.”

This is the exact wrong response, because Irene’s eyes fill with tears, but she takes a breath, recovers, and says, “I’m sorry. It’s kindness that undoes me.”

“Understood,” Huck says. “From here on out, I’ll try to be more of a bastard.”

Irene smiles. “Thank you. Anyway, a day or two before all this… I had something happen at work. They named me ‘executive editor,’ which is technically a rung up the masthead, but for all intents and purposes I was fired. They relieved me of all my important duties, my decision making…”

“Turned you into an editor emeritus,” Huck says.

Irene’s eyes grow wide. “Exactly.”

“They’re giving you an honorary title, hoping you’ll retire,” Huck says.

“They couldn’t fire me because then advertisers would have made noise, so they got sneaky instead.”

“You should quit,” Huck says. “Move down here. I’ll hire you as my first mate. You’re one hell of a good fisherperson.”

Irene laughs again, not happily. “Not a chance,” she says.

He gets back in her good graces once he sets down the grilled mahi. He waits until Irene takes a bite.

“Wow,” she says.

“Really?” he says. “Good?”

She takes another bite and he takes the hint: she’s not there to plump his ego. He tastes the fish: yes, perfect. Huck is something of a fanatic about grilling fish. In his opinion, you have a sixty-second window with fish. You take it off a minute too early, it’s translucent and not quite there. But this is preferable, in his mind, to a minute too late. A minute too late and the fish is dry, overcooked, ruined. Three generations of Small women—LeeAnn, Rosie, and Maia—have been schooled in Huck’s feelings about grilled fish, and they all reached a point where they were as discriminating as he was. Huck’s fish is always on point, because he stands at the grill like the Swiss Guard and doesn’t let anything distract him. He’d worried that tonight would be an exception, because there are a host of distractions here, but, praise be, the fish is correct.

Irene eats only the fish—the pasta salad and greens remain on her plate—then she helps herself to seconds. “I have no appetite,” she says. “Except for this fish.”

“Because you caught it yourself,” Huck says. “Because you pulled it out of blue water.” He catches her eye. “Angler Cupcake.”

She pours more wine. They’re at the end of the first bottle and without hesitating, Irene opens a second. Okay, then, it’s going to be that kind of night. Huck has questions, but he won’t ask them yet.

“Powder room?” he asks, standing up.

Irene says, “Through the living room to the back corner down a short hall.”

Huck takes his time wandering. The house is grand but the furnishings are impersonal. He had hoped to see something of Rosie, some indication that she spent time here. There are no photographs; there’s no art at all, really. It looks like any one of a thousand rentals. On the other hand, Huck is glad about this for Irene’s sake. How unpleasant it would be for her to have to live, even briefly, in the love nest Russell Steele once feathered with his mistress.