At the end of his first week of fishing with Irene, he writes down the following in his ledger:

These are the usual details that Huck records, along with the credit card numbers or a notation that the client paid with cash. He used to include where the clients were staying on the island and how they’d heard about his charter, but then he decided it didn’t make any difference. Nearly everyone finds him one of two ways: word of mouth or the GD internet. Huck pays a computer whiz named Destiny over in St. Thomas to make sure that when someone types in deep-sea fishing and St. John USVI, the Mississippi is the first link to pop up. Destiny also runs the cards and sends Huck a brief text the night before a charter so he knows what he’ll be dealing with the following day.

What Huck doesn’t write down is the way that having Irene on the boat has changed the experience of going to work. Adam was good. Adam was great. He was technically sound with the rods and the gaff, he was excellent when driving the boat, and he was usually pretty friendly with the clients—some more than others, of course, but that’s true of Huck as well. Huck doesn’t need to be friendly; he’s the captain. His only responsibilities are keeping everyone safe and putting people on fish.

If Huck had any reservations about hiring Irene—and yeah, there had been a couple moments when he’d wondered if he was making a giant mistake—they were erased on the very first day. Irene showed up at the boat even before he did, bringing two cups of good, strong, black coffee and two sausage biscuits from Provisions. She was wearing shorts with pockets and a long-sleeved fishing shirt and a visor and sunglasses; her hair was in that fat braid of hers and she looked every inch like the fisherwoman of Huck’s dreams. He had forwarded Destiny’s text to Irene so she knew they were expecting three adults and one child from Calabasas, wherever that was, someplace in California.

“Los Angeles suburb,” Irene said. “The Kardashians live there.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Huck said gruffly, though he did, sort of, because he lived with a twelve-year-old girl.

The three adults turned out to be a gay couple, Brian and Rafael, and a drop-dead gorgeous Swedish au pair who wore only a bikini and a sarong. They wandered down the dock with an eight-year-old boy who was crying.

Irene looked at Huck and said, “We’ll stay inshore?”

I love you, Huck thought. “You bet,” he said.

The charter—one Huck and Adam might have written off as a bad blind date due to the crying child and uninterested nanny—had been a big success. Brian was an interior designer to the stars who had zero interest in fishing. Rafael was Brazilian and had grown up fishing in Recife, so he was enthusiastic. The au pair lay across the bench seating in the sun and Irene—somehow—worked magic with the kid, whose name was Bennie. She not only got him casting but helped him when he got a bite. Together, Irene and Bennie reeled in a blue runner; it wasn’t a keeper but it was a good-looking fish in pictures. Rafael caught two hardnoses and a blackfin that was too small to keep, but all that action made him happy. While checking everyone’s lines, Irene chatted with Brian about restoration glass (whatever that was) and epoxy floors (whatever those were). The coup de grâce, however, came near the end of the trip when Irene encouraged the au pair, Mathilde, to cast a line and she caught a nice-size blackfin that they could take home. It was big enough for a sushi appetizer.

“That’s the first useful thing she’s done all week,” Brian whispered. Huck watched him slip Irene a hundred-dollar bill.

Huck figured that was beginner’s luck. However, the entire week had gone smoothly. No matter who walked down the dock, Irene was ready, friendly but not too familiar (Adam would have fallen all over himself with the Swedish au pair). After the first day with Bennie, Irene made a habit of bringing snacks—boxes of cheese crackers, bags of hard pretzels. On Friday, Irene showed up with two dozen lemongrass sugar cookies and after Huck tasted one, he took the whole bag from her and said, “These are too good to share.”

Irene laughed and tried to take the bag back and soon they were in a tug-of-war and Irene shrieked, “Huck, you’re going to turn them to crumbs!” Her tone was playful and the delight on her face made her look even younger and more beautiful than the Swedish au pair and Huck had relented because at that moment, all he wanted to do was kiss her.

He didn’t, of course. He couldn’t—not on the boat, not while she was working for him.

That wasn’t the first time he realized he might be falling in love with Irene. The first time it hit him was Thursday, when they had the family from Chapel Hill on board. The Petrushkis were a mixed-race couple—husband a big white dude, wife a dark-skinned lady—and they had four children: twin fourteen-year-old girls, Emma and Jane, a ten-year-old son, Woody, and a four-year-old son named Elton. Huck had no opinion, really, when it came to children; all he wanted to know was whether they were interested in fishing and, if not, whether they were able to sit on a boat for six or eight hours without causing trouble. If a child was “cute” or not didn’t enter his brain. All children were cute, except for Maia, who was exquisite. But even Huck would have had a hard time saying that Elton Petrushki wasn’t the cutest child he’d ever seen. He had café-au-lait skin, like Maia, big brown eyes, and chubby cheeks, and as soon as he climbed aboard the boat, he attached himself to Irene and started asking, “We gon’ fish? We gon’ fish?”

Irene said, “Yes, yes, Elton, we gon’ fish.”

“We gon’ fish!” Elton announced to Huck.

Elton sat with his mother for the trip offshore. Huck was always worried about taking children offshore but Mr. Petrushki assured him that the kids had grown up on the water. The Petrushkis owned a vacation home on Wrightsville Beach on the North Carolina coast and they boated around Cape Fear.

When they slowed down to troll out at Tambo, the fertile spot where Huck and Irene had had such phenomenal luck just after the new year, Huck ran through the drill with Mr. Petrushki and the older kids. He was extra-kind and solicitous—maybe he was trying to show off for Irene—while she dealt with little Elton, who was dead set on catching a fish of his own.

“He gets a fish on, you hold his rod,” Huck said. “Wahoo gets a hold of that line, kid’s going in. Shark bait.”

“Understood, Captain,” Irene said. “Nothing is going to happen to this child in my care.”

The Petrushki family had, in fact, enjoyed a banner day. Mr. Petrushki got a fish on first—Huck was secretly relieved because plenty of time, he had seen grown men bitter about being shown up by their own children—then Huck tossed chum into the water and they got more hits. Mister brought in a wahoo, then one of the twins brought in a smaller wahoo, then a few minutes later, the other twin brought in a wahoo exactly the same size. It was almost eerie. With the appearance of each fish, Elton Petrushki would jump up and down and yell, “Got fish! Got fish!” He stood over the hold staring down with wide eyes as Huck tossed the fish in.

There was a little bit of a lull at one point but Huck saw birds diving and directed the boat over. Sure enough, the ten-year-old Woody caught a barracuda, and then Mr. Petrushki caught a barracuda.

Mrs. Petrushki was reading a book bigger than the Bible, the Collected Works of Jane Austen.

“I love Jane Austen,” Irene said.

“So do I!” Mrs. Petrushki said. “I’m a professor at UNC. I teach the Austen survey course.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Irene said. “The children’s names! Emma, Jane, Wood for Woodhouse, and Elton.”

“Yes, I did my thesis on Emma,” Mrs. Petrushki said. “I’m a bit obsessed, as my girls like to say.”

Huck was in awe at the same time that he felt like an illiterate dummy.

Mrs. Petrushki closed her book and beamed. “Looks like wahoo for dinner.”

Elton gazed up at Irene. “We gon’ fish?”

“We gon’ fish,” Irene said. She got a determined set to her mouth. “Elton is taking the next fish.”

A few minutes later, they had a bite. Irene steered Elton to the port rod. “We have a bite, Elton,” she said. “We are going to reel in your fish. But you have to do exactly what I say.”

“Listen to Miss Irene,” Mrs. Petrushki said.

Irene showed Elton how to spin the reel; meanwhile, she had her hand firmly on the rod. Huck could see the tight clench of her fingers and he was glad. The rod bowed dramatically; this was a big fish.

“Irene,” Huck said.

“We’ve got it, Captain,” she said. “This is Elton’s fish.”

The fish put up a terrific fight, Huck thought, and by terrific, he meant terrible. Irene could maybe have brought the fish up alone but she had Elton squeezed between her legs and her hand over his hand on the reel. Huck was about ready to suggest she pass the kid off to his mother when he saw the flash of green-gold under the surface. He grabbed the gaff and brought up a gorgeous bull mahi that was nearly as big as the one Irene had brought up their first time out.

The other kids were impressed and Elton was beside himself. “My fish! My fish!” As soon as Huck yanked the gaff out and extracted the hook, they all watched the fish flop on the deck while Elton danced alongside it, yelling his head off with joy.

Elton decided he wanted to sit next to Irene going home and it was then, as Huck caught a glimpse of the two of them—Irene with her face raised to the mellow late-afternoon sun, Elton Petrushki tucked under one arm—that he realized he was in serious danger of falling in love with the woman. When Huck looked at Irene, he could see the future. That could be her, fifteen years from now, with Maia’s child.

After their charter on Friday with the Changs (who had wanted to stay inshore and fly-fish), Huck and Irene clean the boat (the boat was never this spick-and-span when Adam did the cleaning), and then Huck hands Irene her first paycheck, which he wrote out that morning at home, and says, “Good job this week, Angler Cupcake.”

She looks at the check, raises one eyebrow, and says, “I had so much fun, I feel bad taking your money.”

“You earned it,” Huck says. He wants to tell her how different work was this week compared to every other week of the past six years since LeeAnn died, but he finds a lump in his throat. “I couldn’t ask for a better mate.”

“Really?” she says.

Huck fears if he gives her any specific compliments, all of his feelings will come tumbling out and he’ll embarrass them both. “Next week, we have driving lessons.”

“I signed up for the online marine-safety class,” she says.

“Good girl,” Huck says. He unties his neckerchief and wipes off his forehead. The sun is starting its descent and Huck can already hear the hooting, hollering, and steel-drum music that characterize Cruz Bay on a Friday night. “So, do you have big plans for the weekend?”

“I’m going to sleep in,” she says. “Go for a swim or two. Read. Spend time with the boys. And check in with my attorney at home.”

“You…haven’t heard any news, have you?” Huck asks.

“No.” She pauses. “Huck, I have to say it. I’m haunted by all that money in Rosie’s dresser.”

“That makes two of us.” Huck is uncomfortable talking about the Russ-and-Rosie mess at all, and he’s glad they’ve avoided it all week.

“Cash said there were FBI agents watching the house when he got here, but I guess they’ve decided we’re harmless because they haven’t been back.”

“I told you, AC, nothing to worry about,” Huck says. “Hey, listen, Maia is with Ayers tonight. Do you want to go to dinner? Say, Morgan’s Mango?”

Irene sighs. “I’m just not ready to go out,” she says. “It’s too soon.”

“I get it,” Huck says. “I have some of that wahoo from yesterday and I hid those cookies. Why don’t you come to my place and I’ll cook for you?”

“I should probably go on home,” Irene says. “But thank you.”

He nearly offers to grab some barbecue from Candi’s—enough for everyone—but then he thinks, She’s telling you no, Sam Powers. And can he blame her? She’s just spent five days straight trapped with him out at sea on a twenty-six-foot boat. Is it any wonder she wants to get away and have some time to herself?

This is what Huck should want as well. After all, the last person he’d wanted to spend his free time with during the past three years was Adam. When he bumped into Adam at Joe’s Rum Hut or the Beach Bar—which happened plenty of times—they would wave and not say a word to each other.

But what Huck wants now…is to see more of Irene. In fact, he feels bereft at the idea of an entire weekend without her. Maia is with Ayers tonight, which means Huck will be home alone. He can, in theory, crack open a cold beer and try to finish his damn book. Or he could wander over to the Rum Hut, then to the Beach Bar, then go up to the Banana Deck—he hasn’t been up to the Banana Deck since the new year. Well, yeah, he thinks. Because Rosie died. Maybe Irene is right; maybe it is too soon to go out to dinner and have a nice time. Maybe they should just stay home and reflect, confer with their attorneys, and wonder what the hell happened.

Then Huck remembers that Maia and her little friend who goes to Antilles, Shane, are planning to see the baobab tree with Cash.

“I heard Maia is planning a hike with Cash,” Huck says.

“That’s nice,” Irene says. “They’re forging a relationship.”

It is nice, Huck agrees. He notices that Irene doesn’t suggest they forge a relationship outside of work, off this boat, and what can Huck conclude but that Irene isn’t interested in him? Somehow, he never considered this. Somehow, he’d let himself believe that her interest in him matched his interest in her.

Was it strange as all get-out that Irene’s husband and Huck’s stepdaughter had been in a secret relationship and had a love child? Hell yes.

Too strange, maybe. Huck should just forget about it. He should be grateful that he and Irene are friends and now coworkers and that they don’t hate each other and aren’t in litigation over God knows what—money or the villa or Maia.

Huck watches Irene as she strolls off the dock carrying her reusable shopping bag filled with snacks.

He scratches his face. Maybe he should shave his beard. Or read some Jane Austen.

The next morning the phone rings, and Huck assumes it’ll be Maia asking to stay with Ayers a little longer. If that’s the case he might see if Irene wants to take a drive out to the East End. He’ll offer to bring Floyd and Baker along if they’re looking for something to do.

He’s making a nuisance of himself; he’s aware of this, but he can’t help it.

It’s not Maia calling, or Ayers. It’s Rupert.

“Huck.”

“Rupert.”

“You been drinking yet today?” Rupert asks.

“No,” Huck says. “Not yet.” His eyes graze his trusty bottle of Flor de Caña up on the shelf. Is he going to need it? Or is Rupert about to invite him to meet for lunch at Miss Lucy’s—an invitation Huck just might take him up on?

“You remember talking the other day about Paulette Vickers?”

“Yes,” Huck says warily. The Flor de Caña, then. He brings the bottle down to the counter.

“She and her husband were arrested over on St. Croix. You know how Doug Vickers has a sister there? FBI, two, three cars, pull into Wilma Vickers’s driveway in Frederiksted and Paulette and Doug get led away in handcuffs.”

“This reliable?” Huck asks.

“Sadie went to school with Wilma,” Rupert says. “Wilma called Sadie herself. She has the little boy. Parents went to jail.”

“Did they say why?” Huck asks. “What were they charged with?”

“Conspiracy to commit fraud, Wilma said. Real estate fraud. Financial fraud.” Rupert pauses. “The guy they were in business with, and the Invisible Man, too, were doing laundry.”

“Laundry?” Huck says.

“They were cleaning money,” Rupert says. “Head honcho had a yacht, Bluebeard, and Wilma told Sadie that she knows for certain that boat used to pull into Cruz Bay with a hold full of cash. From guerrilla groups in Nicaragua, Wilma said. And the Marxists in Cuba and Argentinean soccer stars trying to avoid taxes and God knows who else. And Paulette and Douglas Vickers were helping them.”

When Huck hangs up with Rupert, he calls Agent Vasco but is shuttled immediately to her voicemail. It’s Saturday, so maybe she’s off duty—but who is he kidding; she’s probably waist-deep in the Vickers morass.

Huck has known the Vickerses for twenty years—not well, he’s never been invited to their home, never done any direct business with them, but he knows them. Croft must have made them an offer they couldn’t refuse; they must have thought they would never get caught. Huck understands what it’s like to live here as a local person and see the big boats roll in and watch the enormous villas go up and wonder, Why them and not me? Maybe Paulette let herself get into a compromising spot with her family’s business; God knows, real estate is risky everywhere. Huck could call some of LeeAnn’s friends—Dearie and Helen come to mind—and ask what they’ve heard. But it’s possible that what they heard came from Sadie via Wilma as well, and it’s possible that Dearie and Helen haven’t heard a thing but will start jabbering as soon as they realize it’s a topic of interest. The Vickerses got mixed up with Russell Steele and his boss, Todd Croft, and they were helping to launder the money.

Huck’s next instinct is to call Irene. He’s been looking for a reason and now he has one. Paulette and Doug Vickers arrested on St. Croix. That much he could share. The rest of it—the laundering and Bluebeard—that all sounds suspiciously like gossip. Still, Huck feels the seed of fear that has been in his gut since Rosie died start to grow. Russ was involved in illegal and dangerous business dealings. Guerrillas in Nicaragua?

What Huck wants to know is if he or Maia—or Irene—will somehow be implicated in a crime.

We didn’t know anything, Huck thinks. Surely the FBI realizes this. Huck has done nothing wrong, Maia has done nothing wrong, and Irene has done nothing wrong. They’re innocent—but does that mean they’re safe?

Getting Paulette and Doug Vickers can’t possibly be the FBI’s endgame, Huck thinks. They want to find Todd Croft. And Paulette will sing—of this, Huck is certain. She has her child to think about.

From this perspective, maybe Irene would be intrigued by the news, possibly even happy to hear it. They’re tracking down answers. What were Croft and Russell Steele doing? Where was all that money coming from?

No, it will not make Irene happy, Huck decides. It will make her agitated, especially since all they can do until they get official word from Agent Vasco is speculate. And so Huck decides not to tell Irene until he’s had a conversation with Agent Vasco.

Huck sets the Flor de Caña back up on the shelf. He heads out onto the deck to have a cigarette. He imagines Irene lying on the beach in Little Cinnamon, thinking about little Elton Petrushki or about how cold it is back in Iowa City or about what she’s going to make for dinner. But she will not be thinking about Paulette Vickers sitting in an interrogation room and giving the FBI who knows what kind of information about her husband. Huck’s silence is a gift. Irene is sure to find out at some point; hell, maybe she’ll find out tomorrow. But at least she has today in peace. At least she has right now.