“I know,” Floyd says. He has his lunch box with the peanut butter sandwich that Baker made that morning in their hotel room.

A rental, he needs to find a rental—and a real job.

Being with Ayers was Baker’s primary motivation in moving down to St. John, but he has to push thoughts of her away for now. Food, clothing, shelter—then love. He called her; she didn’t answer, but she sent a text: I’ve come down with something. It’s bad and I wouldn’t want you or Floyd to catch it. I’ll call you when I’m better. Frankly, this was a relief; it bought him some time. He assumes she knows what happened from talking to Cash or Maia. As soon as Baker gets settled, he’s going to swing by La Tapa and see her. He’ll ask her out to dinner. They’ll start fresh, as though the whole fraught way they met (at Rosie’s memorial reception, where Baker lied about who he was) and their bizarre first date (they had sex in a beach chair that ended when the chair collapsed) and their one night together (which took place only hours after Ayers had broken up with Mick and two days before she became engaged to Mick) never happened.

They need a clean slate. They’ll get to know each other gradually, without any heavy emotional baggage weighing them down. Everything will be aboveboard, out in the open, uncomplicated.

“Hey there!”

Baker and Floyd have just climbed out of their new Jeep when Baker sees a tall, rail-thin blond woman in expensive yoga clothes (Baker’s eyes land on the woman’s nipples completely by accident) walking toward them and smiling.

“You must be the new dad,” she says. “I’m Swan Seeley. My older son, Colton, is friends with Maia, and my little boy, Ryder, is in kindergarten just like Floyd.” Swan bends over, hands on knees, and looks at Floyd. “Everyone has been waiting for you to get here, Floyd. There’s already a cubby with your name on it and a chair right next to my son Ryder at the blue table, which is where the cool kids sit.”

Baker tries to imagine his school wives’ reaction to the term cool kids. One of them would point-blank tell this woman not to project her own insecurities about social status onto children. Which one would say it? Debbie, he thinks. Unless Ellen beat her to it.

“Blue is my third favorite color,” Floyd announces. “Green first, then red, then blue.” He glances up at Baker. “Can we go in, Dad?”

“Yes, of course,” Baker says. He holds out his hand to Swan and is careful about looking her in the eye. “Thank you for the words of encouragement. I’m Baker Steele.”

She grasps his hand and lays her other hand on top. “Oh, I know who you are. We’ve all been waiting for you to arrive too.”

Floyd has a good first day, then a good second day. All the kids are cool kids. Floyd is happy. Baker is getting there. He has a new Jeep and money in the bank. He checks in with his mother and his brother. Irene is living with Huck, working on the fishing boat, driving around with Huck in his truck like a local. She seems fine…better than fine. Her former boss at the magazine is paying for a real lawyer, a woman who is unraveling the tangle of Russ’s deceits. Cash, meanwhile, is living high on the hog with Tilda from La Tapa, but that hardly seems like a sustainable arrangement.

Maybe, just maybe, Baker will be able to find a place that’s big enough for all of them.

Welcome to Paradise Real Estate, which was owned by Paulette and Douglas Vickers, is now out of business, so Baker decides to try an agency called the Love City Villa Experience, which sounds sort of like an adult film from the 1970s—but maybe that’s a good sign?

Baker walks into the agency and approaches the desk of a middle-aged West Indian woman wearing a cantaloupe-colored blouse and glasses on a chain. The nameplate in front of her says FRANCES.

“I’m looking for a villa rental,” Baker says.

“Good afternoon,” Frances says, sounding like a teacher correcting a student’s grammar.

“Good afternoon,” Baker says quickly. He chastises himself; the most important thing when speaking to anyone in the Virgin Islands is a proper greeting. Frances has probably already pegged Baker as a tourist from a busy place like New York—or Houston—where civility and manners don’t exist. “How are you today? My name is Baker Steele.”

Frances blinks. “Oh,” she says. “Hello.”

Does Frances know who he is? Does she know who his father was? Something about the way she said those two words conveys a yes on both counts. Will she work with him anyway?

He tells her his budget and says he’d like a villa with four bedrooms. She gives him the death stare. He says three. She shakes her head, tsks him. He says, “Two?” She picks up her keys and says, “Come along, son. Let’s find you a home.”

Baker has spent enough time lounging on the couch watching HGTV to know that the places you love are always too expensive and the places that are within your budget are always underwhelming for one reason or another. Frances takes him to look at an apartment on the first switchback of the Centerline Road. It’s fine but the traffic noise is a problem, plus the place looks run-down and the communal pool is green with algae. No. They look at a tiny cottage all the way out past Salt Pond in Coral Bay. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from town, which means ninety minutes spent commuting each day. No. There’s a place near the Cinnamon Bay campground that smells like rot and is swarming with mosquitoes and doesn’t have air-conditioning. No.

Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Frances says she’ll make a comprehensive list; they’ll look again on Saturday. In the meantime, Baker will continue to hemorrhage cash at the Westin. It’s starting to feel like home. There’s a young woman at the front desk named Emily who flirts with Baker, and he flirts back. It’s harmless! The morning after Baker’s fruitless house search, he’s getting his coffee in the lobby when Emily says, “I heard my aunt Fran is helping you find a place to live. And here I thought you were planning on staying with us forever.”

“I’m moving here,” he says. He wonders how his name came up in conversation with her aunt. He wonders if the entire island is whispering about him behind his back. “And I need to find a job.”

“Got a minute?” Emily says. She leads him outside and then across the Westin property to the building where they sell time-shares.

“Oh, I can’t afford to buy a time-share,” Baker says. “Though, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to live at the Westin permanently. It’d be a dream come true.”

“I didn’t bring you here to buy,” Emily says. “I brought you here to sell.”

What is she talking about? She’s talking about an opening they have for a sales associate in the time-share office. Emily leaves Baker with a woman named Jacqui who plops him down for an informal interview. There’s no experience required for the job, though Jacqui loves that Baker has a degree from Northwestern and an MBA. He’s personable. And he now knows the Westin property very well and can extol its many virtues. Baker wanted to get into real estate anyway, didn’t he? This is one way in. There’s a built-in clientele, Jacqui tells him. People show up at the hotel and fall so in love with St. John that they buy time-shares so they can keep coming back. The commission scale is generous—it’s real money—and the hours are flexible. He can work seven thirty to two thirty and then pick Floyd up from school. The job comes with full benefits, and he’ll be good at it. He knows he’ll be good at it.