Brigid! Where is he going with Brigid? To the recycling center and the restaurant-supply store? Or to the Tap and Still for a long boozy lunch followed by…what? Not back until late, he said. What a jerk!

Gordon puts his paws up on Brigid’s knees and starts licking her face, and Ayers turns away; if she watches any longer, she’s going to be sick. She pulls her phone out of her shorts pocket and as she’s wondering what to text to Mick—what can she say that will make him feel as nauseated as she feels right now?—Cash calls up the stairs.

“Paperwork is ready,” he says. “Permission to board?”

“Permission granted,” James says from the wheelhouse.

Ayers’s phone says it’s ten past eight. Time to get everyone on so they can leave. She shoves her phone back into her shorts pocket, then whips it back out and shoots a quick text to Mick: I saw you with Brigid. Please don’t ever call me again. It’s over.

She feels triumphant, but it lasts only an instant.

Brigid!

 

The six children are all in the same family, the Dresslers, and they’re all boys, towheaded and tan, ranging in age from fourteen to six. They all have D-names: DJ, Danny, Damian, Duncan, Donner (“Like the reindeer,” the mother says), and Dougie.

Who names a child after a reindeer? Ayers wonders. She’s in a foul mood.

The kids seem relatively well behaved, and the parents—Dave and Donna—are a striking couple, tall and superior-looking. Donna carries a bag (as big as Santa’s!) that holds the entire family’s snorkeling equipment.

You just never know what you’re going to get, Ayers thinks. Today it’s a cross between the von Trapp children and Russian matryoshka dolls.

She finds Cash in the cabin; he’s setting out the platter of fruit and the sliced coconut-banana bread. The greatest thing about Cash is he doesn’t mind the menial jobs. He thinks it’s a privilege! And Cash is clearly skilled with a knife. The fruit is uniformly sliced and spread out in an appetizing pinwheel.

Ayers pulls Cash aside. “I’ll keep a close eye on the boys. You take the so-called grown-ups.”

“Got it, boss,” he says. He turns from Ayers and smiles at a young woman who is hanging by the counter. “What can I get for you?”

“When does the bar open?” the young woman asks.

Ayers has to wait a beat before she answers. This happens every day, but Ayers is in no mood right now for someone whose sole reason for coming aboard Treasure Island is to get shitfaced.

“No alcohol until we’re under way,” Ayers says. “And even then, I’d urge you to be prudent until the snorkeling portion is over.”

“Prudent is my middle name,” she says. “But snorkeling is quite a while from now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ayers says. “Baths first—including travel, that takes two hours—then the captain will pick a snorkeling spot. We should be finished snorkeling by eleven or eleven thirty.”

“That’s a long time to be prudent,” the woman says.

Ayers feels herself about to snap. “Once we are on our way to Jost, you can drink as much as you want.”

Cash says, “If Prudent is your middle name, what’s your first name?” He sticks out a hand. “I’m Cash.”

“I’m Maxwell,” she says.

“That’s your first name?” Cash asks.

“’Fraid so,” she says. “It’s kind of confusing, but don’t worry, I’m very female.” She sticks her chest out at Cash, and Ayers notices a tattoo of a keyhole between her breasts. Ayers gets it—she’s waiting for the person who holds the key to her heart.

Cash must notice the tattoo at the same time—how could he not; it’s nestled right there between her boobs, which are straining against the green cups of her bikini—because he says, “Cool tattoo.”

Maxwell glances down at her chest as if she has no idea what he’s talking about. “Oh, thanks,” she says. Over the bikini, she’s wearing a sheer green paisley peasant blouse. She gives a tiny shrug, and the blouse slips down off her shoulder. This girl has all the moves and she has her bright gaze trained on Cash. “I hope you don’t mind my hanging around. It’s just that I came on this trip by myself. I’m visiting a friend of mine from high school who lives here but she said she has a lot of errands today because she works at night—”

Ayers can’t stop herself from jumping in. “Is your friend named Brigid, by any chance?”

“No,” Maxwell says.

“Long shot, I know,” Ayers says. “You just remind me of someone.”

“Anyway,” Maxwell says, now showing Cash one creamy shoulder, “she encouraged me to come out on this tour. She said it’s the best.” She beams at Cash, as though Treasure Island’s sterling reputation is all Cash’s doing. “I think she was trying to get rid of me. I can be a lot.”

“You?” Ayers says.

The boat engine starts. Cash says, “I have to go tend to the ropes. Excuse me, Maxwell.”

“Just call me Max,” she says. “When you’re finished, will you come back and make me a painkiller, extra strong?”

“You got it,” Cash says. He gives her a wink and shoots out a finger like Isaac, the bartender from The Love Boat, a cultural reference Ayers suspects is lost on Max.

Ayers wrestles with her wandering mind. She told Cash she would keep an eye on the kids and let him handle the adults, but by now, all six of the boys might have drowned.

Ayers puts on her headset. “I’m about to give the safety talk,” she says to Max. “You should listen.”

 

The ride to Virgin Gorda is smooth. Ayers makes herself notice how glorious the water, the sky, and the emerald-green islands are. She is so lucky to live here, to have this job and her job at La Tapa, her friends, her community, Maia and Huck. Rosie is gone, but at least while Ayers is reading the journals, it feels like she has Rosie back. It feels like Rosie is, finally, telling her everything.

But then she succumbs to the red, hot, itchy temptation of thinking about Mick and Brigid. Brigid! If Ayers had seen Mick with anyone else—Emily Ratajkowski, Scarlett Johansson with her tongue in Mick’s ear—it wouldn’t have sickened Ayers the way seeing him with Brigid has. Why did he even bother getting back together with her? Because she was hurting? Because he felt sorry for her? Because her apartment was far more homey and comfortable than the rat hole where he and Gordon lived? Is he using her? Preying on her pain and her wobbly judgment? She’s actively mourning the loss of her best friend and she has been trying to hold it together so she can be whole and strong for Maia. How dare Mick go behind her back again after all Ayers has just been through. That is what makes this unforgivable.

She scans the boat, looking for anyone who seems to be suffering from seasickness, but the passengers look calm and happy, their faces turned toward the sun, hair blowing back in the breeze. The six boys are sitting on a bench between the statuesque bookends of their parents, and there isn’t a single electronic device among them, which Ayers finds impressive.

She leans toward the mother, Donna, and says, “Your boys are so well behaved.”