What Happens in Paradise(86)

“Wearing my human-resources hat, here’s what I think,” Becky says. “I like this move for you. It’s not necessarily permanent. You go down there, you coach at the school, you get Floyd situated. He’s a bright, perceptive, resilient kid and he’s a sponge. I think it’ll be good for both of you to live somewhere else for a while. You’re renting your house, not selling it, so you can always come back. Think of it as a sabbatical of sorts. And then if Ayers sees the light and you two get together, you can make it more permanent.”

The other women nod their heads.

“What did I tell you before?” Ellen says. “You won’t hit the ball if you don’t swing.”



Baker appreciates his friends’ advice, but there’s no way he’s making such a huge leap of faith without talking to Ayers.

But first, Baker tries Cash. He would like some intel. Has his brother talked to Ayers about the engagement? What does he know? Cash doesn’t answer his phone; either he’s very busy or he doesn’t want to get involved. Baker assumes it’s the latter, but why did he send the photo, then? To be informative or to be a jerk?

Baker tries Ayers on Tuesday evening, a full twenty-four hours after he received the photo. It doesn’t seem quite as horrific now that some time has passed. Engagements get broken every day, right?

She doesn’t answer either, which could be a bad sign—she’s with Mick, she’s finished with Baker, she wants him to go away—in which case, Baker will just stay in Houston.

He doesn’t leave a voicemail—no one ever listens to them—but he does shoot her a text. Any chance I can talk to you tonight?

A little while later, there’s a response. I’m at work. I’ll call on my way home.

Baker stares at the words for a long time, trying to imagine what Ayers is thinking.

Well, he’ll know in a few hours.

He feeds Floyd and reads him three stories, but Floyd is keyed up because they’re supposed to leave in the morning. Floyd has already said goodbye to his friends and his teachers. He’s excited to live on an island.

“Dad,” he says. “Islands are surrounded by water.”

“That’s right,” Baker says.

“Gramma has a job on a boat,” Floyd says. “Catching fish. And Uncle Cash has a job on a boat, giving tours to people from other places.” Floyd closes his eyes. “I want to work on a boat.”

“Okay, buddy,” Baker says, ruffling Floyd’s hair. “We’ll get you a job on a boat.”

Floyd’s eyes fly open. “Really?”

Baker laughs, and he thinks of what a unique and amazing experience it would be for Floyd to grow up on a Caribbean island. He’ll learn to sail and navigate; he’ll become familiar with the natural world. And maybe he will grow up to be a person who contributes so much to the island that it makes up for his grandfather’s wrongs—whatever those turn out to be.

Baker indulges in some red velvet–cake ice cream but resists the temptation of marijuana.

At nine fifteen, his phone rings. It’s Ayers.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

“You heard?”

“I did. Cash sent me a picture of Mick slipping the ring on your finger.” Baker pauses. “I guess the breakup didn’t last long.”

“I was taken by surprise,” Ayers says.

“But you said yes, right?” Baker says. “And it was still a yes once you were alone with him? I mean, I understand the manipulative nature of public proposals…” He shakes his head; he’s parroting Ellen.

“Yes,” Ayers says. “It was manipulative. Good choice of words.”

Ellen has never steered him wrong, he thinks. “You’re going to marry Mick? Even though he cheated on you? Even though you said yourself that you can’t trust him?”

“Do you have time for a story?” Ayers asks. “This is something I’ve never told anyone—not Mick, not Rosie, not anybody.”

“I have all night,” Baker says.

She takes a breath. “When I was Maia’s age—younger even; ten or eleven—I lived in Kathmandu with my parents.”

“Kathmandu.” Baker remembers all the photographs on Ayers’s wall. Story for another day. “In Nepal?”

“Yes,” Ayers says. “Kathmandu used to be this frenetic, dirty, dusty, poverty-stricken place where emaciated cows roamed the streets along with the cars and the motorbikes. My parents and I lived in a backpacker hostel. My mother, Sunny, tended bar at an expat pub, I can’t remember the name, only that it had a snooker table, and while my mother worked, my father would try to teach me to play, but my arms were too short to hold the cue stick. Anyway, the manager of the pub was this guy named Simon and he was the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life—and he liked my mother. Even at my tender age, I figured out that was why my father kept me in the pub playing snooker rather than exploring the city.” She sighed. “But my father couldn’t keep me there too late, so eventually every night we’d go back to the hostel. One night, something must have happened with Simon because my mother didn’t come home. For three days, we didn’t see her.”

“What did your dad do?” Baker asks.