“How was your night with Ayers?” Huck has been so preoccupied with Irene that he has neglected to ask until now.
Maia is facing into the wind, wearing an inexpensive pair of plastic sunglasses that she decorated with seashells she and her mother collected on Salomon Beach. “Impossible-to-reach-Salomon-Beach” had been Rosie’s favorite. Maia has a faraway expression on her face, and Huck wonders what’s going on in that mind of hers. He nearly repeats the question, but then Maia says, “It was fine. I think Ayers is having man problems.”
“Oh really?” Huck says. “Someone new, or is she still hung up on Mick?”
“Someone new,” Maia says. “A tourist, I think.”
“Bad news,” Huck says. He casts a sidelong glance at Maia. “You’re not allowed to date until you’re thirty, by the way.”
“We saw Mick at Pizzabar in Paradise,” Maia says. “He told me he still loves Ayers.”
“Oh boy,” Huck says. “Sounds like you had an educational night.”
“She likes the tourist,” Maia says. “But they had a date for tonight, and he canceled. She was upset. I told her she should go back out with Mick. I like Mick.”
“I know you do,” Huck says. Huck likes Mick, too. Mick always buys him a round at the Beach Bar, and he buys Huck’s fish for the restaurant. But Mick had gotten mixed up with one of the little girlies working for him and Ayers gave him the boot.
Now she’s interested in a tourist? No, Huck thinks. Not a good idea. Although Huck, of course, has no say.
Huck steers the boat past Jost and up along the coast of Tortola. He’s in British waters now and he expects to be stopped by Her Majesty’s coast guard; Huck isn’t allowed to be over here without going through customs. But the border control and BVI police boats must all be at lunch or at the beach, because he moves toward their destination unimpeded.
North of Virgin Gorda, southeast of Anegada. It’s a haul—which, he supposes, is why Russ and Rosie decided to take a bird. It was only an irresponsible decision because of the weather; it must have seemed like a good gamble, though, and if Huck had all the tea in China and a bird at his disposal, he might have chanced it as well.
They pass Treasure Island, which is on the way from Norman Island to Jost Van Dyke, and Maia starts waving her arms like crazy.
“Ayers is working today,” she says.
“Does she know what we’re doing today?” Huck asks.
“I didn’t tell her,” Maia says. “I didn’t tell anyone.” Treasure Island is past them now, and The Mississippi catches some of her choppy wake. The boat bounces, but Maia enjoys it the way she might a ride at the amusement park. She’s his girl.
Hard things are hard. Maia asked to see the place where the helicopter went down. At first, Huck had resisted. What good would come from seeing the place where Rosie died so violently? But then Huck reasoned that any real-life visual would likely be less horrific than the pictures Maia held in her mind.
They reach the general area of the crash, according to the coordinates Huck had gotten from Virgin Islands Search and Rescue when they had delivered Rosie’s body—a huge favor pulled by Huck’s best friend, Rupert, who grew up in Coral Bay with the governor; bodies are notoriously hard to recover from the Brits—and Huck cuts the engine. The water is brilliant turquoise; the green peaks of Virgin Gorda are behind them. Huck picks up the mooring—a white spherical buoy that Maia painted with a red rose and Rosie’s name and dates. Huck had told Maia that the mooring isn’t legal; it will likely be pulled within twenty-four hours. Maia doesn’t care. She wants to go through the ritual of marking the spot.
“We’re here,” Huck says.
Maia stands, holding the buoy, and kisses it. Huck picks up the rope and tosses the anchor overboard. Maia throws the buoy over. The rose is pretty; she did a good job.
“Should we say something?” Huck asks.
“I love you, Mama,” Maia says. “And Huck loves you, too, even if he is too manly to say it.”
“Me, too manly?” Huck says. He clears his throat. “I love you, Rosie girl. I’ll love you forever. I just hope you’re with your mama now. My precious LeeAnn.”
“Amen,” Maia says.
Huck smiles, though a couple of tears fall. LeeAnn was the only one of them who ever went to church—Our Lady of Mount Carmel: she loved the priest, Father Abraham, who has an enviable charisma—but some of the faith must have rubbed off on Maia.
She opens the paper lunch bag and produces a pink sphere. She holds it above the water with two pincer fingers and lets it go right next to the buoy. The water fizzes, just as it used to back in the day when Huck would make himself an Alka-Seltzer.
“What is that?” Huck says. He’s an ecologist by nature, so he’s concerned.
“Bath bomb, rose-scented,” Maia says. “Don’t worry, it’s organic.”
They both peer over the side of The Mississippi until the rose-scented bath bomb dissolves.
“For you, Mama,” Maia says.
Huck waits a respectful moment. Just as he’s about to start the engine, Maia pulls out a second bath bomb, this one pale yellow.
“What’s that?” Huck asks.
Maia brings it to her nose and inhales deeply. “Pineapple mint,” she says. “My favorite. It’s for Russ.” She drops it in the water. “For you, Russ.”
He couldn’t hope for a more natural segue, and yet when he starts to speak there’s a catch in his throat. He’s about to change this kid’s entire life. But he won’t live forever. He’s sixty-one now, and who’s to say he won’t drown or get struck by lightning, or die of a heart attack, or get bitten by a poisonous spider, or have a head-on collision on the Centerline Road? If there’s one thing Huck can say about Rosie, it’s that she firmly believed she would live forever. And she didn’t. So it’s best to err on the side of caution. If Huck dies, the girl will have no one. Ayers, maybe, if Ayers doesn’t move to Calabasas or Albany, New York, with some tourist—but Ayers has no legal claim of guardianship.
Maia needs family—a chance at family, anyway. And Irene is right—if Huck doesn’t tell her now, she’ll find out when she’s older. And hate him.
“Speaking of Russ,” Huck says.
“Uh-oh,” Maia says. She puts her elbows on her knees, rests her chin in her hand.
“Back when I told you the news,” Huck says, “you said that Russ was your father.”
“He is,” Maia says. “Was. They told me the truth on my birthday, back in November. Russ is the Pirate. We have the same birthmark.”
Huck shakes his head. “Russ has the birthmark?”
“The peanut,” Maia says. “In the exact same spot on his back.”
“No kidding,” Huck says. Maia’s birthmark, on the back of her shoulder, is the shape and size of a ballpark peanut.
“No kidding,” Maia says. “He was my birth father after all. I kind of already knew. We have the same laugh, we both love licorice, we’re both left-handed.”
“Do you know… anything else?” Huck asks. Like where the guy was the first seven years of your life?
“No,” Maia says. “Mom said she would tell me the whole story when I was older. Fifteen or sixteen. When I could handle it better, she said.”
“Okay,” Huck says. His job has been made both easier and more difficult. On the one hand, there’s no need to pursue a DNA test if the birthmark story is true—Irene should be able to confirm—but on the other hand, Maia may not want to know the truth about her father. “Well, I’ve made a new friend recently.”
“Seriously?” Maia says. “I thought you hated people.”
Huck gives a dry laugh. “My friend, Irene, Irene Steele, actually, used to be married to Russ.”
Maia’s face changes to an expression that is beyond her years. It’s wariness, he thinks, the expression one gets when one senses a hostile presence. “Used to be?” she says.
“Honey,” he says. “Russ was married. While he was with your mom, the whole time, he was married to someone else. A woman named Irene. She flew down here when she learned he was dead, and she found me. She has two sons, one thirty years old, one twenty-eight. They are your brothers.”