by Nina Hatch
I watch as Claire scrapes the uneaten food into the garbage, dumping hundreds of dollars of rare ingredients into a plastic sack. Last night, it was gold. Literally. Gold flakes that were placed artfully on chocolate ganache, now sparkling at the bottom of the trash.
“Hate to interrupt this charming exchange, ladies, but next course needs to be on deck pronto,” Lucy shouts, her head buried halfway in the oven, fretting over the braised salmon that will be the entrée.
“Of course, hate to keep the supermodels hungry,” Claire jokes, nudging me with her elbow as she swoops up four steaming dishes, the fine china poised perfectly on her delicate arm. If she weren’t so petite, Claire could be a supermodel herself, with her fine features and the willowy way she moved. I follow behind with three of my own — I’m not nearly as balanced as Claire, but my skills are improving. Had this been a proper dinner service, we would carry and serve only one plate, all placed at the exact same moment in front of each guest. This was just a casual lunch though.
A casual lunch with five courses and a wine pairing.
“Risotto alla zucca with a truffle-balsamic reduction,” Lucy calls out behind us as we climb the spiral staircase to the interior dining room on the main deck.
Lunch was typically served alfresco, but the sky today is gloomy, the sun behind the clouds for the first time in my two weeks at sea. It feels like the ocean is expressing it’s discontent with the absent sun even more than the guests, the waves pitching and stirring beneath the hull of the Venus, choppy waters making everything a little more difficult.
When we reach the elegant dining room, Mel is already pouring the second glass of wine for the guests, who include four film producers and their trophy mistresses — I also learned quickly that discretion is one of the key duties of a crewmember. Mel glares at me as I place the dishes down.
Our relationship is still very much a work in progress.
As chief stew, Mel is the one interfacing with the guests the most, coordinating meals, parties, and shore excursions for them, and generally making sure everything runs smooth. She’s also my direct supervisor, the one I need to impress, and we didn’t get off to the best start.
After recruiting me at the caffé in Schiaro, Teddy and Claire tried to force-feed me the basic job description of a third yacht stewardess while we walked the pier to board the Venus. Overall, I was feeling pretty good about the whole scenario. I knew how to vacuum, how to make a bed, shake a cocktail, run a load of laundry, and be nice to people, so how hard could this be? Just fake it til you make it, right?
But I blew my cover of acting like I had any yachting experience the first moment I met Mel. Really, the very first moment. Striding onto the gangway of the Venus of the Sea with confidence, I was met with an immediate gasp that cut my self-esteem off at the knees.
“No shoes on deck!” a very blonde, very British woman protested as I began to board. Mel turned to level at Claire and Teddy, “right, where did you get this one from?”
Apparently, yachting operates with quite specific codes, traditions, and conditions, one of which is that the crew and the guests are always barefoot — something any properly trained stew would know.
With no better option though, Mel let me stay, assigning Claire and Teddy to show me the ropes and generally make sure I didn’t make an ass of myself.
Mission not accomplished.
For the first few days, I was so seasick I could barely move, and when I did, it ended in disaster. During the first charter, I backed into a tray Mel had just prepared for a champagne tower, sending crystal shattering across the galley and resulting in a three-hour cleanup — cut glass does not pair well with the required bare feet rule. The next day, I managed to bungle a silver service dinner and shrink the captain’s trousers in the wash. Teddy tried to console me by telling me how he didn’t even know how to tie a bowline knot when he first started as a deckhand, but it didn’t help.
Most days, Mel stuck me on cabin duty, where I could follow a checklist and keep out of the way, and that’s where I get ready to slink back to after helping Claire serve the final courses at lunch.
I check my phone in the crew mess one last time before plugging it back in. It’s almost dead, as usual. Lucy got me set up with a temporary phone to replace the one I donated to Davy Jones, but I enlisted her help before finding out that she’s the most frugal person on the planet, meaning that I’m now the proud owner of an ancient flip phone just like hers that doesn’t even text and can barely hold a charge.
“Thanks for helping out, Claire says with a sad smile as I flick the phone closed and grab my caddy of cleaning supplies. “Maybe tonight we can watch a movie or something?” I nod and head to the first guest cabin, where I start to unpack the polishes and cleansers I’ll spend the rest of my day with. As second stew, Claire is my mentor and bunkmate, and she’s quickly becoming my best friend as well. Not that there’s much competition in that category right now, as I’m lying to everyone else I know. Again.
When I finally gathered the courage to call my friends and family on my sad little flip phone and tell them that I was safe and alive after missing my flight to JFK Airport, I may have left certain details out. Like the fact that I quit my stable, sensible job in spectacular fashion, I had no money or backup plan to pay my rent, or that my real phone was now sitting at the bottom of the ocean.
Instead, I told them all I was on a yacht, but as a guest, not as a crewmember, a reward trip for my performance at Glendon & Howe. Between my fake boyfriend and now my fake job, I was getting pretty good at lying.
To keep up appearances, I sent my family a few photos — artfully composed selfies of me in front of the ocean, the Venus logo on my uniform cropped out of frame. With a little photoshop magic to erase the bags under my eyes due to lack of sleep, even I was almost convinced that I was leading a glamorous, successful life — not spending hours detail-cleaning toilets.
But even if my days were spent scrubbing bidets and steam showers, something deep inside of me felt alive. Something that I’d never acknowledged before. Looking out the cabin windows to see views of St. Tropez, Portofino, and Cannes float by was a vast improvement over the unchanging view from my cubicle back in New York, watching Ed from accounting peel his egg.
Plus, the manual labor gave me a chance to think about what my next step should be. I figured I’d stick it out through one charter season, polish up my résumé, then return to my old life with a golden tan, a fat stack of cash in my hand, and interviews lined up at all the other major financial firms.
What I tried not to think about, however, was how I got into this situation in the first place. Because that inevitably led to thinking about Jake.
Flashes of his grin, the intensity of his arched brows, the careless tousle of his hair, all flicker through my mind. The way his icy blue eyes seemed to singe my skin, to see right through me. More than once, I caught myself remembering the stubble on his jawline, how it scratched against my neck — imagining how it might tickle against my thighs. Sometimes, I could almost feel how hard his biceps were under that suit, the way my stomach dropped when he dipped me on the dance floor, or how I could feel the outline of his cock when he pressed up against me …
“— Damn, girl, I hope that sink bought you dinner first,” Teddy says, his reflection popping into frame in the mirrored bathroom.
He startled me out of the reverie I’d fallen into, and I look down at what I was doing. I have my hands wrapped tight around the gooseneck faucet, and I’d been polishing it using long, firm strokes. I feel my cheeks heat up, hoping Teddy doesn’t notice.
“Don’t stop on my account, I’m picking up a few tips. You really know how to work that wrist action,” he says, coming in and knocking me with his hip. “Who’s this about?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me in the mirror.
“No one,” I shoot out, too quickly. “It’s the only way to get the streaks off the metal.” I’m praying we can change the subject. I’d told Teddy, Claire,
and Lucy about my ex marrying my sister, but not about Jake, and I wasn’t about to tell them now.
“Riiiiight,” he says with a knowing nod. “Hey, tomorrow we’re docking in Schiaro again and we need to head in to grab a few supplies for the next charter. Want to come ashore for one of those cappuccinos with Claire, Lucy, and me? Celebrate where we got the gang together?”
The thought of it brings a lump to my throat that feels like it’s made of lead. Even the thought of one of those creamy cappuccinos can’t tempt me back to that place.
“No. I’m busy tomorrow.”
“Busy with what?” he says skeptically.
“I just — No. I can’t.”
“Alright, your loss,” Teddy says. “Hey, when you get a chance, could we go over some of my designs? I really want to get going on putting together some looks for when I go back to fashion school in the fall. I brought my sewing machine onboard and I haven’t even blown the dust off it yet.”
“Yeah, sure. We can do that,” I say, still distracted by the fact that we’ll be docking in Schiaro.
Finally, after much convincing, Teddy leaves me to my dangerous thoughts.
I knew we would be back in Schiaro. Most of our upcoming bookings are in the Western Mediterranean until the charter season ends in September. We would be doing a lot of circling the Italian coast and islands in the coming weeks, interspersed with a few treks up to the French Riviera and a charter headed to the Greek Isles, but we’d mostly be sailing up and down the coast of Italy, and Schiaro had the newest reputation among wealthy tourists and the most accessible port.
That being the case, I still wasn’t expecting the pit I felt in my stomach at hearing the town’s name again.
Schiaro is a bad place for me. I do reckless things there, things that I have to pay for. I would have been back home, working toward my promotion and getting ahead in life if not for that town. But instead, I’m on pause. A magnificent pause surrounded by indigo waters, but still, not something that directly serves my five-year plan, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.
Staring out at the Italian coastline in the distance, muted today by the dreary weather, I catch my mind drifting back to Jake Rochester. My entire future relied on the reassuring fact that I’d never have to see him again. He won’t even be in Schiaro anymore. I know his type — he’s a trust fund prick on a Grand Tour of foreign pussy — but the way he looked at me at the wedding two weeks ago is seared into my memory. Like he was ready to ravage me then and there. But why didn’t he? Why did he leave?
I sigh. I’m still so angry at Jake, but when I imagine his face, I can’t help but smile. He had a warmth to him that I can still feel in my bones, and I want to feel that way again. There’s no harm in pretending, I tell myself. He’s just a fantasy, pure and simple, and a fantasy can’t hurt me. Scooping up my polishes and cleaning rags, I close my eyes and start to spin, trying to recreate the moment when he took me on the dance floor and twirled me across the room, under the stars and the twinkling lights. Light on my feet, I dip and sway —
— until the Venus hits a stray wave on the choppy waters that tips me off balance and pitches me violently forward.
I see it all happen in slow motion, helpless to stop:
The spray bottle of glass cleaner I’m holding hits the wood paneling with a hearty smack, the nozzle biting in deep and scraping all the way down as I fall.
Splayed out on the floor, I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t even want to look. When I finally do, it’s much worse than I thought. I’ve scratched the wall. Bad.
I run out of the room to find Claire.
“Well did you try to just rub it out? Ha ha, that’s what she said, right?” Claire laughs as I tug her down the hall. She doesn’t understand, this is not a joke. “Seriously, Liv, I’m sure it’s not that ba— okay, that’s bad.”
The scratch is in the most central location of the cabin’s focal wall, and the hard plastic of the nozzle scraped out a three-foot-long gash that trails over two polished panels. The ornate trim work at the central seam has been ripped off completely.
“It’s going to be fine. Let me go tell Mel, she’ll know what to do.”
I wait in the room in ice cold silence. I can’t afford another fuck-up like this. This is going to cost me my job.
Explaining what happened to Mel is awful, her expression stony as she examines the gouge. It’s clear to all of us that no amount of polish or wood filler is going to make this better — it needs to be replaced.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” she says finally, “our next group of guests is smaller, so we’ll shut down this cabin for the charter. Kevin will find a carpenter in Schiaro when he goes ashore for supplies tomorrow. We’ll just have to get this fixed while guests are onboard. It won’t be perfect, but it’s the best we can do.”
“I’m so sorry, Mel,” I blurt out before she turns to leave.
She gives me a wan smile. “I’m not going to lie, Olivia. This is bad. Accidents happen, but I have to put this down as your first strike. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
The worst part about it is that I know this was no accident. If I hadn’t been so distracted, I never would have been so clumsy. A panicky bile starts rising in my throat.
I need to calm down and I need chocolate.
After radioing in that I’m taking my ten minute break, I shuffle to the crew mess to see if I can find the slice of Lucy’s leftover cake I hid for myself in the back of the refrigerator yesterday. When I push through the swinging door, I see Lucy, her face pale, eyes wide. She’s holding my open cell phone, offering it to me helplessly.
“Olivia, I am so sorry,” she whispers, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. “It was plugged in right next to mine and when I heard it ringing, I assumed it was my phone —”
“Who’s on the other end?” I hiss, frightened by the look on her face.
“It’s your mom. I told her you were on shift, cleaning cabins. She didn’t seem to know you were working on the yacht. I’m so sorry, Olivia,” she says, her voice cracking. “Also, your mom is really scary,” she says, leaning in closer to me.
My stomach drops — I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. And if my mom can rattle Brooklyn-tough Lucy, I’m not sure what I’m going to say to her. I take the open phone from Lucy, cradling it in my hand. Even from this distance, I can hear my mother’s voice, tinny through the earpiece.
“Olivia? I can hear you. Answer me.”
I pinch the phone closed with a snap, holding my breath. Everything freezes.
Maybe this isn’t happening.
Brrrrring…bllrrrring…bllrrrring… the phone starts to ring almost immediately.
With a sigh, I flip it open. “Hello, Mother.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. I know you just hung up on me.” Her voice is crisp and angry. “Are you working on a cruise ship? What happened to your job in the city? Is this why you’ve been ignoring our calls?!”
“It’s not a cruise ship, Mother, it’s a yacht, and it’s temporary,” I say. I can hear her scoff as I try to continue speaking. “I’m going to get an even better job than I had at Glendon & Howe once I finish up the season.”
“What do you think you’re doing with your life?” my father’s deep voice cuts in, rife with disappointment.
Wow. The three-way call ambush.
“You shouldn’t be making drinks on a yacht, you should be chartering them. Honestly, Olivia, I don’t know where we went wrong.”
I swallow hard, tears stinging my eyes. What I can’t tell him is that I’m not even trusted to make cocktails — I can barely handle scrubbing bidets. I let them rattle on, no longer taking it in. There’s so much I want to say, but my throat is choked, knowing it wouldn’t matter, they wouldn’t listen to me anyway. Nothing I’ve ever done has mattered.
I just want this day to be over.
By the time I hang up, I’m numb. But I have to get back on cabin duty, rooting my feet
to the floor this time so I won’t trip again while I finish meticulously cleaning the five other guest rooms. I need this job now more than ever, I’m counting on it to prove my parents wrong, to never have to ask for their help again.
And I’m already on my way to fucking this up too.
Well after the sun sets, I crawl into my coffin-size lower bunk, wishing this was all just a bad dream.
Chapter Six
Jake
vvvvrrRRRRRrrrr, VVVVRRRRRRrrr…kaTHUNK.
I take the starter key out of the ignition, angry with myself. I don’t know what I was expecting — last I knew, marine transmission gears didn’t just magically fix themselves when you weren’t looking, even if you wished really hard. Wishes have never been worth a shit to me anyway, so no need to start believing in them today.
My boat’s engine trouble started about three miles out from here and about three years back.
I knew I should have budgeted for some repairs upon my arrival in Italy, but planning has never been my strong suit, and I blew all the money I ever saved when I bought the damn boat from a salvage yard in Jersey.
This old trawler and I sailed across the Atlantic Ocean together, all the way from Mariners Harbor to the Porto di Napoli, fueled primarily by rage, whiskey, and a strong current. It took us about a month and a half to do it, and I spent a lot of wasted nights sleeping out on the deck under the stars. By the time I tied her off to the dock in Naples, she had become a part of me. A more permanent home than I’d ever known, and the only one to stick by me when times got rough.
It happened when I turned 23. I decided to go out looking for my dad, the deadbeat dickwad who left my mom when she was still pregnant. Not that he would have been able to save her either — she was such a selfish addict that she was dead by the time I was 8 — but still. Family shouldn’t leave family.