by Mari Labbee
She hadn’t thought about food until now, but the minute he mentioned it, her stomach growled. She nodded.
Just outside of Schagansett Harbor, Matt lowered the sails as Bri nervously took the wheel for a second time that day.
They motored past the several-hundred-foot seawall built a very long time ago to protect the harbor and town from the open sea. At the end of the seawall, a man and a young boy stood holding fishing poles, father and son out for a day of fishing. They waved, and Bri waved back enthusiastically. Once they made the turn past the seawall and entered the harbor, a lobster boat, headed out for probably the second or third time that day, passed them, every hand busy at work on deck. She waved to them just as enthusiastically as she had to the father and son, but no one waved back, and she quickly lowered her hand. She heard Matt laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
Matt brought the sailboat alongside a floating buoy about the size of a beach ball bobbing in the water. He moored the Audrey Natalia to a buoy with the number sixteen painted on it. Bri wondered how they were going to get to the harbor and was about to ask when she noticed a small skiff headed their way. It came up alongside, and a young man about college age yelled up at them.
“Going in?”
Matt nodded and helped Bri down onto the small boat, and he followed.
The young man was tan and lanky with sun-streaked blond hair, dressed in white shorts and well-worn topsiders. He had grown up in Schagansett and earned his summer money skippering visitors back and forth from their boats to the harbor. He made two more stops before finally arriving at the dock. The six passengers disembarked, thanking him and paying their five-dollar fee.
The Pelican’s Perch Bar and Grill was located at the end of the Schagansett Harbor pier, and that’s where they headed for lunch. The second floor of the restaurant had big windows that overlooked the harbor. The server led them to a table by one of the windows. From there, Bri could see the Audrey Natalia bobbing gently in the water.
“I wonder who she’s named for,” she mused absently.
“What?” Matt looked up from the menu.
“Audrey Natalia. It’s such a beautiful name. I wonder if she was loved, whoever she was.”
“She’s loved no matter what,” Matt replied.
“I know, but still, I’d like to think she was someone’s beloved.”
After a lunch of steamed clams and calamari, they walked across the marina and found themselves on Old Salt Way, Schagansett’s main street. It was as small as Pegottie or Whittlebee, but unlike those towns, this one was crowded with tourists. It had two ice-cream parlors, both filled to capacity on such a warm day; countless gift and curio shops (also filled to capacity); and at least as many restaurants and bars lining both sides of Old Salt Way. The atmosphere was fun and casual, and everyone they encountered was incredibly friendly.
About halfway down Old Salt Way, Bri saw the Schagansett Market across the street from them. Matt grabbed her hand.
“We’ll get something for dinner to have on board,” he said.
“We will?” Bri asked.
“Yeah.”
She’d never been on a boat at night.
They got steaks, potatoes, and salad fixings along with two bottles of wine.
Several hours later, they were back on the skiff as the young man expertly maneuvered the small boat alongside the Audrey Natalia, gently bumping her side. Matt climbed aboard first, and Bri handed him the bag of groceries that he set on the deck. Then he reached down to help Bri up onto the boat. He was silhouetted against the sun, a halo ringing his head, and as her hand met his, Bri thought that in spite of all the weird things happening to her lately, this was the happiest she’d ever been.
They stored the groceries below and headed back up on deck, beers in hand. Bri reclaimed her spot against the mizzenmast. The sea was calm inside the harbor, and the laziness of the afternoon seeped in. Warmed by the sun, she closed her eyes against the wind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Bri?”
Matt’s voice woke her from her trance or, more accurately, her nap. She had fallen asleep and now felt stiff and creaky from sitting in one position for too long. She stretched, arms high overhead, arching her back, as he watched appreciatively.
“I’m sorry, what?” she asked.
“Did you fall asleep?”
“Yes,” she admitted, laughing.
“I figured. I’ve been talking to myself, it appears.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, getting up.
He was standing behind the wheel, checking the radar. Coming up behind him, she ringed her arms around him, her hands flat against his chest. He smelled like warm ocean. She rested her head on muscled shoulders. He put his hand over hers and turned to face her. His nose and cheeks were sunburned; there was stubble; and his hair, windblown and messy, seemed more sun-streaked than it had that morning. He looked incredibly sexy in this ungroomed state. She kissed him. Far off in the horizon, the sun sank, and night fell. The boat lights came up in the harbor.
She knew he was doing all this for her. To make her feel better, to take her mind off everything, and it was working. It had been a very long time since she felt special. Matt made her feel special.
She had watched Matt earlier. He quickly lowered the sails and brought the Audrey Natalia into the harbor. She admired his efficiency. He had every routine down perfectly and went about it quickly. Then she realized that to get that good at doing everything so well by himself, he had to have sailed often—alone, and that thought made her sad.
The heat had morphed into a gentle warmth with the absence of the sun. Instead of using the galley in the cabin, Matt brought a small grill up on deck for the steaks and put the potatoes in the galley oven to bake. Bri fixed a salad, and as she brought it up, Matt had just uncorked one of the wine bottles. Was it a day at sea that made everything smell so delicious?
They devoured their steaks, potatoes, and salad quickly and then sat on a blanket on the deck under lanterns that Matt had hung along the masts. If it hadn’t been dreamy enough before, it was like a fairy tale now, with the soft glow of lantern light and moonlight puddling on the water around them. The Audrey Natalia rocked softly back and forth. The cry of a bird somewhere in the distance pierced the night.
“What kind of bird is that?” Bri asked.
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Dinner had been fantastic, and now they sat across from each other, sipping the wine he’d bought at the Schagansett Market. She looked and saw a sky crowded with stars.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Matt said, looking up.
“When I first moved out here from New York,” Bri said, “I couldn’t believe how many stars were up there, but out here—my God—there are so many, it’s incredible.”
“It’s what the ancient sailors saw. No lights, no pollution, just clear uncluttered skies.”
Matt thought about the night sky in Iowa. There were lots of stars there too, but somehow it was different; it never looked quite like this.
“You told me earlier, but I forgot, what kind of boat is this?” Bri asked as she took a sip of wine.
“A ketch.”
Bri nodded. “Right, yes, the two masts; well, you two sure belong together.”
He nodded slowly, and maybe it was the wine—maybe it was something else—but he didn’t stop there.
“I told you that I recently went back to Iowa for my father’s funeral, but while I was there, something came up, which will probably set me back.” He swished the wine around in his glass and ringed the edge with one finger.
“Set you back?” she asked.
He told her about the complicated relationship he’d had with his father and what the family—his mother—now expected from him. Though he wasn’t planning to go back to run the farm, he had to go back, and he was sure he’d have to help them financially. To do that meant he might not be able to keep the Audrey Natalia.
His mother had suggested so much already. And then there was time. He had no idea how long he might need to be there if he went back to help. Matt spoke uninterrupted for some time before he stopped himself.
“Blah, blah, blah…I’m running amuck at the mouth. Why didn’t you stop me?”
“Because.” She smiled.
“Well, you are polite, I’ll say that much.”
“I wasn’t being polite.”
Matt looked at her, and she met his gaze. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he closed the distance between them and kissed her. When he pulled back, her cheeks were flushed.
“Let’s go down below,” he whispered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Matt took up all the space in her head, and his touch unleashed a myriad of emotions that carried her to places she’d never been. She had never given herself to anyone this completely.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his finger tracing the length of her arm.
“Nothing,” she whispered, liking the feel of Matt so close.
“That’s good,” he said.
Her head on his chest grew heavy, and his heartbeat—swish, boom, swish—lulled her to sleep.
She woke up suddenly. Matt’s head rested against her shoulder, and he was breathing deeply. Something had woken her; was it the call of a bird, the wind, or perhaps the creaking of the Audrey Natalia as she gently rocked?
The door to the bedroom and the door from the cabin to the deck above were open. She couldn’t sit up with Matt’s head on her shoulder. She ran a hand through his hair, feeling the silky strands tangle around her fingers. She shifted slightly and let his head gently slip onto the pillow, where he continued to snore softly. She put his shirt on and sneaked out of the cabin.
Up on deck, she looked out over still waters bathed in pale moonlight. Though it was still balmy out, she pulled on Matt’s shirt tightly and hugged herself. Today had been one of the best—no, probably the best day—of her life so far, and she felt alternately giddy and fearful of her feelings for Matt. There was no going back now. For months, she’d been numb, feeling nothing, wanting not to feel. She had come to Jackal’s Head Point to run away; admittedly it was tailor-made for that. Is that what she had intended to do? It hadn’t been an entirely conscious decision, and she never imagined herself to be the type to run away, but that’s what she had done. If she hadn’t, though, there would have been no Matt.
A wisp of cold air, like fingers, brushed past, and her hand quickly went up to the back of her neck where the fine hairs stood on end as she swatted away whatever it was. Nothing, just the wind. So why were there goosebumps up and down her arms? Why had it so unsettled her?
It had been a cold breeze—not cool, not what she felt around her now or when she first came up on deck. Cold—it had been cold, and now it was gone. Suddenly feeling exposed out there on deck, wearing nothing more than Matt’s shirt, she turned around and hurried back to the safety of the cabin below, closing the cabin doors and latching them behind her. She was wide awake now and noticed the diary peeking out from the top of her tote bag. She plucked it out of the bag, slipped into the dining booth, adjusted the small lamp attached to the wall, and began to read.
PART TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The ship wasn’t moving. Not just stopped but motionless. The lanterns above her bed were completely still. There was no creaking wood or whistling wind—there was nothing. She dressed hurriedly to see what was happening, and as she came up on deck, she saw the men wringing their hands, walking in circles, mumbling, “Sirens…kraken…monsters…we will become entangled…”
They were at it again; always afraid of anything that appeared strange—an oddly shaped cloud, a ringed moon, a colored moon, or even the way a bucket fell over sent them into fits and delirious ramblings about omens. She’d lost all patience, and it was all she could do not to throw these superstitious men overboard. She didn’t have to elbow her way through them—most turned away, afraid to look at her, likely thinking it was she who brought the bad luck bedeviling them this morning.
When he had dragged her on board, he’d practically incited a mutiny; a woman is bad luck, they said; she will bring the wrath of the gods upon them, they said. But their grumbling fell on deaf ears. She was the captain’s wife, and his will was the will of the ship. She had wondered, though, why he bothered with her knowing his crew’s disdain for her, but in time the reason had presented itself. Mercifully, she was left alone for a goodly part, and though he clearly preferred the company of his mates, any man setting a hand on her would suffer the consequence—which he made perfectly clear. There was an unspoken rule: touching the captain’s woman meant being clapped in irons, no trial, no jury. So even though he was a filthy degenerate, he wasn’t about to share her—at least there was that small miracle. Other than her husband’s occasional, perfunctory visits, nobody else dared enter her cabin, and she slept peacefully through the nights.
She spied him on deck where he stood with the first mate and navigator and set off in their direction. As she did, she looked over the side.
What is this?
Sometime during the night, they had drifted into something strange—a dead-calm sea with no wind or current, and they were floating on a field of weeds so thick you could walk on it. She breathed in air heavy with brine, liking the sting as it passed her throat and burned in her lungs. For once, perhaps, these fools were justified. She spun on her heel. They were deep in conversation. What could their grand plan be? The three of them, heads together, huddled around a map, and just as she arrived, she caught the last of their conversation.
“We are here.” The navigator tapped the map. “We left Saint Dominique two weeks ago. This…” he said, tapping again, “is where we are.”
“We will sail through,” her husband declared. “They are only floating on top. There is nothing below them.”
“We do not know that,” the first mate said forcefully.
“Yes, we do.” He looked out over the bow. “Look how they move past us. If they were tethered deep, they would not move, but they do. They are only floating on top.”
“If we turn around now, we can—”
The navigator was quickly shut down as the captain began shouting orders to the men on deck, who looked more frightened than they had just moments ago. The navigator and first mate looked at each other nervously and, as was their custom, ignored her altogether.
“Which one of you do we have to thank for putting us here?” She did not expect an answer, but at least the navigator managed an angry side-glance her way. She smiled and bumped him as she passed. She came to stand behind her husband, who had the spyglass to his eye.
“They are saying this is a bad omen that sea monsters will entangle and sink us.”
When he heard her speak, he turned around and glared at her, his gaze direct and unwavering, which was meant to intimidate her, but she had learned to hold his stare, and she never looked away—ever.
“Who says this?”
With a toss of her glossy black curls, she gestured over her shoulder to the men scurrying around on deck. “They do.”
He laughed. “Since when do you pay attention to them?”
“Perhaps this time they are right. I have never seen anything like this. Have you?”
He turned away from her and continued looking out across the strange ocean they were about to cross.
“You must have something better to do than pester me this early in the morning. Your duties await.”
He did not look at her as he spoke, nor did he turn back around when he heard her step away. She steeled herself for another day’s duties below decks.
Sailing with these foul men had only steeled her resolve and thickened an already impenetrable skin. Her pirate of a husband had not allowed her to stay behind in England, knowing full well that he would never set eyes on her again if he had.
They had been gone four weeks now, perhaps longer, by her estimation.
Sailing to a place on the other side of the world she had never heard of—Brazil—and she had already decided it would not be to her liking. England, unhappily, had not been much better.
After the marriage and a stormy voyage across the North Atlantic, they had arrived in London in the dead of winter, and all illusions about genteel English manners vanished instantly.
The residence her ass of a husband had procured for them was a one-room flat over a tavern in the most vulgar part of the city, stinking of putrid rot and chaos. It became apparent the first night there that it would be impossible. The residents, hyenas—every last one of them—undoubtedly suffered from deafness and mental deficiencies that caused them to laugh, heaving and panting, at the stupidest things. And they drank all day, men, women, and children—all of them. She had been given drink once, but it dulled her sense, and she would not allow it again. In a short time, she had grown accustomed to better things, odd as that might be. She was as ruined as any of these women, but she was not like them, with their toothless smiles and filthy hands.
Men had always found her beautiful. She’d known it from the age of sixteen when the ward master at the asylum had fallen in a heap at her feet, sobbing and pleading. Once discovered, though, she wielded this newfound power mercilessly, and ultimately it purchased her freedom—though freedom from an asylum to a workhouse to a whorehouse could only be measured by the one climbing the rungs.
She had met him there, at the whorehouse. He cut quite a figure in his captain’s tunic, telling his stories of glory and bravery, and that’s when she began to think he would be the catalyst to propel her out of this station. She would return to them a lady, a captain’s wife, a woman of position and power. She laughed to herself thinking of it. Yes, ultimately she would not win.
Every night he returned to the whorehouse, running through every woman there, but she promised heaven—only as his wife. Three months after meeting, he could stand it no longer, and they married. But within the week, she’d discovered he wasn’t a captain in the king’s navy at all; he was nothing more than a pirate. And he wasn’t even a respectable one at that, no letter of marque, just an opportunist thief, fencing goods as he went. All his stories were just bluster to win her, and now there was no way back home. Her blood boiled, thinking of how he had tricked her.