The Unimaginable

by Dina Silver

  I was filling the salt and pepper shakers when I spotted him. Grant had captivated me from the moment I laid eyes on him. He was handsome, yes, but there was something else in the way he carried himself with a relaxed confidence and a peculiar smile¸ unable to be flustered even by a room full of giddy, chanting schoolchildren that made me want to know more about him.

  The Islander Bar & Grill was less than a mile away from Royal Phuket Marina, where the guys—and most of our clientele—had their boat docked, and only a few blocks from where I lived. Living and working in a transient boating community, I never knew how long people would be around before they’d head off to their next destination and their next blond expat waitress. I hoped for some time to get to know him better and for the chance to crew on Imagine.

  It’d been two weeks since he came by the school and left both his donation and his indelible impression on me. Since then I’d seen Quinn a few times already and formed a bit of a friendship with him. He’d been into the bar during three of my lunch shifts, alone, and as Sophie had warned was quite the charmer.

  I placed the tray of salt and pepper shakers on the bar when I saw them choose a table near the water’s edge. Quinn waved me over a moment later. Quinn was yin to Grant’s yang. Within minutes of meeting him, he was your best friend, your cruise director, your “good-time” guy. He carried himself like a celebrity who won’t leave a restaurant unless the paparazzi are waiting out front. Chin up, shoulders back, chest out. Nine times out of ten he had a toothpick in his mouth.

  Quinn was the life of the party, even when there was no party. He was always waving at somebody while high-fiving someone else, and his chatting knew no bounds. Neither did his flirting. He was young, with a boyish charm to his handsome face, and looked like a typical boater. Blond windswept hair, tanned skin, calloused hands. I never saw him without a smile.

  I hurried over with menus even though I knew what they were going to order—Sophie told me they had the same meal every night. She’d also told me that Grant said very little to her other than placing his order, but that he was polite and tipped her well. I watched as he sank into his chair, placed a leather-bound book on the table in front of him, and folded his hands in his lap.

  “Hi, guys. Two Singha drafts?” I asked.

  “Sounds perfect,” Quinn answered, and then gave me a high five. “Is Niran here tonight? He owes me five hundred baht,” he said, emphasizing the t.

  “He’s at a wedding but should be here soon.”

  In addition to being a local celebrity, bar owner, and man-about-town, Niran was an ordained minister. “You never know when somebody want to get marry,” he’d say.

  Niran was notorious in the cruising community for two things: quickie seaside wedding ceremonies and playing cards with the local boaters. And when he wasn’t tending bar, marrying people, or shaking hands, he could be found dealing hands of poker. Sadly, he was also notorious for losing.

  “I guess your drinks are on him then.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I was hoping I would see you guys tonight,” I said.

  “How is that different from any other night?” Quinn winked.

  I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but smile.

  “We got caught up with some of the other cruisers,” he told me. “We were supposed to head out for a ride over to the east side but had to order a part for the engine, which should take another week or two. You’re not quite rid of us yet.”

  I smiled, relieved. “Grant, I wanted to thank you again for your contributions to Tall Trees. Both the DustBusters and the funds have been put to good use. And the kids haven’t stopped talking about the monkey who spanked you in Indonesia.”

  Quinn gave him a curious glance before Grant looked up at me with a subtle grin. “You’re very welcome. I’m happy to help. Really.”

  Grant was the taller of the two. He had longish brown hair and blue eyes, while his face seemed to be permanently covered with stubble. His physique was muscular but slim, and his mood was perpetually kind and polite. But oddly, where Quinn’s cheerful enthusiasm was a magnet for most people, Grant’s reserved demeanor drew me to him instead.

  After getting their drinks and dropping a check at another table, I approached Quinn and Grant, carrying a bar tray with two draft beers and a basket of wasabi peas.

  “What’s it going to be tonight? Let me guess. A cheeseburger for Quinn?” I said, then followed with, “And a lobster club for you, Grant?,” posing the question to him personally, but they both had their heads buried in a pile of printed pages. Upon closer look, I could see that they were studying a bunch of e-mails from MARLO, the Maritime Liaison Office, which sent sailing reports to boaters looking to cross the Indian Ocean from Thailand to Oman. A lot of our customers would come to The Islander to use the free Wi-Fi, check the weather and sailing conditions, and grab a burger. No one ever ordered Thai food. I was always cleaning up tables with pages of MARLO reports left behind.

  I stood there awaiting an answer from Grant when Quinn finally turned toward me.

  “Thanks for the beers, Jess,” he said. “The usual for both of us, please.”

  I nodded and walked back toward the bar, where Niran entered their order into the computer. “Hi, Niran. Quinn’s looking for you,” I said.

  “Ya, ya.”

  I shook my head at him. “Says you owe him money.”

  “Ya, he beat me, but I go double or nothing later. You give bill to the other man,” he said.

  “To Grant?” I asked as I walked out from behind the bar and wiped down the stools.

  “Yes.”

  “So poor Grant has to pay for your poker habit.”

  “He not poor. Quinn tell me.” Niran grabbed a tumbler from underneath and poured himself a scotch and soda. “You like him. Niran knows.” He tapped his forehead.

  “Who? Grant?”

  “Sophie tell me you been looking for him. You hot for him?” he asked.

  I smiled. “No, I’m not hot for him.”

  “You the worst flirt I ever see.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You pay for your flirts, so what would you know?”

  He smiled proudly.

  “Besides, I’m not trying to flirt with anyone, I’m just being friendly, trying to get to know them better. Client relations, Niran. Just doing my job.” I winked. “I do think it’s a little odd that they’ve been here every night for a couple weeks and he has yet to have a conversation with any of us. Don’t you think that’s weird? Quinn doesn’t shut up, and Sophie tells me that Grant barely says a word.”

  “He speak to me,” Niran said, wiping a beer tumbler with a rag, then holding it up to the small light over his head. “Goddamn the lady lipstick,” he mumbled.

  “He did?”

  He nodded. “He tell me you annoying, and you stare at him too much.”

  I tossed my pen at Niran, hitting him on the shoulder. “What did he say?”

  “He say you ask too many question.”

  I glared at him. “I’d give you a smack if you weren’t my boss.”

  “You love Niran too much for that.”

  “That is very true.”

  “That guy Grant come here himself one afternoon for lunch and left his book behind. I never clear the table.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I added. Niran never cleared the tables.

  “So he come back an hour or so later looking for it. He very worry, but naturally it was right where he’d left it.” He smiled. “Good thing I never clean up.”

  Grant seemed to have that book with him at all times, or at least when he came to the bar. I assumed it was some sort of a journal. Too small to chart maps or anything, but maybe he was a writer. The thought made me eager to hear more of his stories.

  He and Quinn were deep in conversation when I brought them their food, so I left them alone and refrained from asking if they needed anything else. I didn’t want to prove Niran right.

  Chapter 9

  The next day Quinn came alone and sat at
the bar.

  “Hey, you,” I said as I placed a coaster in front of him. “One draft?”

  “I’ll take a Belvedere on ice.”

  “Lime?”

  He shook his head.

  I poured his drink and placed it in front of him as he was scrolling through his phone, grinning.

  “You get some lucky girl’s phone number last night?” I inquired.

  He gave me a look like I was out of my mind and shook his head emphatically. “Not me. I got the most beautiful girl in the world waiting for me back in Miami. I’m the lucky one.”

  I smiled, a little surprised to hear he had a girlfriend, thinking Sophie was going to be disappointed. “Well, well, well, I had no idea. Good for you, Quinn. What’s her name?”

  He reached for his phone and showed me her picture. “Bridget.”

  I looked at the screen and saw a beautiful young woman with long, dark hair and dark eyes. It was a close-up of her face—looked like she snapped it herself—and she was smiling coyly.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said.

  He smiled. “We’ve been together since our freshman year of college, so almost seven years now.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “She knows I’m a flirt, but I never cross the line.” He winked.

  “Seven years. That’s a long time to be dating someone. Are you two going to get married?”

  “I plan on proposing as soon as I get back to the States.”

  I slapped my hands on the bar. “Well, you’re likely to break a few hearts around the world first, aren’t you?” I winked back. “Congratulations on your impending engagement,” I said, and lifted my glass of pineapple juice to toast him. “Was that a text from her that got you so giddy?”

  He nodded.

  “Good for you, Quinn. You seem like a real sweetheart, and it makes me happy to know there are guys like you still out there.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Uh-oh. Woman scorned?”

  “No, just you know . . . not as lucky in love as you yet.”

  “A cute blond American chick who brings beers to weary sailors when they’re parched? Love will find you in no time.”

  “Thanks.” I rolled my eyes and walked over to the register.

  “Where you from?”

  “Indiana.”

  “No one waiting on you back there?”

  I turned around and leaned against the counter. I’d had a few boyfriends growing up, but nothing serious. When I was in college, I dated a guy named Greg Van Der Heide for a little more than a year, but Greg was like everything else in my life at that time: representative of everything that was expected of me, yet nothing that defined me.

  He was born and raised in Indiana with no intention of leaving, and his idea of travel was anywhere that had a football stadium. Every suggestion I made to venture outside the Midwest was quickly sacked. But don’t get me wrong, I wanted to be in love. The sweaty palms, the racing heartbeat, the anticipation, the excitement, the passion. I longed for someone who when he’d walk in a room would make me catch my breath. Someone who could read my thoughts without me saying a word. Someone who held my happiness and well-being in great esteem—as I would theirs. Someone I could surrender myself and my dreams to. Someone I could love in ways I had never been allowed to before.

  He was out there. He just wasn’t Greg Van Der Heide.

  The worst part was that Caroline loved him as a potential husband for me. Or if not him, the idea of him. She literally prayed for him to propose to me, and when I told her I’d broken up with him, she didn’t speak to me for ten days. She was always looking for someone or something to ground me at home.

  My stomach sank when I realized I hadn’t e-mailed her in three days.

  I looked up from the floor at Quinn, who was awaiting a reply. “Nope, no one is waiting on me.”

  Quinn took another swig of his drink and then his eyes widened as though he’d gotten an idea. “Hey, Grant and I and a couple friends are heading up to Bangkok for a couple days. Why don’t you and your friend Sophie join us? Think you could get the time off?”

  I blinked and considered his offer. “When are you going? I’ll have to check with my school,” I said.

  “We’re flying out on Friday and spending a few days there. How many jobs do you have to ask for time off from?” he asked with a smirk.

  “Two, smartass.” I tossed a wet rag at him. “I would love to go, but I’m not sure I can afford the flight. Just paid my rent last week, and I don’t get another check until a week from Monday.”

  “Grant’s chartering a plane, so don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “He’s chartering a plane? An entire plane?”

  “Not a 747, you freak. A small charter jet. The old man travels in style, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t know exactly what he meant, but I certainly acted as though I did.

  “So . . . what’s Grant’s deal? Does he have a ‘Bridget’ back home like you?” I asked, feigning indifference. “How come a nice guy like him isn’t married?”

  Quinn looked as though he was about to answer me and divulge the details I was looking for, but then he just shrugged and shook his head.

  I debated asking Quinn more about Grant’s personal life, then decided against it. Better to find out on my own than have him report back to Grant that I was being nosy.

  “Let me see what I can do. The kids I teach are actually on holiday, so it will be up to Niran whether he’ll let both Sophie and I desert the bar. Thanks so much for the invite, though. It sounds like fun. I’ll let you know.”

  “Sure thing.” He stood and left his money on the counter.

  “Does Grant know you’re handing out seats aboard his plane?” I asked before he walked away.

  “He doesn’t care.”

  “Where is he tonight?”

  “He’s meeting with some people about the next phase of the trip. Trying to map out the best course.”

  I nodded. “Have you guys made any decisions about your crew yet?”

  He glanced down at his cell phone before responding. “Not yet, sorry. Still have a couple more people to interview and some scheduling issues to work out. As soon as we cross the Indian Ocean and make our way into Egypt, it looks like I may be heading back to the States. Grant’s planning on meeting up with some people and a new crew dude in the Mediterranean.

  “It’s all a bit up in the air at the moment. But most of the cruisers are trying to figure out the best route from Sri Lanka through the Gulf of Aden and on to the Red Sea. There’s a lot to coordinate. Whether or not we should sail straight through like we’d planned or take some other course. A couple other cruisers that are part of a rally are forming convoys to sail the”—he quoted with his fingers—“‘danger zones’ together. So we might try and get in on one of those, but we need to secure our third crewman first.”

  From what I’d learned from living and working in a boating community in Thailand, Somalian pirates had plagued the Gulf of Aden between the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea in recent years, although most of the local chatter indicated the pirates were interested in capturing large commercial vessels with large crews that would in turn command large ransoms, not sailboats.

  He continued. “Like I mentioned, we’ll probably be here through the New Year and head out sometime in January, so it looks like you’re stuck with the Quinnster for a little while longer.” He stood and placed his phone in his pocket. “See if you can get some time off to join us next week. We’re only going for a day or two,” he said, and then walked away, singing “One Night in Bangkok.”

  I wanted to join them, but most of all I wanted to crew for Imagine. I’d spent my whole life waiting for signs and chances and timing. Going to church and praying for things that I was told were frivolous. Wishing that opportunities would present themselves to me so that I could finally do what I wanted, not just what I was told. If I hadn’t lost my job back in Indiana, maybe I wouldn’t be lying on a t
win bed in Thailand, contemplating this next challenge. Crewing for Grant seemed like the perfect opportunity to once again grab life by the horns—or the sails, as it were—and nothing pleased me more than a little adventure.

  And although this “perfect opportunity” obviously wasn’t my decision to make, I still read it as a sign worth following. Tall Trees was extremely flexible, other teachers were always coming and going, and Niran would hold my job for me—I knew he would. How long could it take? A couple weeks? A month? I’d saved enough money to pay my rent, so that wouldn’t be a problem. I knew I could do it. I wanted to do it, and I was determined to make it happen.

  After dinner, I took a quick shower and rode down to the marina. Once my bike was locked up, I walked around back to the docks. The air was breezy and infused with the scent of marine life. The sky was dark, but each dock was lit by a row of antique streetlamps. Almost like little runways for boats. I was walking from one end to the other, enjoying the quiet air and mesmerizing sounds of the water lapping against the boats, when I saw him.

  Grant was sitting on the edge of one of the piers, about ten yards away, leaning against a wooden post and smoking a cigar, his leather-bound book beside him. I stopped and stared. His right hand was resting on his bent knee, while his other leg hung over the edge. A good two minutes passed before he felt my eyes on him. I waved when he turned and noticed me.

  Although it felt like an eternity, he stood after a few seconds and walked toward where I was standing. My heart beat a little faster as he approached, but I maintained my composure. I hadn’t gone there looking for him—consciously, anyway—but I reveled in the chance encounter.

  “Hello,” he said, narrowing the gap between us.

  “Hi, Grant.”

  “Please call me Mr. Flynn,” he joked. “What brings you down here at this hour?”

  I rubbed my neck. “Just getting some air. I used to ride my bike down here all the time when I first moved to Thailand, and something just made me want to do it again tonight.”