The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  Aly lay curled into a sleeping bag with her cheek warming his thigh like Chase had a few hours ago. She’d told him to wake her when he got tired, but watching her sleep was a rare treat. Hope churned in his chest. Someday—three months from now, six months—maybe he could watch her every night.

  They couldn’t expect more trips to the Bahamas. Most people traveled from Fort Lauderdale, the closest international port, or West Palm Beach, the closest U.S. point of land. But this would give the Escape a jump-start into the black. Maybe Aly would find a way to draw tourists from Daytona Beach. Maybe the New Smyrna Beach snowbirds who populated the beachside condos every winter would take up sailing on a regular basis. Aly would think of something.

  At three a.m. his head nodded over the wheel.

  Aly sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “My turn.” She yawned. “I just had a nightmare about the Bermuda Triangle.” She shuddered.

  “We’re skirting the triangle. Don’t worry about it.” Cal didn’t take much stock in the myths about the Triangle drawn between Fort Lauderdale, Bermuda, and San Juan, Puerto Rico. Grand Bahama was actually inside the triangle, but since they were anchoring on the western tip, it hardly counted. He briefed Aly and crawled into the sleeping bag, still warm with Aly’s body heat. He looked around for a pillow, but Aly hadn’t brought one topside. He laid his head in her lap and passed out.

  He startled awake when she brought the Escape about and mumbled “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” She combed his hair back into his hood with her fingers. Oh man. He tried to stay awake to savor the sensation, but his body refused to cooperate.

  He jerked awake, then fell back to sleep a dozen times until Aly shook him.

  Dawn crept through the grit in his eyes.

  “Spell me,” Aly said. “I have to use the bathroom. And I’m three-quarters of the way into a coma.”

  He sat up and scrubbed his hands over the gristle on his face. “Thanks, Al, I can make it now.” He kissed her cheek. “Get some rest below.”

  Hours later, Franco emerged from below deck and took a seat on the bow. He stayed rooted to the spot all day, chain smoking, looking toward Grand Bahama, eating the food Aly fixed him without complaint.

  The second night Cal and Aly took ninety-minute shifts, exhaustion chasing them. At seven a.m. the next morning, Cal spotted Grand Bahama through the binoculars. He wanted to do a touchdown dance. He’d sailed the blue water, got them here safely. He grabbed Aly’s laptop and studied the shoals and sandbars.

  As he neared land, he dropped sail and motored past Old Bahama Bay Marina. Fifty boats bobbed along the piers. Coconut palms swayed over the white clapboard restaurant-bar. The Escape glided through clear glass water with at least twenty feet visibility toward the microscopic beach Vic Franco indicated.

  Aly perched in the bow of the dinghy, Franco and his bags in the stern. Cal rowed for the beach and studied his passenger. Sunglasses hid the guy’s eyes. His full mouth set with determination that contrasted with the slackness of his hands resting near each duffle bag. Despite his stillness, Franco seemed poised to spring ashore. Easy for him to have energy after sleeping in a bunk for two nights.

  A few minutes later Vic Franco stood on the white sand, his duffles slumped beside him. “Let me toss my gear into my brother’s truck and get the cash from him. Wait here for me. I’ll bring it back.”

  November sun beat down on them as ten minutes crawled by. Maybe Vic had to use the john. Maybe some family emergency had to be discussed. The black ink of realization shot through him. Maybe Vic ditched them. He took off at a dead run down the path Vic had used.

  Cal halted at the road, panting. A sole land crab lumbered across the tire tracks in the dirt.

  If he found Franco, he’d throw punches first, ask all the questions he wanted afterward.

  He raced up the road and into the restaurant, clinging to a thread of hope that he’d find Vic. A startled waitress and a couple of coffee drinkers looked up. He flung open the men’s room door, and it smacked against the wall. Empty. He tore out the back door.

  Sun washed the flotilla bobbing in the marina. A girl sprayed down a speedboat. Empty cars dotted the parking lot. His eyes darted to the palms and sawgrass surrounding the marina.

  Aly flew around the corner of the restaurant, her eyes huge question marks.

  “Gone.”

  Morning sun glinted white light into Cal’s eyes and he reached for his sunglasses. Self-disgust radiated from his pores. He should know better than to make any business decision. If Aly had closed the deal, she’d have insisted on at least half payment up front and held Franco’s alligator skins ransom for the other half.

  They’d argued about going to the authorities, and Aly had disappeared below deck. They had no passports. He couldn’t risk being spotted out of the country. And that was the least of his worries.

  He might as well give up now. There was no way the business would fly. He’d been fooling himself that this Bahamas run would have made a difference. In three months, the Escape had left her slip three times for money. New Smyrna wasn’t the place for a charter sailing operation. People interested in sailing went to Lauderdale, the yachting capitol of the world. Daytona Beach had its own sailing charters, and New Smyrna Beach was hardly a tourism Mecca.

  He knew he shouldn’t do it, knew he’d regret it later, but wind whistled through him where hope had been like air past a freshly drilled tooth. He had to make the pain stop. He pulled a Ziploc baggie from the compartment under the ship’s wheel, rolled a joint with Henna’s finest, and lit it.

  Smoke filled his lungs and breathed anesthesia into the mess of his life.

  He stared at the western horizon even though Palm Beach lay fifty-five nautical miles and ten hours away.

  Cal took a long drag. He wasn’t going to make something of his life worthy of winning Aly, a doctor’s daughter with a college degree. His life was a series of failures—failing at the business and wasting everyone’s money, the pinnacle.

  He held the smoke in his lungs. What were his options? Enroll in college, go to class, do the work. And in two or three years he could propose to Aly. Right. Aly would be married to Fish or someone else and popping out kids.

  He coughed the smoke from his lungs and sucked in fresh air. Eventually he needed to dissolve the partnership, give Aly the boat, get out of her life. But not today.

  Aly stepped through the companionway and froze. “You’re smoking weed? How can you endanger us like this? If you’re stoned out of your head, who is going to navigate us home? I know how to sail and keep to a compass reading. Period. Are you so pissed about getting stiffed that you don’t care if we die? Is that why you routed us straight through the Devil’s Triangle for the trip home?”

  Cal clipped off his words. “I routed us through West Palm Beach because it’s longer, but safer—only ten hours between landfall compared to thirty-four.”

  She reached for the joint he’d put to his lips. “I want to live.”

  He dodged her touch and flicked the joint overboard. “Don’t freak. I can get us home.”

  “How can you even think about smoking weed when you just spent three months in jail for it? Are you a pothead? Is that it?”

  Cal stared across the ocean, his jaw clenched.

  “Where’s the rest?”

  Cal glanced at the column supporting the wheel—a knee-jerk reaction that gave away his hiding spot.

  Aly tore into the compartment on the column and flung the whole baggie overboard—his stash, rolling papers, Bic lighter.

  “Hey!”

  “Have you got anymore aboard?”

  “Like I’d tell you.”

  Green fire spit from her eyes. “Cal!”

  He’d never seen her this pissed. “Since when are you the queen of sobriety? We’ve smoked together plenty of times.”

  Aly’s eyes bore into him, her lips sealed into a white line. “Tell me.”

  Cal emptied the
air from his lungs. “There’s no more aboard.” Part of him scratched around for a come-back and part of him memorized the hazel fury in her eyes so he could get it on canvas. And part of him numbed as the drug took effect.

  She stepped toward him. “I’ll take the helm. Go sober up.”

  The truth that he’d endangered Aly’s life and his anger that she threw his weed away clanged in his head, dissonant cymbals.

  His shoulder knocked into hers on his way past. Was he addicted? He certainly craved the drug now.

  Aly gripped the wheel and watched Cal climb into the cabin. She hated for him to see how frightened she was. A partner in a sailing business had no business melting down whenever she lost sight of land or a storm rolled through. But Cal shouldn’t have been smoking, regardless.

  Dread settled over her. Cal used weed as a crutch to deal with life. Today made that painfully clear. She’d seen her dad drunk once as a kid and freaked out, thinking he’d gone crazy. Panic still shot through her when someone she loved got stoned or drunk. The few times she’d smoked with him, she’d wanted his approval. Well, she wasn’t an adolescent anymore.

  The weed must not have hit Cal yet, since he was sober enough to argue with her.

  She checked the mainsail and adjusted the sheet. All she could see was ocean in every direction. She’d never been so alone.

  Her fury whipped away in the wind, but Cal’s anger clung to her. The look in his eyes seemed too intense for losing three joints’ worth of marijuana. No, the disgust had to come from something else.

  He hadn’t reacted to her bringing up herpes in front of him—probably because he hadn’t considered having sex with her till Thanksgiving night in the Koomers’ kitchen. Of course, Cal would be grossed out by the disease. He’d only ever dated and slept with Evie, as far as she knew.

  Their kisses had only reinforced how easy she was. Guilt or no guilt, she doubted she had the strength to say no to Cal if he wanted sex. She loved him, and she’d said yes to a handful of guys she didn’t love.

  She had the sick feeling it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to ask.

  Her shame had dissipated after Cal told her what the Bible said, but this morning it blackened her like the outlined figures in the middle school sexually transmitted disease video. Cal said God forgave, but people—not so much. Now she understood.

  The bottom line was she wanted to be near him even though she repulsed him. Even though he’d likely break her heart again and had issues with the law and marijuana.

  The brim of her hat flopped in the wind and she checked the compass bearing.

  Sick as it was, after two years separated from Cal, working together felt infinitely better. But maybe no Cal was better than spending time with stoned Cal.

  The wind picked up, and the floppy brim of her hat smacked her neck. Another gust swept it from her head. She lunged and touched the yellow fabric, but it tumbled onto the deck. The hat lifted into the wind. She gripped the lifeline and planted a foot on the deck. Her arm flailed toward the airborne kite as the Escape hit a swell. The boat jerked downward, jarring her fingers loose. As the Escape smacked against the bottom of the wave, Aly lost her footing. Her body arced into the air. Frigid blue water closed around her.

  Chapter 16

  November 28

  www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Aly sputtered and caught her breath. Terror and icy water soaked through her clothing to her skin and deeper.

  She twisted back to look at the Escape. The boat, maybe a quarter-mile away seemed to move further by the second. Cal had said something about the speed and direction of the Gulf Stream, but she hadn’t been paying close attention.

  Cal was probably asleep below. It could be hours before he woke up and realized she was missing. It would be impossible for him to find her by then. How far would the boat sail unmanned?

  Best possible scenario—Cal was awake, but stoned. And that was better how?

  Fear clawed at the back of her neck. She peered into the turquoise water. No sandy bottom, no coral reef, just fathomless depth. Shadows slithered through the water and she jerked her head up. Shark? Barracuda , plane or boat wreckage in the Bermuda Triangle?

  “God, help!”

  A salty wavelet slapped her in the face as she treaded water. This was the first time she hadn’t worn her personal flotation device, the first time hyper safety conscious Cal hadn’t noticed when she’d gone without it. She’d hated Cal’s insisting she wear the PFD at all times under sail. It made her feel like Pooh Bear. But, Cal’s vigilance might have saved her life.

  Maybe if he hadn’t been stoned, he would have spotted her safety infraction. She rolled onto her back to float. No, she knew she was supposed to wear the PFD. She wouldn’t blame Cal.

  Instead of drowning, maybe she’d be mauled to death. Maybe die of thirst. She squinted east trying to see land, but only the unforgiving Atlantic rolled out before her.

  If she’d just let the stupid hat blow overboard she’d still be safe. Lost at sea, her obituary would say in the Hometown News. They’d run it with her college graduation picture. She could see people filling the church for her funeral—her niece and nephew, Mom. Kallie would be crying. Her father, who had never thought her important enough to visit when she was alive, would come for the funeral, his trophy wife on his arm, maybe their kids. Cal. Cal already saw himself as a failure—thanks to Starr. This would ruin him.

  Please, God, for Cal’s sake, save my life.

  Cal downed a cup of coffee and headed up the companionway with his sleeping bag and pillow under one arm, Van Gogh under the other. Even pissed at Aly, beyond exhausted, and a little fuzzy brained from the couple of tokes of weed he’d managed to suck in, he couldn’t leave Aly topside alone. She was frightened. He could sleep in the cockpit like they had on the trip out. It wouldn’t kill him.

  Through the open hatch he saw Aly dive after her hat, then disappear.

  Oh, God, no!

  He scrambled into the cockpit and dropped the dog and the bedding. Van Gogh woofed and found his footing.

  Aly’s head popped out of the water. The Gulf Stream whisked her North while the Escape continued on its Western course.

  He jerked the boat into the wind and leaped onto the cabin. His hands shook as he fumbled to loose the line from its cleat on the base of the mast, one eye on Aly’s pale head. Finally, the sail rushed down at him. He jumped into the cockpit and wrenched the engine key. A bass drum banged against his ribs as he listened for the motor to turn over.

  Yes. The engine was worth every penny he’d spent on it.

  Where was Aly? He’d lost sight of her—breaking the first rule in a man-overboard situation. He reached inside the cabin for the binoculars.

  God, where is she?

  He wheeled the boat toward the spot he’d last seen Aly. His gaze scanned the ocean looking for the orange of her PFD. He took another scan, slower this time, panic rising in his stomach.

  A replay of his exit from the cockpit flashed through his head—his shoulder bumping Aly’s. She hadn’t been wearing a PFD.

  Icy fear ran through his veins, cocktailing with adrenaline. Aly could swim, but he didn’t know how much stamina she had. And he doubted she knew to disrobe, tie knots in her clothes, and blow them up to create makeshift floats.

  He pressed the binoculars against his face so hard the bones ached. Words poured out of his mouth, incoherent at first, till he listened to what he was saying. “God, keep her safe. Safe. Safe. Give me a clear head to think so I can find her. I never should have smoked weed and endangered Aly. It’s my fault. You should have tossed me overboard, not her. But I’m all she’s got. If I don’t rescue her, there’s nobody else.”

  He didn’t realize he was crying until his tears fogged the binocular lenses. He dried the lenses with his sweatshirt as quickly as he could, swiped an arm across his eyes.

  He hated people who bargained with God at times like this, but he couldn’t help it. “I don’t car
e—whatever You want, name it. Just show me where the hell Aly is.”

  A picture of God’s palm cradling Aly, keeping her afloat, protecting her on every side illumined the screen of his mind—like a prayer God put in his head to steady him.

  He filled his lungs, released the air, then methodically retraced every quadrant of water east of the boat where he’d spotted Aly earlier. His eyes scanned for the slightest nuance of variation of color. This was his strength. Color. If anyone could spot Aly, he could.

  Aly’s teeth chattered. She didn’t know whether to swim to keep warm or float to conserve energy. One sneaker slipped free, and she kicked off the other one. She felt lighter without their weight tugging her down.

  Peace settled over her, her body feeling strangely numb. The terror leeched out of her mind, too. She should still be frightened. Her situation hadn’t improved. She was tempted to crane her head around to look at the Escape, but she didn’t want to do anything to disturb the weird stillness she felt now—as though she floated in the condo pool with all the time in the world to assess her life.

  She didn’t acknowledge it until this minute, but she’d accomplished one of her life goals. She owned her own business, two if you counted The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com—which right now brought in more money than charter sailing. Not too bad for twenty three years old. And she and the bank owned her condo.

  She did a slow breaststroke, a compromise between floating and swimming.

  A more elusive goal was to succeed in her love life. Going celibate had been a positive step. She felt better about herself than she had in a long time. Cal had helped her understand that God forgave her. Which might be contributing to her sense of peace at the moment. She might be meeting Him in the near future.