Float Plan

by Trish Doller

  The breeze remains constant and steady, and the night passes at the only pace it knows how. I use the autopilot to eat or go to the bathroom, but mostly I’m awake, one hand on the tiller. Somewhere between Friday and Saturday, I pass to the east of the oil rig platforms—two small bright cities in the middle of nowhere. The halfway mark. On the horizon, between the swells of waves, the lights of Trinidad begin to appear.

  Traveling almost 1,700 miles might not have made an impact on mankind, but the crack in my own small world is patched. My happiness is too big to be contained. Queenie gives a contented sigh, her fuzzy chin resting on my thigh, and I’m suspended in a perfect state of grace.

  Saturday arrives with golden light, rays of sun fanning out across the sky like a proclamation. The island looms bigger and greener the closer I get. Anticipation builds inside me. Trinidad is larger than most of the islands I’ve visited. It’s more urban and developed, so I don’t know what to expect here. About a mile offshore, I furl the sails, turn on the engine, and radio the coast guard on the VHF with my estimated time of arrival.

  Venezuela and Trinidad reach toward each other with long, narrow arms of land, and the island-speckled strip of water separating them—the Boca del Dragón straits—is only about twelve miles wide. I motor between two small islands, Huevos and Monos, and into the harbor at Chaguaramas, a small industrial port on the northwestern end of Trinidad. Piers jut out into the harbor for oil tankers and dredges, and the marinas are forests of masts, filled with sailboats bearing flags from all over the world. The fishing fleet is clustered at the deepest part of the harbor, near dry-storage racks filled with powerboats. It’s unlikely I’ll hear back from Keane, but as I skirt the anchorage on my way to the customs dock, I text him anyway. Despite everything, he is the first person I want to tell.

  I made it.

  I spend a good portion of the afternoon cutting through the red tape of immigration, customs, and arranging a vet check for Queenie. The process is anticlimactic. I should be sipping champagne. Instead, once our papers are in order, I move the boat to a slip at a marina. I call my mom as I walk Queenie around the boatyard.

  “I am so proud of you,” she says, and I hear the smile in her voice. “Your identity was so wrapped up in Ben, I was afraid that this trip … Well, I thought you were going in the wrong direction.”

  “I probably was when I started, but not now.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “I still have to decide what to do with the boat.”

  “You could sell it,” Mom suggests. “Use the money to go to college or tide you over until you find a new job.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but selling this boat is not even a consideration. It’s my home. “Tell Rachel and Maisie hello and that I love them. Hopefully I’ll see you soon.”

  I hang up and consider champagne or maybe having a fancy meal somewhere, but after twenty hours at sea, I’m tired. I lie down for a nap and don’t wake up until the next day.

  * * *

  Sunday dawns with work to be done. Small things come first. I take a long, hot shower in an actual bathroom. I clean the boat. Do laundry. Stop at the grocery store, where I stock up on milk, eggs, cheese, and yogurt. I pick up an overdue bottle of champagne, a box of dog treats for Queenie, and a personal-size bag of M&M’s—a luxury I haven’t had since I left Florida—that I eat sitting in the grass of the boatyard while Queenie runs her legs to rubber. She flops down beside me, panting and dusty, and I tilt my face toward the sun. I wish Ben could see me. I wish Keane were here. But I’m starting to understand how sadness and happiness can live side by side within a heart. And how that heart can keep on beating.

  While I sit, I watch a group of boatyard workers buying lunch from a bicycle vendor with HOT DOUBLES painted on the side of his cart. Curious, I brush the dirt from my hands and get in line, with no idea what I’m buying.

  “Doubles is the national Trini food,” one of the workers explains, spreading open his paper-wrapped lunch for me to see. “It’s like a sandwich with two pieces of bara—that’s the bread—and channa in the middle. Then you add sweet chutney or hot pepper or both.”

  I listen as the next guy orders a doubles with mango chutney, cucumber, and medium pepper. When it’s my turn, I order the same and discover it’s a bit like the West Indies version of a taco, but with fried bread that’s filled with chickpeas. The mango is sweet, the cucumber cool, and even the small amount of hot pepper has more bite than I expected.

  “Oh my God, that’s so spicy!” My eyes water and my nose runs, making the locals laugh. I wash it down fast with a Red Solo soda.

  “Maybe slight pepper next time,” the first worker says.

  “Definitely,” I say. “Thanks for helping me order.”

  My lips burn and my hands smell like curry when I stop at the marine supply store in the harbor for the next thing on my list. The bigger thing. I buy a can of gold leaf paint and a small brush. Back on the boat, I spend some time on the internet, finding the right font.

  I know so much more about my boat now.

  Including the name.

  With a damp towel draped over my head to keep the Caribbean sun from scorching the back of my neck, I balance in the dinghy, roughing out the letters—first with pencil, then painting them in. It takes a long time and my fingers start to cramp, but when I’m finished, the transom shines.

  I change into a dress and wear the rough diamonds from Keane and stand on the dock beside the boat for my own private christening ceremony. Queenie sits at my feet, looking properly solemn, which makes me laugh as I pop the cork on the champagne bottle. I don’t know how to christen a boat, so I simply ask the wind gods to bless everyone who ever sailed aboard this boat, including Ben. Especially Ben.

  “And let any name this boat has ever had be stricken from your books and the new name hold favor in your hearts.” I whisper the boat’s name and pour a bit of champagne on the bow. “May this boat bring fair winds and good fortune to all who sail it.”

  I’m feeling pretty high, my insides bubbly with champagne, when I call Barbara Braithwaite. But before I can say a word, she cuts through the silence.

  “The last time we spoke I was offended by what you said, the insinuation that I didn’t respect Ben’s choices,” she says. “But … you were right. Charles and I wanted what we thought was best for him, never stopping to consider that he might want something else.”

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “Maybe I deserved it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ben was my only child, my heart, and I—Well, when he died, I wanted to gather up all of his things and hold them close,” she says. “When the lawyer told us about the boat––”

  “You still can’t have it,” I say, this time more gently.

  She laughs a little through her nose. “We’re no longer contesting Ben’s will. The boat is yours, along with some of the things in storage that I know he’d want you to have.” Her voice breaks. “You made him happy for as long as he was able to be, and for that … well, I can’t hate you. And believe me, I tried. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for sharing him with me, even when you didn’t want to.”

  “Goodbye, Anna. Be well.”

  She hangs up, and one more door closes. I don’t think I’ll ever seen Ben’s parents again, and I have no interest in visiting his box in the ground when he will always have a place in my heart.

  My buzz has worn off when I get into the dinghy and follow the contours of the coastline to a secluded beach in Scotland Bay—the one where Ben and I were going to get married. Queenie leaps onto the beach and I drag the boat above the tide line to keep it from drifting away.

  The sand is soft beneath my feet and I carry the box filled with photos from Ben’s old Polaroid, the dried hibiscus flower from our first date, the handful of dirty-sexy love letters, and the suicide note.

  I dig a pit in the sand with my bare hands and place everything
inside, along with Ben’s chart book. I’ll have to buy a new one, but I have my own route now.

  I strike a match.

  Polaroids make little popping sounds when they burn. Tiny fireworks to mourn what might have been. Tiny fireworks to celebrate the life of someone I once loved. Someone I will always love.

  I sit beside the fire—at the intersection of who I was and who I am—until the past is ash.

  I bury the remains.

  As I push the dinghy back into the water, my phone pings wildly in my pocket. I pause, worst-case scenarios running through my head. Mom had a medical emergency. Rachel was in a car accident. Something happened to Maisie.

  Instead the screen is filled with a series of text messages.

  I want you.

  I need you.

  I miss you.

  I love you.

  I am coming home.

  state of grace (32)

  I emerge from the cockpit the next morning, a little hungover and squinting into the sunshine, to find Keane Sullivan standing on the dock beside the transom of the boat. He looks at me with tired eyes and a face that’s a mess of stubble, but trying to keep from smiling at him is like pushing against a wave. When our smiles meet, my heart does a joyful dance behind my ribs and oh Jesus, do I love this man.

  “State of Grace.” He glances at the words painted on the back of the boat. “It’s a beautiful and fitting name for your boat.”

  “Our boat,” I say as he steps aboard and scoops up Queenie, whose entire body wriggles with happiness. I know exactly how she feels. She licks his chin and jumps out of his arms. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to Antigua?”

  “I should, but after the last race, I booked a flight.”

  “How was the regatta?”

  “It was everything I’d hoped.” He exhales. “It was great, Anna. I was at the top of my game. Like the accident never happened. But … it wasn’t enough. I mean, if you’re not there at the finish, what’s the fucking point?”

  I close the space between us and kiss him hard. Before I can pull back, his fingers are on my face and in my hair, his mouth seeking forgiveness and mine granting it. He whispers he loves me, I whisper it back, and we kiss until we are breathless. Smiling. Our foreheads touching.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Well, I spoke to my friend in Florida about getting my US citizenship, and he offered me a position teaching sailing to people with disabilities,” Keane says. “And Jackson Kemp has offered seed money for when we’re ready to start our nonprofit.”

  “Really?”

  “Something to do with being called an arse in Saint Barths.”

  I laugh. “I had no idea fundraising would be so easy.”

  “But for right now, Anna,” he continues, “all I want is to stop chasing after things for a bit, and sail. I don’t care where, only that I am with you.”

  “I love the sound of that.” I step through the companionway and climb down into the cabin. Keane follows. “So, you should know that, while you were gone, I learned a few things.”

  I reach for his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He shivers as my fingers skim his sides. “First, swimming with sea turtles is one of the best things in life. Ever.”

  He works open the buttons on my shirt and kisses my collarbone. “Turtles. Okay.”

  “Second”—I let my shorts drop to the floor as he watches—“replacing a water pump is easier than it seems.”

  “I’m going to save my follow-up questions about that for later,” he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my bikini bottoms.

  “And third, I can live without you.”

  “I, um—” His hands fall away, and he runs his fingers through his hair, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Because fourth, I don’t ever want to do it again,” I say, reaching for the top button on his jeans. “So, the next time you leave me, Keane Sullivan, you’d better have a round-trip ticket in your hand.”

  Days later, we motor out of Chaguaramas and head north, the entire Caribbean archipelago ahead of us. I raise the mainsail while Keane consults our new chart book. “Where would you like to go?”

  There are islands we missed on the way down—Mayreau, Saba, Nevis, Tortola—that I would like to visit, or we could return to the places we love. We could do both. We have no timeline. No schedule.

  I step down into the cockpit and sit beside him on the bench. Queenie creeps onto my lap. The destination really doesn’t matter. “You choose.”

  Keane considers, and flashes me a grin so roguish that I wonder what devil’s bargain I’ve just made.

  “Tell me, Anna,” he says, slipping on his sunglasses and adjusting our course. “How do you feel about sailing to Ireland?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Advice givers always tell you to write the book you want to read. For me, this is it. I started working on it about eight years ago, so there are a lot of people to thank along the way.

  The last person I usually mention is my husband, but Phil’s sailing knowledge is reflected on every page, so this time he needs to be first. Thank you for answering my endless questions and not cringing too much when the characters made bad choices. I’m sorry I cut your cameo role, but you’ll always be my star.

  I am so thankful to have Kate Testerman as my agent. Her faith in this story never wavered. More than once she picked me up, dusted me off, and then went on to find the very best editor.

  And having Vicki Lame as my editor feels like winning the lottery. I knew Anna and Keane would be safe in her hands—and they were. It’s been an incredible experience, Vicki, thank you.

  In fact, everyone at St. Martin’s Griffin has been so excellent, especially Jennie Conway, Kaitlin Severini, Chrisinda Lynch, Cathy Turiano, Marissa Sangiacomo, Naureen Nashid, Meghan Harrington, Marta Fleming, Kerry Nordling, and the creative services team. Thank you all for your dedication in bringing this book into the world.

  I had no idea I was going to write for adults until my first YA editor, Victoria Wells Arms, planted the seed. Thank you for reading the early manuscript, for your support, and for helping me become a better writer.

  Adam Finnieston and Elizabeth Pla of Prosthetic Orthotic Designs, Inc., answered all my questions about prosthetics and their care. Any inaccuracies are solely mine.

  I don’t know where I’d be without my critique partners, Suzanne Young and Cristin Bishara. They’re like opposite sides of a coin; Suzanne is my biggest cheerleader, while I can always count on Cristin to say, “Yeah, but, what if…” And I’m so fortunate to have both.

  I’m also lucky to have a bunch of talented writer friends whose opinions have been invaluable, including Kirsty Eagar, Annie Gaughen, Kelly Jensen, Miranda Kenneally, Elisa Ludwig, Amanda Morgan, Wendy Mills, and Veronica Rossi. Thank you all, not only for sharing your time but also for your friendship.

  It’s not an exaggeration to say I had a ton of beta readers over the past six years: Carla Black (yes, she’s named for you), Taylor Cote, Christina Franke, Anna Hutchinson, Cee Jay Maxwell, Sarah Moon, Pam O’Neal, Marissa Davis-Orban, Ginger Phillips, Stephanie Pierce, Grace Radford, Jessica Sheehan, Andrea Soule, and Gail Yates (you have dibs). If there is anyone I missed, please know it was not intentional. Thank you all.

  Talking to Dave Welch about his Alberg 30, Four Gulls, was supposed to be for research purposes only. His enthusiasm was so contagious we bought one of our own. Thanks, Dave.

  Terry Igo answered a bunch of questions about wills, estates, and trust funds. Even though most of it didn’t end up on the page, he went the extra mile and I appreciate it.

  It would be impossible to name all the wonderful people we’ve met in the islands who contributed to this story in large and small ways, but love and special thanks to Shelley and Phillip at Little Cocoa in Grenada; Njomo in Salt Whistle Bay, Mayreau; and Andréa and Lovan in Les Anses d’Arlet, Martinique.

 
; Finally, thank you to Caroline, Scott, Mom, and Jack for listening (or at least pretending to listen) when I ramble on about imaginary people. You’re the best and I love you all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TRISH DOLLER is the author of novels for teens and adults about love, life, and finding your place in the world. A former journalist and radio personality, Trish has written several YA novels, including the critically acclaimed Something Like Normal, as well as Float Plan, her adult women’s fiction debut. When she’s not writing, Trish loves sailing, traveling, and avoiding housework. She lives in southwest Florida with an opinionated herding dog and an ex-pirate. You can sign up for email updates here.

  Thank you for buying this

  St. Martin’s Press ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Ten Months and Six Days (1)

  Aground (2)

  Drunken Kaleidoscope (3)

  Question Mark (4)

  So Fucking Unfair (5)

  Off Balance (6)

  Stinging Mark (7)