by Isabel Jolie
Adrift
Isabel Jolie
Copyright © 2021 by Isabel Jolie.
All rights reserved.
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Editor: Lori Whitwam
Line editor: Heather Whitehead
Cover Design: Elizabeth Mackey
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Isabel Jolie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Isabel Jolie has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
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Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Created with Vellum
For my little brother, the pilot
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Notes & Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Isabel Jolie
Chapter 1
Gabe
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“Change the channel, quick.”
Reed hovered near the monitor, located the control, and flipped to C-SPAN.
“What’s going on?”
He pressed a single index finger to his lips.
A press conference filled the screen. The U.S. Attorney General, a stout woman in a monotonous black suit, stood behind the podium. The scroll at the bottom reflected stock market fluctuations. All looked normal. Futures positive.
“Department of Justice is moving forward with a civil lawsuit.”
Any onlooker would’ve thought the Lakers were playing the way my colleague leaned forward, laser-focused on every word.
I scanned email, figuring he’d tell me what was going on in a minute.
“The civil lawsuit seeks to seize assets from Cyr Martin that were purchased using stolen money from CROW5.” The woman droned on, listing specific asset targets, such as his home, a movie he invested in, and his stake in multiple companies.
“Wait…” I paused, drawn into the unfolding scene. “Why are they zeroing in on Cyr Martin?”
Reed remained glued to the screen, arms crossed, his ass planted on the front of my desk.
Cyr invited us to mind-blowing parties. A-list bands, ice sculptures, free flowing alcohol. Gorgeous models, infamous celebrities, reality TV stars, now and then a big actor or two filled the floors. I flew out to Singapore once to attend one of his bashes, and he’d set me up in a hotel suite at the Ritz. He’d checked up on me personally, had an overflowing welcome basket for my arrival filled with champagne, scotch, chocolates, cashews. I tossed the Gucci bedroom slippers after texting Reed to ask if Cyr thought I was gay. I’d suspected the short Asian might be coming on to me and I might have to break it to him I flew on the straight and narrow, but then I discovered every single out-of-town guest received these gift baskets worth thousands of dollars. The overweight, jovial guy hardly screamed criminal. Fantastic host? Yes. Deserving of a Justice Department inquiry? Not so much.
He’d sold me on CROW5, although he didn’t have to sell me hard, because Nigel, our managing director, was hot and heavy on including it in the fund. I didn’t have to include it, of course. My fund, my decision. We got out weeks before shit became public, so I figured no harm, no foul.
The U.S. Attorney General concluded her announcement, and reporters’ hands flew up. Reed tugged on his chin then chewed on his thumbnail.
“Dude. What’s up? You pulled all your investments from CROW5 early on, right?” I asked, trying to understand his fixation on a civil suit that didn’t involve our firm. The scandal hit months ago; any fall out should’ve hit last quarter. We both knew Cyr, in a business acquaintance kind of way.
Reed worked in private equity, but we’d been friends for years. We liked the same bars, and he lived near me. He ranked as one of a handful of colleagues I’d become personal friends with while working at Belman.
He chewed on his thumb more, thoughtfully, then answered with his question. “You know pretty much every single firm lost their shirt on CROW5? But we didn’t.”
“We were paying attention. Other firms don’t watch the Asian markets as closely as we do. When the Prime Minister of Malaysia sold his shares, we did too.”
“They start out as civil. It’ll go criminal.” He flipped the channel back to CNBC and muted it. “We are the only investment firm on Wall Street that profited from CROW5. And we were an underwriter.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. You know that.”
“Mark my words. It’s coming here. That investigation.” He pointed at the screen. “It’s coming here. And Nigel is going down.”
Reed’s words landed an oxygen sucking punch. Government investigations never bode well. Our managing director, Nigel Sanford, had been one of Cyr’s closest friends. Ample evidence of the friendship existed in publicity photos, the two in group shots at charity events, and even one or two movie premieres. My assistant, Valerie, read those rags, and she’d always pointed the photos out. Nigel met his current girlfriend, a Victoria’s Secret model, through Cyr. They’d get featured every now and then.
My cell flashed the name “Mom.” I picked up the vibrating phone and answered as I motioned for Reed to leave my office.
“Hey, Mom.” She didn’t call often during office hours, and I had two minutes to spare.
“Do you have a minute, honey?” Her soft-spoken question always made me smile. Dad trained her well. I could rush right off the phone and never fear I’d hurt her feelings.
“Just a sec. What’s up?”
“Adrian Tate’s back. Or he’s returned to the States.” I gathered my folders. Reed hovered in my doorway, but I waved him on. Whatever he wanted to say, he needed more than the sixty seconds I had to offer him. “I was wondering if you could reach out to Tate. Gregg and Adrian had a falling out. I wouldn’t normally ask, but if Rachel were still alive, she’d be torn apart.”
“Mom, I don’t really talk to Tate anymore.” My childhood best friend had grown up to become
a Greenpeace warrior.
“He’s your best friend,” she pleaded.
“I’ve spoken to him a handful of times in the last ten years.”
“That’s more than he’s spoken to his family. Honey, his mother was my dearest friend. I wouldn’t ask you to get involved, but I feel helpless. And I think about if it was my children and—”
“Do you have a phone number for him?”
“No, but he’s staying at his grandmother’s beach house.”
“In North Carolina?” I pulled the phone away from my ear as if by doing so my mother could see me gape. Didn’t Pearl Tate die?
“Well, honey, I thought you could fly down there. It’s a nice short flight, right? And you’re always looking for places to fly to.”
She wasn’t wrong. Ever since I earned my pilot’s license, I’d been asking friends and family to go for short rides all over the northeast.
“Please, honey. I wouldn’t ask but—”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Oh, honey. Thank—”
“Gotta run, Mom.” I disconnected and paused at my assistant’s desk. “Valerie, can you contact the flight club and see if you can get me a Cessna for Saturday morning?”
“Route where?”
“Ah, shit. I forgot the airport name. It’s in North Carolina. Southport.” I did a quick search on my phone. “KSUT.” She jotted the letters down, and I headed to an analyst meeting.
Over the next few days, the suit against Cyr Martin wasn’t mentioned within Belman, our Wall Street investment firm. Reed seemed to be the only one aware the Justice Department had announced a civil suit.
Belman didn’t rank as the biggest investment firm, but Wall Street considered us a gold plate staple. The wealthiest in America trusted Belman to guide their investments and to make them money in an unstable world. Some investments in high-risk, volatile countries wouldn’t pan out. Finance 101, international investments were riskier than domestic. But if you knew what you were doing, you could make a shit ton more. Higher risk, higher reward.
Saturday afternoon, I performed a remarkably smooth landing onto black asphalt in the middle of a field. And an hour later I boarded a ferry.
It didn’t take much to get me in a plane. I loved the invigorating feel of navigating small aircraft, especially on a clear day with miles of views. But landing and requiring a car service plus a ferry to get to one’s final destination equaled hassle. But my mother asked, and I’d do it for her. As for my childhood friend, I didn’t know what to expect. It didn’t surprise me he chose to live on an island inaccessible by car.
The loud ferry horn sounded, and a calming breeze cooled, offering a welcome reprieve from the oppressive humidity and August heat. The ferry headed into the inlet, placing the sunset to my back. The salty air filled my lungs, and memories of my teen years surfaced as the island came into view. More homes surrounded the marina than before, and maybe there were a few more along the shore tucked in the trees, but overall, nothing much had changed. The top of the stone lighthouse rose above the green skyline.
Back in the day, I visited every single summer. Nana Pearl let us ride roughshod all over this speck of land couched between the Cape Fear and the Atlantic Ocean. A verifiable kid’s paradise.
An older guy struck up a conversation as the ferry slowed to enter the harbor.
“You here for the week?”
“Nah, just the weekend.”
“My family has been here all summer. I’ll stay for the next week, then we’re all leaving. School starts back. You got a place here?”
“No. My buddy does.”
“You been here before?”
“Yeah.”
“We love it here.” A woman and two boys leaned over the wooden railing on the dock. The boys waved excitedly, and he grinned, flinging his arm in the air to return their salutation.
“Have a good one,” I told the man then stood in line to unload.
After unloading, it didn’t take me long to spot my childhood friend. Tate stood outside the unloading area, arms crossed. He had longish hair pulled back in a short man bun, a deep tan, and wore a faded, ripped t-shirt, old khaki shorts frayed on the ends, and flip-flops. If I’d run into him on a city street, I might’ve assumed he was homeless. He hadn’t aged a fucking day. His familiar grin had me smiling back like no time had passed.
A crack of thunder tore through the sky. One drop fell, then two.
“You got any baggage?”
“It’s all here.” I lifted the shoulder strap of my carry-on tote bag.
“This way,” he shouted as heavy drops fell in quick succession. I chased after him to his golf cart and tossed my bag in the back seat.
“Get the zipper,” he shouted over another crack of thunder and now pounding rain. We both pulled on the zippers at the front, fastening a plastic shell over the sides. After securing us in the claustrophobic rain cover, Tate pressed forward on the pedal and set off at a slow pace. The windshield wipers swiped ineffectively. Visibility through the torrential rain extended maybe five feet. I kicked back for what I expected would be a longish ride.
“So, dude. Ten years. What’s up?”
Lightning lit the sky, and rain drowned out his response as it thundered down on the top of our golf cart. Water cascaded out the sides of the wheels as Tate pushed forward through the downpour, driving us presumably back to Nana Pearl’s cottage.
My mom filled in some blanks. Nana Pearl passed a few months ago, so it’d be Tate’s cottage now—if he could convince Gregg, his older brother, to stop contesting the will. Something I really couldn’t help with if he didn’t talk to me. He stared at the ocean, ignoring me. I shoved his arm.
“Silent treatment? I come all the way down here and you’re not talking?”
“I’m gonna talk. Keep an eye on the waves as we pass by, okay? I saw one nut job out there by himself.”
“On this side? I thought surfers went to South Beach.” Surfing wasn’t really my thing, a bit too slow of a sport for my taste, but I’d done plenty of it during all those summers right here. Plus once in Costa Rica, where I almost died. Those Costa Rican waves were righteous.
“South Beach is where the surfers who know what they’re doing go.”
Shit. I shifted in the seat and kept lookout for a suicidal idiot out on the waves. As we approached his place, complete darkness fell over the island.
“Ah, fuck. We lost electricity,” Tate muttered.
“You got beer? We can sit on the porch and watch the storm.” I loved a good storm over the ocean. And it would give me a chance to dig into Tate. Work some magic and get him to make amends with Gregg. Whatever the disagreement, Tate had to be the one at fault. If I could get him to apologize, it would all blow over, and I’d make my mom happy, the whole damn reason I flew here.
“How do you feel about going to Jules for a few beers and dinner? My treat. They should be on a generator.”
“Jules sounds good.” It had been a long time since the pack of peanut butter crackers I ate earlier in the day. He slung the wheel and turned us back toward the marina.
He pulled into a spot in front of a familiar wooden building. The narrow restaurant overlooking the marina had changed owners and names since I’d been here last. But Tate said the menu hadn’t changed that much. They still sold seafood. Steamed peel-and-eat shrimp dipped in melted butter with an ice-cold beer sounded pretty fucking fantastic.
I followed Tate past the hostess, through the restaurant, to the back room that housed the bar. The storm outside raged, and I guessed that was why the place wasn’t packed. The front tables were full, but the stools along the long wooden bar remained empty. Tate and I each pulled out a stool and sat.
We ordered beers, and I searched for the team names on the nearby television screen playing a college football game.
The bartender slid our beverages of choice over to us. I swallowed the golden ale, set it on the bar, then dug in.
“I’m seriou
s, man. I don’t get it.” I tapped the bar for emphasis. “You went over a year one time with no contact. Your dad didn’t know what to do. Why’d you do that? I’d get it if it was just me. But your dad.” I didn’t mean to harp, but I liked Mr. Tate. He’d died a few years ago, but my parents had shared plenty about his concern and fears. He’d been one of those topics they used to fill dinner conversation when we got together.
“Believe it or not, there are places on this planet without signal.” He rubbed his forehead and avoided looking at me. Typical.
“So, what? You were out on these ships for years? Don’t you have to dock at some point?”
“Sometimes. You can get gas from ships that come out to you.” He closed his eyes, and I sipped my beer, studying him. Wrinkles lined the corners of his eyes, indentions into his leathery skin. Upon closer inspection, he had aged. The sea life hadn’t been his friend. Tate and I were only a couple of months apart, but I’d wager he hadn’t yet discovered facial moisturizer. Or sunblock. I waited, and he eventually continued. “Even when you dock, the places we docked, they were third world.”
“Like what? Where? If you needed money, I would’ve sent it. Your dad would have too.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. But the issue wasn’t money. When we docked, it wasn’t for long. And it’s not like I was twiddling my thumbs. Or we were around people I could ask to plug my phone in for a charge.”