Your path, your path, your path.
Closing Susie inside, she stepped onto the patio and breathed in the scents of the tropical night—ylang-ylang, damp earth, gardenia—mixed with damp ashes. She navigated the charred debris and headed down the drive. Her shadow, thrown by the flagpole floodlights, was that of a giantess.
In Oualie’s harbor, mast lights cast broken streaks over the water’s ragged surface. She’d thought to borrow a dinghy, planning to row as she’d no idea how to use an outboard motor. No dinghies were tethered to the pilings. From the end of the dock she could see one illuminated porthole on Iguana. The few other boats were dark. She cupped her hands and shouted for Liz, but the breeze scattered her voice over the waves.
Iguana was anchored in deep water, almost beyond the harbor’s shelter. She gauged the distance—fifty pool laps, maybe. A tough workout, but doable. She sat on the planks and swirled her feet in the water, boiling the phosphorescence, and imagined creatures rising to gulp in the shimmering plankton.
She stood up and tied her cardi to the railing. Eyes on the porthole beacon, she grasped the blue bead, ran at the end of the planks, and launched herself over the water. Her skirt bellied as her feet knifed through the chilly darkness and quickly touched sand. She sprang off the bottom and burst into the air, gasping and sobbing. The dress twined around her legs. Panic tightened her chest and she fought to breathe.
She was surrounded by blackness, deep and impenetrable, full of creatures with scales and teeth, tentacles, lidless eyes. She stroked to the ladder and held on, shaking. When she’d caught her breath, she stripped off her dress, stuffed the skirt into the smocked bodice, and looped the straps over her shoulders, a light backpack. She took a few strokes, naked but for her panties. A wave splashed her face and she swallowed water and began to cough.
She floated on her back, searched out Orion’s Belt and the North Star, and willed her breathing to settle. Rigging clanged. The surf raked the shore. She rolled over, fixed on Iguana’s porthole, and began to breaststroke toward it. A mat of floating seaweed enveloped her, and she recoiled from its slippery fingers but pushed through it.
Buffeted by waves, she struggled to find a rhythm. In a pool she’d be watching the tiles slide easily by, but here she could think only of what lurked beneath her, how distant the bottom. She imagined Jack’s bones among the rocks, shreds of his linen shirt waving, hollow eyes beseeching. Feel what you feel. As she passed the last boat before the long haul to Iguana, a gust sent the hull seaward, and the mooring line snapped out of the water and rasped against her foot. She cried out, took a wave in the face, and kicked frantically away.
She forced herself to rest and float again, her milky skin the only marker of where black sky met black sea. A wave knocked her, and when she righted herself, the dress was flowing behind her like a cape. Dump it, she told herself, but instead she struggled to stuff it back inside itself and pressed on, her arms and legs burning. She’d miscalculated the distance; she’d come only halfway, and the rest was open water.
She pressed on, more and more slowly. About two hundred feet from Iguana, the dress came loose again. She balled it under one arm and side-stroked the rest of the way.
The yacht’s looming hull dwarfed her. There was no ladder.
More spent than she had ever felt in her life, she pounded the hull with her fist, a hollow thud, barely louder than the slap of the waves. When she heard movement inside, she called for Liz.
A torch beam searched the water, found and blinded her.
“Jesus,” Liz said. The ladder came over the side, there was a splash and a ball of phosphorescence, and he surfaced next to her. He held her fast and stroked to the ladder, untangled her from the dress, and lifted her foot onto the lowest rung. “Hang on,” he said, and climbed onto the ladder behind her. His arm around her waist, he rested her against his thighs and eased her up one rung at a time. When she tried to stand on the deck, her knees gave out. She crawled to the cockpit and collapsed on a banquette.
He tucked a towel close around her. He was wearing shorts. The warmth of his naked chest against her back on the ladder came back to her now. She watched him wring out her dress and drape it on a lifeline.
“I had some silly notion I could put that back on before I got here,” she said.
“A blue bead and a pair of panties are more than enough for me,” he said. “Let’s get you a hot shower.”
He helped her climb down to the saloon, led her to the stateroom, and switched on a lamp. In the full-length mirror on the head door she caught her skim-milk skin, bluish lips, red-rimmed eyes.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind and smiled over her shoulder at their reflection. He teased a piece of seaweed out of her curls. “A fetching mermaid visitor is unusual, especially at this hour,” he said. “Even more so if she smells like a campfire.”
“That’s a story for later,” she said, and pressed her back against him. “You’ve saved me twice now.”
“The first time you were panicked. This time maybe just stupid. What if I hadn’t been aboard?”
“Didn’t consider that,” she said.
A wave slapped the stern, slid under the hull, lifted the bow, and moved on toward shore. In the safety of the cabin and his arms, she tried to allow herself just to feel, but her mind continued to lash her with irony and regret. She’d swum competitively to conquer her fear of the water. She’d elbowed her way through a career to impress Harald, only to lose Mallo, to whom her success was a given. Becoming prickly to everyone had just proved she was as unlovable as she’d always believed. She’d imagined that solving the mystery of Giulietta’s departure would produce a loving mother. How foolish not to see that any relationship would require effort on both their parts.
She turned in Liz’s embrace and pulled him close enough to eliminate any space for doubt or recrimination. “My whole life has been one huge compensation,” she said into his shoulder.
He kissed her hair. “And risking death to swim here is compensation for what?”
Her mother’s confession filled her head; she pushed it away.
“Nothing,” she said. “Everything. An admission.” She kissed him, concentrating on his lips, nothing but that, and he sighed into her embrace. “Show me your lair,” she said.
A tiny smile crinkled his eyes, which were the blue of morning wood smoke, questioning.
He led her through the “Crew Only” door to a tidy cabin on the port side. Cast by the bedside lamp, his shadow ran up the wall and onto the coffered ceiling. She glanced quickly about, taking in lockers with brass fittings, a bunk with drawers underneath and a batik spread. Sailing books, Treasure Island, poems of Pablo Neruda. A framed snapshot, faded to amber, of a deeply tanned woman squinting into the lens, wind in her black hair. Her painting of Iguana propped on the shelf.
She closed one of the porthole curtains.
“Nobody can see us,” he said.
“I’m closing out the darkness,” she said. She looked at the feeble streetlamp at Oualie and up the hillside to the pinpoint of light that marked Jack’s flag. The eastern sky was graying just enough to reveal the outline of Nevis Peak. She slid the other curtain shut.
His kiss this time was hungry, and she returned it with a fervor that surprised her. She dropped her towel and met him, as if she’d shed all reticence in the sea. He stripped off his wet shorts, scooped her up, and set her on the bunk, then stretched out facing her. She gazed down their lengths, his skin walnut against her ivory, and snuggled closer, seeking his heat.
He touched the blue bead, which had slid against her collarbone. “When I gave you this, I wasn’t sure if I’d see it again.”
“Did ye put a love spell on it?”
“If it brought you back, that’s magic enough.” His fingers traced the hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast. He looked into her eyes. “Anything you like is okay with me.”
“Trust your imagination,” she said.
As a lo
ver, Liz was a combination of fun-loving and careful, teasing her through the awkwardness of finding their fit and rhythm, making her laugh, moving her with hands as confident as they were tender. “It’s like Iguana,” he said. “You have to feel the wind lifting her and let her go with it.”
When she came, the tension wires of longing, grief, and anger binding her snapped, and in her release, she began to sob. He pulled her against him and let her cry until she finally stilled, overcome by a deeper exhaustion than she had ever experienced. Her mother’s revelations had hollowed her out and the sea had rushed in, rinsed every cell in her body, and poured its salt out through her eyes.
Liz got up and tucked the spread around her. “I always make one last safety check before I turn in,” he whispered.
“Good principle,” she said.
She was asleep before he returned.
As rosy light rimmed the curtains, Els rolled onto one elbow and watched Liz sleep. She kissed him awake and they made love again, taking their time, learning.
Afterward, she rested her sticky leg on his thigh. “Challenge you to a skinny dip.”
She rolled off the bunk and opened the curtains. The sun was still hiding behind the mountain, giving it a golden rim, and the sea was glassy. She let him chase her to the cockpit. Her dress hung limp from the mizzen in the still morning. Standing on the stern deck, she hesitated at the sight of the purple-mauve water. Liz came up behind her and held her shoulders, but she flashed a brave smile and executed a perfect dive. She sliced through darkening purple, righted herself, pawed toward the surface, and broke into the air.
Her breathing labored, she tread water and gasped out, “You coming or what, Captain?”
While he watched her with an expression of wonder, she stretched out on the surface and let the water spread her hair into a russet mane. He dove, his splash washing over her, and she inhaled some water, began to cough, and lost her float. He rested one hand under the small of her back, steadied her at the surface, and kissed her nipple. The clouds over the mountain turned from pink to white, and she closed her eyes and felt the first rays warm her lids.
Back on the boat, they wrapped themselves in Iguana’s terry robes and Liz made coffee and hummed as he squeezed local grapefruit. The spicy citrus scent filled the saloon, and the juice he handed her was thick with pulp and sweeter than anything she’d imagined such speckled and dented fruit could produce. Mallo had given her sweet orange juice, but since life had ripped away sweetness and replaced it with bittersweetness, she’d come to crave the taste of the limes, bitter oranges, and grapefruits that were the bounty of this land.
They foraged in the galley and took bread, cheese, and mango to the cockpit. Though her immersions in salt water had washed away the taint of smoke, they’d turned her cuts and scrapes lurid against her pale skin.
He ran his finger over them. “What dragon were you slaying last night?”
While she nibbled a slice of mango, she considered her reply. Too many dragons to choose from, and she wanted none of them crowding into the cockpit. The idea of arson and its implications made her shudder. Whatever the cause of the fire, she was in deeper than she’d thought. Liz caught her change in mood, moved closer, and took her hand. “We had a minor fire last night,” she said. “Some embers from the grill.”
He looked at her in alarm.
“Pinky took care of it. Just an expensive nuisance.”
“And that propelled you to beard me in my den in the wee hours?”
“It shook Mum into telling me what I’ve been dying to know,” she said. “It turns out near drownings have rerouted my life more than once.” She squeezed his hand. “But I can’t talk about all that until I’ve sorted it a bit.”
“Remember, I don’t ask unless I really want to know.”
“And so you shall.” She squinted up at her dress. “Would you haul that down, Captain?”
“I’d like to keep it,” he said. “My version of your flag.”
“If I walk home in this robe,” she said, “tongues will wag.”
He lowered the dress, slipped off her robe, and looked at her before easing the dress over her head and smoothing the smocking across her breasts. He pulled her close. “Will you give it back to me when I get home next week?” He kissed her earlobe. “And the girl in it?”
“With a bow?”
“Only if it’s easy to untie.” He licked the salt crystals off her shoulder and kissed her again.
She tasted the salt on his tongue and nipped it playfully. “And you so proficient in knots,” she said. “I really must get back. Mum will be worrying.”
“I think she’ll applaud,” he said.
And so will Jack, she thought.
He handed her into the dinghy and ran it back to the wharf. Barrett Cobb glanced up from sweeping out the restaurant and gave them a thumbs-up. News of their tryst would be all over the island within hours.
Liz sprang onto the wharf, helped her up, and gathered her into his arms. “I’d much rather spend New Year’s with you.”
“We rental captains and bar wenches don’t get holidays off,” she said, and melted into a last kiss, the most tender so far.
As she watched him zip through the harbor, the breeze carried to her a few notes of whatever song he was singing.
Els found Finney down the beach, working on the Maid.
“Is boat fixing your holiday ritual?” she asked. “Last Boxing Day I found you right here doing the same thing.”
“Same spot, better thing,” he said, and poked his screwdriver into the sand. “Fortune turn her smile on both a’ we since then.”
“I hope she’s not just playing with either of us,” she said. The glow of Liz’s kiss was wearing off, and she felt an icy shard of dread that he might leave her or be snatched away, that the pub might go under, that she would cease to belong here.
Finney looked at her searchingly. She told him about the fire, the scrap of tire.
“Luckily, I’d put the dominoes away,” she said, “but Jack’s special table is a goner. I was terrified I might lose everything.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is my fault. They sendin’ a message.”
“If that was a message, I want to think it just got out of hand. Surely they didn’t aim to burn down my house or harm Mum or me.”
He gazed at the sea. “I goin’ tell de fellas not to come no more.”
She watched Liz coiling a line on Iguana’s foredeck. “They’re all part of the pub now.” She didn’t want to think of afternoons without Manny, Trigger, Stormy, Spink, and the others who came by on tournament nights. “Political partisanship cost me the love of my life. When I moved here, I’d lost everything I cared about. Now that I have plenty to care about, I’m not caving to some bully.”
“Cyan let they presence encourage vandalism,” Finney said. “Or worse.”
“If I’m to belong here, I have to belong to all of it, otherwise I will be just a tourist living in my own fantasy. I have so much to learn.” She imagined herself sucked into the criminal and legal systems. “Self-determination is in my bones, Finney. We Scots can be damned fierce about our homes and lands.” She wriggled her toes to sink her ankles deeper into the sand. “Crazy acts can be blamed on politics, but they’re the acts of crazy people.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Ye can tell the domino men they’re welcome any time.”
CHAPTER 47
All the way up the hill from Oualie, Els anticipated sharing with her mother the news of her triumphal swim with all its implications. Giulietta’s small case was on the gallery. Els ran up to the lounge to find her finishing an espresso. In her turmeric-colored linen shift and Hermès scarf, Giulietta looked much as she had the day she’d arrived, except for her deeper tan and a cowrie shell necklace. Despite the rigors of the previous night, she looked rested, younger, as if her confession had erased years.
“You were planning to run off with no goodbye,” Els said.
“Rinaldo calls to say he misses me
,” Giulietta said. “Mr. Sparrow comes soon to take me to the plane.”
Els clenched at how narrowly she’d missed returning to an empty house, maybe not even a note. “I want to drive you, Mum,” she said. She carried the case down and tossed it into the boot. Giulietta stopped on the gallery, took a few deep breaths while she eyed the destruction of the pergola, kissed Susie’s muzzle, and swanned down to the Jeep.
Els left a note with a tip on the gate for Sparrow. When they passed Oualie, she looked between the casuarina trees for a glimpse of Iguana. “Mum, I swam to Liz last night.”
Giulietta peered over her sunglasses and touched Els’s arm. “Tell Captain Amore to be careful of you.”
“Careful as in watch out for me, or watch over me?”
Giulietta considered this while they crested the rise at Hurricane Hill and dropped into the straightaway along Lover’s Beach.
“Both,” she said.
At the airport counter, Els glanced at her mother’s ticket and saw that she’d always planned to leave December 26th.
The passengers milled while the agent weighed each person and piece of luggage. When Giulietta stepped onto the scale, she pronounced it a liar and everyone laughed. She embraced Els—too fleetingly, enveloping her in that spicy floral scent—and stepped out onto the tarmac. Els tried to follow, but the agent directed her back to the car park. She gripped the chain-link fence separating her from the field.
Giulietta walked over and covered Els’s fingers with her own. “Only bambini are free of sorrows and regrets, cara.” She looked over Els’s shoulder at the mountain. “Rinaldo puts up with enough spite. I will let him marry me.” She smiled. “I send you invitation. Bring Captain Amore.”
“Lady,” the agent called. “De plane gon’ fly away widout you.”
Giulietta’s eyes were moist. “You make new chance here, cara. Don’t waste it.” She squeezed Els’s fingers and walked toward the plane.
“Ciao, Mum,” Els called after her.
The Moon Always Rising Page 31