My Last Continent: A Novel(41)

About thirty feet away, I notice a Zodiac heading toward the shore, piloted by an orange-jacketed crew member I don’t recognize. I think of the Australis and reach for my radio—no more than one tourist vessel is allowed to come ashore at a time, and whoever this is will have to back off—but as I’m about to call Glenn, I stop. There’s something familiar about the driver, and I start walking toward the landing, holding my breath.

I see the red bandanna as he swings himself over the side of the inflatable and begins to pull it up on the sand, not far from the makeshift hot tub where Thom looks up from taking photos of the wading passengers. As soon as Keller’s feet hit the ground, Thom’s face breaks into a smile, and I watch the two of them shake hands and slap each other’s backs. And by the time Keller turns around, I’m right there, my arms around his neck even before he has a chance to speak.

“This is an illegal landing, you know,” I whisper into his ear. His shaggy hair whips against my face in the wind, carrying the scent of the sea.

“You going to report me?”

“Maybe.” I pull back to look at him, at the spreading grin creasing his face, which is thinner than when I last saw him, but also, somehow, more relaxed.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “You can’t land all those passengers, can you?”

He shakes his head. “We’ve got a few VIPs who paid big bucks for a special landing,” he says. “Group of ten. We’ll bring them over later tonight. But when I heard the Cormorant was here, I couldn’t miss the chance to see you.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I say. “You’ll get fired. Again.”

He kisses me. “It’ll be worth it.”

I look around—a few yards away, Kate is still in the hot tub with two other passengers, and Thom is stowing equipment in a Zodiac. The beach is otherwise empty; for the moment, I’m free.

I grab Keller’s hand, and we make our way inland, toward relative privacy behind a large rusted oilcan where, about twenty feet away, a chinstrap penguin stands alone. We’re not exactly out of sight here, but we’re out of earshot, and the penguin is the only one watching us.

“I’m sorry I—” I begin.

He puts a chilly finger to my lips. “I don’t have much time here,” he says, “so let’s not waste it.”

He pulls something from his pocket, then reaches for my hand. He turns my palm upward and lays the object down in my beat-up glove.

At first I can’t tell what it is, exactly—it looks like a thick, tarnished, silvery ring with some kind of engraving—but when I hold it up and look closely, I recognize it. The penguin tag I’d given him, completely transformed.

On the outside of the narrowed band are six numbers and the word Argentina. On the top is a raised setting into which is nestled a ruddy stone, barely larger than the face of a pencil eraser; the white streaks veining the layers of pink resemble the wave of a mountain range.

“It’s Argentina’s national stone,” Keller says, “rodocrosita. Nothing fancy,” he adds, “but somehow I didn’t think you’d want a big diamond from Tiffany’s.”

I look from the ring to Keller’s face.

“I love you,” he says. He takes the ring and pulls off my glove. “I figured if we make it legal, you’ll finally believe we can find a way to be together.” He slips on the ring.

I hold my hand up so I can get a better look. The tag-turned-ring is both elegant and sturdy against my red, chapped skin—the only piece of jewelry I’ve ever been given. “I always wanted to wear a penguin tag. It seems only fair, given how many I’ve doled out.”

He smiles. “I have a jeweler friend in Boston who’s a wizard.” He takes my hand. “By the way, you haven’t said anything.”

“About your tagging me, you mean? What do you need for your field report? I’m a known-age bird—”

“—who still hasn’t chosen a mate.”

I laugh. “Is there a question on the horizon, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Will you marry me, Ms. Gardner?”

I look down at the ring again, then back up at Keller. I press my body against his, my gloveless hand against his neck. “Yes.”

“I came so close to asking you over the phone because I didn’t think I’d get a chance to see you,” he says. “I know the timing isn’t the best—”

Then I lean back in his arms so I can see his face again. “It couldn’t be better,” I say. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Right then, loud voices bark from my radio, and I reach toward my hip so I can turn off the volume. Just for a few more minutes.

But from the corner of my eye I see Thom bursting into a sprint, running toward a gathering crowd near the base of a cliff. Keller sees him, too. “Something’s happened,” he says. “We better go.”

“Wait—” But Keller’s already racing after Thom, so I follow, pulling my glove back on as I jog over the rough sand. We reach the crowd, and I touch my stomach briefly before looking up at the cliff, which ascends sharply above the black sand.

Nigel, who was supposed to be giving a tour, is near the top, around what would be the fourth floor of this five-story mountain, and down below, around the second floor, clinging to the rocky surface like a gecko, is Richard.