The Lies They Tell(21)
They glided past the Freedom, the Penobscot Princess, the Stand Fast. Rocks loomed large.
No one spoke as the hull passed within twelve feet of the breakwater. Pearl gripped her knees, straining for the grinding sound of rock against wood. Bridges was rigid at the helm; Akil crouched on the deck, waiting.
They slipped along soundlessly, close enough to see a Styrofoam cup wedged in a crevice. Tristan called, “Port.” The boys trimmed the sails again, Bridges turning the wheel to the left. They cut off the front-runner, Starchaser, so narrowly that Pearl heard Bridges curse under his breath.
The wind pushed them out into the open, and as the other eight yachts struggled to keep up in their wake, a distant cheer went up from the docks. Tristan stood against the mast for a moment, looking back, then went to Bridges, pulling a flyer out of his pocket as Akil moved up beside them. “This is the course.” He unfolded the sheet to show the line diagram. “Windward toward the Nicatou buoy, then southeast to the Whale’s Tooth buoy, southwest around the entrance of Somes Sound, then home.”
“Three, four hours?” Bridges glanced back.
“Less. If we do our jobs.” He tucked the map away, in full possession of himself and the day. It was as if the white, shaking boy in the gym had never existed, and she wondered if his wingmen had ever seen that side of him. “We bought ourselves some time. Set the sails.” He turned away, adding vaguely, “The bar’s stocked.”
Bridges and Akil exchanged a look, grinning.
Bridges and Pearl went below first. The cabin was polished teak, a galley to the right, a chart table nearby with two white leather settees and a stained-glass lamp mounted above. Gilt-framed photos hung on the walls: a candid of Cassidy and Joseph standing on the Islander’s deck, holding a just-caught fish with tropical-looking water in the background. Another professional family photo, everyone dressed in denim shirts and khakis, barefooted, sitting on a beach somewhere. Tristan was much younger, maybe twelve, his hair cut short, sitting chin-up, his fingers spread on his thighs. The more Pearl studied the photo, the more the pose took on a rigid show quality, like a Labrador waiting for the Westminster judges.
Bridges went straight for the galley, locating the liquor cabinet, where expensive-looking bottles sat in a rack coated with a fine layer of dust. “You want anything?”
Pearl dragged her eyes from the photo. “Do you guys sail a lot?”
“Tristan and Akil and I usually just knock around in the motorboats, cruise the islands and stuff. Competitions like this were something he did with his dad. David entered regattas all over the world, had a whole case of trophies.”
“Sounds like he and Tristan were pretty close.”
One of the ice cubes Bridges held dropped into a snifter. He cleared his throat, let the rest fall into the glass, and broke the seal on a bottle of brandy. “Not really.”
She sank onto the settee, watching him.
“Truth?” Bridges glanced over at her. “David was a real hard-ass. Nothing was ever good enough, you know? He was one of those self-made men, had to remind everybody about his amazing work ethic all the time. Especially his kids.”
“New money.”
He glanced up, gave a laugh. “Yeah. And he was a dick to Tristan. Like, bad. Cassidy was his princess, and Joe was his favorite.” He paused, fingering the foil seal. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
Bridges was silent as he poured his drink. “My gramps would say that’s bad luck. Speaking ill of the dead.” He gave a humorless smile. “Bet you don’t think I’m so fair now.”
“I think you’re being honest. Sometimes that’s better.”
He was still frowning. “Are you hungry? There’s supposed to be cold cuts and stuff in the fridge.”
“Sure.” She went to find the head, fastening the catch on the door. There was a toilet, sink, and shower, thick towels with Gs embroidered on them. Pearl ran the faucet and carefully opened the medicine cabinet. A small first-aid kit, a hairbrush, a box of tampons. In the sink drawer, there were some prescription bottles with Cassidy’s name on them, dated a year and a half ago, nearly empty. Pearl slipped her phone out of her pocket and Googled the medications. Sertraline: antidepressant. Trazodone: antidepressant and sedative.
She hunkered down and opened the cabinet below the sink, painfully aware of the passing seconds, of how long she could stay in here without drawing attention. There were more first-aid supplies underneath: Ace bandages, gauze pads, more boxes in the shadows behind. She pushed through, heard the rattle of a small object being dislodged. After a quick inventory, she heard it again when she shook the box of gauze.
Inside was a memory card no bigger than her thumbnail, the kind used for file storage in digital cameras. Pearl turned it over in her fingers, mind racing, then jumped at the sound of Bridges’s footsteps passing by outside. She pocketed the card, turned off the faucet, and went to meet him.
Carrying two plates loaded with sandwiches and chips, they went back on deck, sitting together where Bridges could keep tabs on the sails while Akil went below. She could feel the memory card against her thigh, as if it generated its own heat. Tristan stood at the helm, seemingly oblivious to all of them, his gaze on the green navigational buoy about a quarter mile offshore from Little Nicatou.
Akil brought up a drink for himself and white wine for Quinn and Hadley, leaving the bottle between the girls. The wind shifted, and the boys went back to tacking, only Tristan speaking now and then to issue orders. The boat heeled around the buoy, avoiding bad waters, bearing southeast toward Whale’s Tooth. Pearl sat by herself, glancing over once or twice to catch Hadley and Quinn looking in her direction. They didn’t seem to be whispering about her, just looking, sizing her up. Feeling increasingly foolish sitting alone with a plate of half-eaten sandwiches, Pearl stood and made her way over, leaning on the cabin housing for support when the boat pitched.