Float Plan(23)

“I’m going to have a nap,” Rohan says. “Please make yourselves at home. Satellite phone. Wi-Fi. Washer. Whatever you need.”

“Actually, I do need to check my email.”

James leads me down into the cabin to the navigation station and I use their laptop. There are three emails from my mother—unusual since she rarely uses the computer—all asking why I didn’t send the title for the boat. By the third email, she is frantic with worry that Ben’s mom is trying to have me arrested for grand theft boat. I resend the original email with the scanned title, then send a note to Carla.

I spent the morning on Cat Island, visiting a hermit’s monastery and having lunch with locals. We’ll be hopping to some pretty remote islands on our way to the Turks and Caicos, but I might have a chance to write more when we reach Providenciales. I wish I could tell you I’m better, but Ben is still with me and I’m trying—really trying—to figure out how life works without him.



James is chain-smoking and reading a Henning Mankell mystery when I go back out on deck, while Sara is telling Keane a story about a wild night in Tenerife, another place I’m not sure I could find on a map. He looks at her as if he wishes she were naked. I feel so out of place. I wish I had asked Rohan to drop me at the boat. I pry off my sneakers, strip down to my bikini, and adjust the seat of my bikini bottom. “I’m going for a swim. Bring my clothes when you come back.”

Before Keane can answer, I dive into the bay. Chemineau is not so far from the Alberg that I can’t swim the distance. The water is cool on my skin and by the time I reach the swim ladder, I feel better. Without Keane around, I take a real shower. My hair hasn’t been this clean since Nassau and my legs are newly smooth. I clip the wet towels to the lifeline. Take a nap. Make a salad out of cucumbers and tomatoes a day away from going bad. I shake the sand out of my bedding. Watch the sunset. Kill the hours that get lonelier the longer Keane is gone. Only six days sailing with someone and already being alone feels a little … weird.

The boat rocks when Keane finally climbs aboard. This time he doesn’t crash-land in the cockpit. He creeps in quietly, trying not to wake me. I’m lifting my head from my pillow to say hello, when I catch the scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and Sara’s spicy perfume. Instead I pretend to be asleep. I am not jealous—Keane is free to do whatever he likes—but I am sharply reminded that I am not traveling with the man I love. I’m traveling with a stranger.



* * *



Our seventh day at sea begins when I step out on deck and discover Chemineau is gone. I look to the south, toward Rum Cay, and see the big boat sailing into the distance. The sun is not far above the horizon. They must have made an early escape, but I’m kind of glad they’re gone. I put a pot of coffee on the stove and as it percolates, Keane comes slowly to life. He groans as he shambles past me, hungover and uncomfortable after wearing his prosthesis all night. On deck, he removes his leg and dives into the sea. I leave a bucket of cool water waiting for him when he comes out.

“When did Chemineau leave?”

“Must have been before dawn,” I say. “It’s not even eight.”

Keane’s sigh sounds almost relieved. “I’m not sorry to see the back of them.”

“Oh?”

“Bunch of odd ducks,” he says as he washes his leg with fresh water. “I don’t imagine Rohan dives while drunk, but he seems to spend a hundred percent of the rest of his time three sheets to the wind. James doesn’t appear to do anything but smoke, read, and talk about surfing. And Sara … well, never mind about Sara.”

“Bagel?”

“That’d be grand, thanks.”

He leaves his prosthesis off as he eats and occasionally rubs his left knee, the intact one.

“Are you okay?”

“A wee bit sore today is all,” he says. “I was thinking I’d see if I can’t get the outboard running this morning so I can ferry myself to shore. I put in a call to Eulalia yesterday and she’s sending Robert to fetch me for church. Or, us, if you’d like to join.”

“I’ll come.”

He could have worn shorts to church and no one on this little island would have blinked, but as Keane motors us to shore two hours later, he is clad in his Sunday best. The slim-fitting black pants are a bit wrinkled, but paired with a pale green button-down shirt that pulls out the green in his eyes, it is impossible not to notice how beautiful he is. I can’t even look at him for fear he’ll be able to see through my sunglasses and read my mind. I don’t want him. I don’t. But Jesus Christ, he’s breathtaking.

“Pretty dress,” he says over the rumble of the outboard, eyes hidden behind his aviators.

I’m wearing a golden-yellow wrap dress with a pair of leather flip-flops. Yet I feel like a beach bum compared to Keane. “Thank you.”

Robert is waiting for us at the Deveaux mansion. He’s less talkative than his wife but navigates better around the potholes. He drops us off at Holy Redeemer Church, a whitewashed stone building that resembles the Hermitage.

“It was built by Father Jerome,” Robert says when I mention it.

The inside is also painted white, with hard wooden benches and windows that capture the sunshine and throw it over us. The congregation, made up of Black and white families, is sparse and Keane chooses a pew near the middle.