Float Plan(33)

Tears are pouring down my cheeks and snot trickles from my nose. I wipe my face with my hand, laughing a little. “Of course you’d be more worried about your mom than your leg.”

“She heard the whole thing as it happened.”

“You don’t have to explain,” I say, rolling onto my side to look at him. “I know what kind of man you are.”

When he turns to look at me, we are so close that I’d only have to lean forward to kiss him. His eyes are dark and inscrutable, and he licks his lower lip. I lean in, and I can hear the rush of blood in my head. I can hear the beat of my heart.

“Anna.” He lifts his hand and touches my cheek, the pad of his thumb against my lips. “Wait.”

I blink, confused. “You don’t—”

“Oh aye, I do,” he says. “Jesus, you have no idea. But before you go down this road, you need to be certain what you want. If anyone will do, you need to find someone else.”

His hand rests lightly on my face and it’s a wonder his hand hasn’t caught fire from the embarrassment pumping through my veins. I pull back and stand.

“Your pain is still too close to the surface,” Keane says. “I mean, just four days ago on Samana you were mourning for Ben. And even now I can’t tell if you’re crying for me or him. You can’t expect me to play rebound to a ghost. I won’t do that.”

Feeling like a colossal fool, I retreat up the rocks into the cave. I’m pulling on my skirt when I hear a sharp bark from above. And a second. I look up to see the dog peering down through the hole. It barks again, this time more urgently.

“Do you want to come down here?” I scale the ladder. The dog is not wearing a collar, but it is a she. Her brown eyes are bright, and she allows me to carry her down into the cave. I sit cross-legged on the floor and she climbs into my lap, relaxing as if I’m her personal pillow.

“Anna—” Keane comes into the cave but stops abruptly when he sees the dog. “She’s lovely,” he says, squatting down to scratch behind her light brown ears. “She looks like a terrier, but with those stubby legs, she may be mixed with Corgi. I reckon she’s a pot hound.”

“A what?”

“There are a lot of strays in the islands,” he says. “And many of them get their meals from the locals who feed them what’s left of their cooking pots.”

“Pot hound. Cute.”

“It is, but there’s a bit of a population-control issue.”

“This place is pretty remote for a dog to be wandering,” I say. “Do you think we should take her back to town with us? Maybe there’s a rescue organization or shelter.”

“At very least, she’ll have better opportunities to eat.”

I pull on my tank top, then carry the dog out and to the Jeep. Keane follows with what’s left of our picnic. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss him. I was out of line. But my embarrassment is way too close to the surface to do anything but pretend it never happened.



* * *



The pot hound rescue staff clucks and fusses over the little dog, petting her head and playing name-that-breed, but they are less than thrilled at the prospect of taking her in.

“We have so many,” says a frazzled-looking woman with a mass of springy black curls. She introduces herself as Dr. Suzette Brown. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep her? We could put her into the system, administer vaccinations and spay her, and adopt her straight back to you. We’ll even waive the adoption fee.”

“We’re on a boat,” I say.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Lots of people keep dogs on boats.”

“We’ll be leaving for the Antilles in a day or two,” Keane says. “It can be a wretched crossing.”

“The dog will need to stay quiet after her surgery,” Suzette says. “Being cabin-bound will be a good way for her to heal.”

“But we’re not—” I point back and forth from Keane to myself, struggling with how to tell the rescue vet that we’re most definitely not a couple, only to find that Keane has wandered off, inspecting leashes and squeaking fetch toys.

“What I’m not hearing,” Suzette says, “is that you don’t want her.”

The dog’s warm little body is snuggled against my chest, right over my heart. I can see my life unfolding into one in which I come home to this dog. Until this moment, I haven’t been able to see my life unfold at all. She gives me a tiny dry lick near the corner of my mouth, one that says I am already yours. I press my face against the short hairs on the top of her head. “I want her.”

“You won’t regret it.” Suzette takes the dog from my arms. “Pot hounds make the best dogs.”

I make arrangements to pick up the dog—my dog—tomorrow, and Suzette offers to have one of the volunteers download and fill out entry forms for all of the Caribbean islands. “I’ll sign off on the medical work myself.”

“You would do all that?”

Suzette shrugs. “It takes time and money to care for these dogs, especially if they’re not adopted right away. An hour or two of paperwork costs far less than a month or more in foster care.”

“We’re going to need lifeline netting so she can safely navigate the deck.” Keane returns, his arms overloaded with a green nylon collar and matching leash, a bag of dog food, a package of training treats, and a mesh bag of tennis balls. “And it wouldn’t hurt for her to have her own life jacket.”