Float Plan(50)

I set my drink down on the table and look at Keane. “I just remembered there’s somewhere I need to be.”

“Anna, wait.” I hear his voice behind me, but I don’t turn around. He catches up to me before I’ve made it to the end of the sidewalk. “Where are you going?”

I wheel around to face him. “I don’t know, kid. Maybe I’ll sail to Saint Kitts or Nevis. Anywhere is better than here. You can stay if you want, but I have no interest in anyone who doesn’t recognize you for the exceptional human being you are.”

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he circles his arms around my shoulders and draws me to him. I slip my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his soft shirt. “You deserve so much better than this. Come with me.”

He exhales into my hair and kisses the top of my head. “Let’s go.”

Together we walk down the Rue de la Plage to Shell Beach and motor the dinghy out to where the four boats are rafted together in the small harbor. Eamon is playing poker with the other guys on Fizgig—Queenie sitting beside him as if she’s learning how to play—while the women sunbathe topless on Papillon’s trampoline. Keane crosses from one boat to the next to speak with his brother, while I take off the sail covers and secure our gear. I’m in the cabin when Eamon comes belowdecks.

“Anna.” He pulls me into a hug. One of my favorite things about Sullivan men is how unreserved they are with their affections. “Thank you for letting me sail with you. It’s been grand.”

“You’re not coming with us?”

“My holiday is nearly over, so I’ll fly out from here in a day or two.”

“Thank you for the autopilot.”

“Thank you for looking after my brother,” he says. “I know you think he’s helping you, but I reckon it’s the other way around.”

When we’re ready to go, Eamon helps us detach from Peneireiro and hands me the dock lines. “Fair winds, Anna. I hope we’ll meet again one day.”

“Me too. Have a safe trip home.”

We motor through the field of boats anchored off St. Barths. One of the mega-yachts we pass is at least five hundred feet long and has a black hull so shiny, I can see my boat reflected. Tonight that boat will be filled with beautiful people drinking champagne as fireworks burst over their heads. Maybe Keane and I will be able to see the fireworks from wherever we are when the New Year arrives. But once we reach the open water and raise the sails, I find I don’t care about fireworks at all.

“Where should we go?” I sit beside Keane in the cockpit. He’s wearing his favorite shirt—the one he was wearing the first time I saw him—and a smile that makes it impossible for me not to smile back. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but the stress lines between his eyebrows have faded away.

“I’d like to take you to my favorite island in the whole Caribbean.”

“And where would that be?”

“It’s a surprise.”

There are at least half a dozen islands within easy sailing distance of St. Barths and I could probably figure it out if I tried, but he is happy and we are at sea. “Okay.”

After Ben died, I imagined my life proceeding in shades of gray, but tonight, as the sun sinks below the ocean, the sky and sea are purple. Queenie presses her warm body against my thigh and my brain pushes against the guilty feeling that it’s too soon. That I’m not allowed to be this happy yet. I lean my head back, my face tilted up to the sky, and I say the words, loud and defiant. “I am so fucking happy right now.”

“I’ve never been so glad to put a place behind me,” he says. “I thought going to Saint Barths might…”

“Exorcise the demons,” I finish. “I understand too well how that doesn’t work.”

The tension falls out of his shoulders. “I’ve never told anyone except my parents, but the person driving the Mercedes that night was an American senator.”

“Are you serious?”

Keane nods. “He keeps getting reelected by championing family values, but on that particular New Year’s Eve, he was drunk, his mistress sitting in the passenger’s seat. Now, whenever I need a new prosthesis, I send the bill to a Washington, D.C., post office box and the bill gets paid. As long as I keep his identity a secret, I’m set for life.”

“Are you ever tempted to go public?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But I have the best prosthetics the senator’s money can buy and he has to live with his hypocrisy.”

“Do you really think he does?” I ask.

“Perhaps not, but karma will catch up to him one day,” Keane says. “Anyway, it was pretty fucking spectacular hearing you call Jackson Kemp an arse. I don’t imagine he’s used to anyone being bold enough to try that—at least not to his face.”

“I wanted to punch him but figured calling him an asshole would be slightly more polite,” I say. “I’m sorry if I ruined your relationship with him. Listening to him talk was painful.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you through my mess.”

“Your mess. My mess. At this point I feel like we’re in this together.”

“It’s strange letting go of something that’s played such an enormous role in my life,” Keane says. “Not sure what to do now.”