Chapter Sixteen
CHARTER CONFESSIONAL
CLOSE QUARTERS
GARY PARKS: CAPTAIN
PRODUCER
With three charters done, we’re a third of the way through the season. How are you feeling so far?
CAPTAIN GARY
Oh, mate, can’t complain. We’ve had a few hiccups — deck crew needed a bit to find their sea legs with docking — but I reckon we’re on the up.
Interior’s running like a dream, six-star service every charter, and no more bickering between the chef and chief.
From where I’m standing, we’re sitting pretty heading into the back half of the season.
PRODUCER
So, you’d say the crew is working out well?
CAPTAIN GARY
Yeah, solid crew. Food’s been top-notch, guests are loving the deck crew’s entertainment, and Ember’s absolutely smashing it as chief stew.
She was made for this gig. Service is spot-on, boat’s sparkling, guests can’t stop raving about the little ways she made their charters special. I knew she had it in her.
PRODUCER
I guess you can relax a little more now, then, yeah? With everything running so smoothly.
Gary laughs, shakes head.
CAPTAIN GARY
Ah, you’ve done it now. That’s a bloody jinx if I’ve ever heard one.
By the time charter four wrapped, we had found our rhythm.
It wasn’t perfect — not by a long shot — but the chaos felt more controlled.
Palmer and the deck crew had Cap beaming with their docking, not a single line touching the water and every meter of distance being called correctly.
Leah seemed hell-bent on proving herself after being down a charter, the laundry executed perfectly and cabins polished to perfection, and Bernard had fully settled into his role as my second stew.
I could trust him implicitly with dinner service, knowing he would not just help me pull off every theme with the table scape, but that we’d work together seamlessly to provide luxury service to every guest.
I did hear Palmer complaining to Cameron about Gisella one morning as they uncovered the chairs on the sundeck, something about her moving with zero sense of urgency.
I had yet to ask for her to do more for interior than run a few plates at dinner service or help Leah touch up cabins in the evenings.
She was a deck/stew, which meant she was just as much at my disposal as Palmer’s, but I was happy to run the boat without her help as much as possible.
And Finn and I had found whatever this new normal was between us.
We spoke when we needed to, coordinated service with tight efficiency, and put on a united front for the cameras. But beyond that, I stayed away.
I had to.
Because if I’d learned anything from that late night in the galley, it was that my body wasn’t my ally when it came to Finn Pearson. And if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up making the kind of mistake that couldn’t be undone.
But just because we were all working hard and finding our groove didn’t mean there wasn’t plenty of entertainment for the production crew to capture.
The fourth charter had the usual guest dramatics.
One of the primary’s friends insisted on wearing heels everywhere — on the deck, on the tender, even on the jet ski.
The entire crew watched in horrified fascination as she attempted to climb onto the swim platform in four-inch Louboutins for a picture, only to slip and send one flying into the water.
Eli had to dive after it before it sank, and I had to dry the pair out with a hairdryer while she wailed about their impending ruination.
On our crew night out after that charter, sparks flew between Leah and Cameron again, the two of them giggling to each other at one end of the table at dinner before grinding on one another the rest of the night at the bar.
I’d turned in early that evening, catching a cab back with Palmer who seemed just as intent on getting sleep as I was.
During the fifth charter, poor Eli lived out his most embarrassing moment of the season. He’d been tasked with repositioning one of the jet skis, a simple enough job. Or, at least, it should have been. But within minutes of him pushing off from the yacht, he’d realized he didn’t have the key.
Or his radio.
Production had a field day capturing the footage of Eli slowly floating away as he waved his hands in the air and whistled, trying to get someone’s attention.
Of course, not a single producer or cameraperson said a thing.
It wasn’t until Gisella spotted him, and she’d had a full-on laugh before radioing for Palmer.
It was reality TV gold.
Laundry was another disaster. At some point during turn day between charters, Gisella had tossed her brand-new red bikini into a load of whites Leah had going, turning every last towel, sheet, and guest robe a lovely shade of pink.
Leah had nearly burst into tears, Bernard had dissolved into a fit of laughter so long I was afraid he’d need an oxygen mask to breathe again, and Captain Gary had taken one look at the stack of blushing linens before shaking his head and muttering, “Just tell them it’s the latest trend in luxury. ”
Thankfully, provisions had been able to save the day, delivering fresh linens to fill the gaps for what we didn’t have on board.
It would cost us, though, and no yacht owner liked to be surprised with things like that from a charter season.
Still, it was better than some of the things that could rack up a bill — like a bad docking or a tender running aground.
At the end of both charters, the guests left happy — and left decent tips, too. We were exhausted but satisfied as a crew, and with charter five under our belts, we were officially over halfway through this shortened season.
Captain Gary had pulled me aside after the guests disembarked, checking in on me and the interior while taking a moment to tell me again how proud he was of me.
Like Leah with the laundry debacle, I’d nearly lost it, but the tears I held back were of joy.
It felt incredible to be recognized for my hard work, to have everything running so smoothly on my watch.
I was doing exactly what I came to do.
Where Captain was proud of me for the interior, I was proud of me for something I couldn’t brag about to anyone.
I’d barely thought about Finn outside of work hours.
I was keeping my distance and keeping my focus on the charter guests and the interior.
And when I caught him looking at me, when I swore his eyes held something deeper… I reminded myself what I already knew.
Finn Pearson wasn’t mine anymore.
When Captain dismissed me from the bridge after our little chat, I’d let out a slow breath full of relief, like I’d been a raft filled to the point of nearly popping and finally got to release the pressure.
Five charters done, four more to go.
We had a night off ahead of us, another fat tip in our pockets, and no guests for the next eighteen hours. I had just enough time to unwind before the next wave of stress hit.
But first, I had a call to make.
After an afternoon of deep cleaning and turning the boat for our next guests, I slipped away to my cabin, pulling the door shut behind me.
Gisella was still on deck, finishing up her duties before she’d start getting ready for our night out and it would be a tornado of hair spray and flying clothes in here.
She and I had found our own little truce of sorts, even joking with one another and talking a bit at night before we’d pass out.
She wasn’t so bad, and maybe I hated that most of all.
I did wish she was cleaner, though. I was just as bad as she was at destroying this little cabin when we were getting ready to go out, but I’d tidy my space back up in the end.
She, on the other hand, seemed to be testing my patience with how much makeup she’d smear on the bathroom counter, mirror, and towels before I’d break down and clean it all up.
The crew quarters were unusually still — no clinking dishes from the galley, no banter from the mess. Just silence. The kind that left too much room for thinking.
I sat on the edge of my bunk, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen.
I didn’t even have to search for his name — Dad was pinned at the top of my contacts.
It had been since I got a phone. He was reliable, steady, the person I would call first when something went wrong or when I had something to celebrate.
My leg bounced as I stared at the phone, chewing the inside of my cheek. I could already hear his voice in my head — clipped, calm, faintly amused, like he was always a step ahead and I was just trying to keep up.
Calling my father shouldn’t have felt like such an ordeal, but it did. Because it was never simply checking in. It was always a test. I felt as if I needed to have my report card ready, posture straight, all emotions tucked neatly away.
I took a deep breath.
And then I hit call and flopped back onto the bunk, staring at the ceiling. It rang twice, and then that voice pierced through my anxiety.
“There’s my girl.”
I swallowed, spine snapping straight like a soldier called to attention. That greeting — warm and proud — always hit like a paradox. It wrapped around me like a soft blanket and sank like a stone in my stomach all at once.
“Hey, Dad.”
“It’s been more than a month since I’ve heard from you.”
“You know, the phone works both ways.”
“Well, I never know with your… job if you’ll be able to answer. I just assume you’ll call me when you can.”
I rolled my eyes. Just one of many of my father’s assumptions.
“And here you are!” he continued. I could almost see his bright grin, the way it took up his whole face like a politician’s smile. “How are you? Where are you? Oh, your mother is here, too.”
“Hello, darling,” Mom’s soft voice called from the background. “So good to hear from you. I’ve been hoping I’d see you post an update on Facebook but haven’t seen anything.”