Arrabella
Another chopper approaches, thudding through the darkness as it crosses the caldera. It begins circling the ship, also with bright beams raking over the surface.
A chill runs over her body.
She covers her mouth with her hand as wind tears at her hair, whipping strands across her face.
She can see lights from smaller boats now leaving Santorini harbors and heading toward the crippled ship on the far side of the caldera.
A man pushes through the thickening crowd and squeezes in beside her. He watches the scene for a moment, then swears softly in English.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “Do you know what’s happening?”
“The Black Orchid struck something. She’s breached her hull and is sinking. The captain’s issued a Mayday.”
He’s American. Tall. Dark-blond hair.
“Fuck,” she whispers as she turns her attention back to the ship in the distance. She stares. “Patrick.”
“You know someone on board?”
She nods and her eyes fill with tears. Her skin has gone cold.
“My fiancé,” she says.
They both stare at the distant lights. A small plane approaches. Arrabella hears the roar of a bigger boat leaving the harbor far below. Everything seems surreal. Like it can’t be happening—just a strange silvery dream in the moonlight and wind with the clear sky and stars above.
“Me too,” the man says.
She turns to him, holds her whipping hair back off her face. “You have someone on the Orchid?”
He swallows and looks toward the leaning white vessel. “My son,” he says quietly. “And my wife. They’re traveling with my father-in-law. I—I was going to be joining them in the morning.”
Arrabella’s mouth opens. She regards the man, stricken.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He nods. “It’ll be okay. I’m sure it’ll be fine. How can a ship like that completely sink? It can’t. Not these days—surely?”
Arrabella suddenly recalls a story her magazine ran once—about the sinking of the Costa Concordia seven years ago, off Isola del Giglio, Italy. A ship this big has gone down before, in recent maritime history. It can happen.
She doesn’t say this. Instead, she touches his arm. “You’re right. I’m sure it’ll be fine. They’ll all get off okay.” She hesitates. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Carter. He—” His voice catches. “He’s eight.” He gives a shaky smile. “Small for his age, but sure as hell makes up for it in spunk.”
“I think I saw him on the ship.”
“You were on board?”
“Earlier. I got off in Crete. Supposed to be rejoining my fiancé in the morning.”
They stand shoulder to shoulder among the growing crowds along the rim—two strangers connected by an unfolding tragedy in the gusting, windy darkness, watching as the drama unfolds across the water, as the crippled ship lists more and more into the cliffs.