4. Etta
ETTA
I was on the water before light.
The Charlene sat low in her slip, waiting.
I'd left the house while Sven was still asleep, his breathing deep and even in the dark.
He'd come in late and I hadn't asked where he'd been.
I just listened to him move through the room, getting ready for bed, and kept my eyes closed until he turned off the light.
Now it was just me and the boat and the work.
I loaded the fuel first. Filled the tank all the way up, enough for a full day out. The pump was loud in the quiet and I kept waiting for someone to turn a light on across the water, but nobody did. It was too early even for Ray.
The ice went in next. Two bags, packed around the cooler I'd leave in the shade under the console.
I'd made the food last night after Sven went into his office.
Sandwiches on the good bread from the bakery in town, the kind he liked.
Turkey and swiss. I'd wrapped them tight and put them in the refrigerator next to the smoked oysters and the apples and the bag of chips I'd bought two days ago.
I'd been planning this since he said no.
Not this exactly. Not sneaking out before dawn to do it myself. But the day. The shape of it. Three hours on the water, just us, the way it used to be.
The way it was the first time.
He'd wanted to show off. That was obvious. He had this racing yacht, all gleaming wood and brass, and he'd invited me out like he was doing me a favor. I was twenty-four and running my mother's lease and I didn't have time for men with boats they didn't work.
But I went.
And twenty minutes in I took the wheel and he let me and I showed him what Delmer Boone's granddaughter could do with a sail and a clean wind.
We stayed out all day.
Came back sunburnt, both of us grinning like idiots, and we didn't go home. We went to my place, the rental cottage I had four blocks off the water then, and we talked on the couch until we weren't talking anymore.
I left the window open. I've never been able to sleep without the water.
We watched the sun come up through it in the morning, and he told me he was going to marry me.
I laughed.
He didn't.
I hauled the cushions out of the storage shed next, the good ones we used to keep on the Charlene before I stopped asking him to come out.
They were dusty and I beat them against the dock until the dust stopped rising and then I set them in place, two on each side of the console where we used to sit.
We'd bought these together the summer after we got married. He'd taken me into town and let me choose and when I'd picked the navy blue ones he'd said they were perfect. That they matched the water. That I had good taste.
I'd felt proud. Like I'd done something right.
The blankets went in after. It was late summer but it was always cold going out, and warm coming back, and I wanted him warm. I tucked them under the seat where we could reach them when the wind picked up.
That first day we'd both been shivering by the time we came back in. He'd wrapped one around both of us and kept his arm there long after I'd stopped shaking.
The sunscreen went into the console storage. We'd both burned that first day, bad enough that I couldn't sleep on my back for three nights, and he'd rubbed aloe on my shoulders every morning and told me I should've warned him I was going to keep us out there all day.
I told him he should've brought his own sunscreen.
He kissed me instead of answering.
I checked the bilge pump next. Tested the radio.
Made sure the life jackets were where they were supposed to be.
I'd been doing this since I was six years old.
Delmer had taught me that you checked everything twice, that the water didn't care how good you thought you were, that preparation was the difference between coming home and not coming home.
I was good at this.
Better than good.
This was the easiest thing I'd ever done.
I checked the lines. Checked the engine. Wiped down the console and the seats and made sure everything was ready.
It was.
The light was just starting to come up over the water, gray and soft, and I stood there on the Charlene with my hands on the wheel and let myself have it for a minute.
The picture of it. Him coming down the dock, coffee in hand, that slow smile he used to give me when I surprised him.
Stepping onto the boat like he belonged there.
Sitting down next to me while I took us out into the sound.
Talking.
Just talking.
About nothing. About everything. About the water and the sky and what we were going to do when we got back in. Whether we'd eat at the house or go into town. Whether we'd stay up all night again or fall asleep on the couch with the windows open and the sound of the water coming in.
I could see it so clearly it hurt.
"Tide's turning," I said.
Out loud.
To nobody.
I stopped.
Stood there with my hands on the wheel and my heart doing something stupid in my chest and made myself look at what I'd just done.
I'd been telling him about the morning.
The light coming up. The flat water. The way the air smelled like salt and mud and late summer.
I did it all the time. Every morning, out here, getting the boat ready or pulling the orders or walking the dock. I'd tell him things. The light. The wind. What the water was doing. Whether the herons were back. What Ray said. What Yolanda said. What I was thinking about for dinner.
Little things. Things that didn't matter to anyone but me.
I used to save them up to tell him when I got home. And then when I did get home he'd be on a call or finishing something and by the time he was free the moment would be gone and it wouldn't seem worth bringing up anymore.
But I kept doing it anyway.
Every day.
For years.
I'd been doing it for years.
And he'd never been on the other end of it.
Not once.
I was having the marriage by myself.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out and looked at the screen and felt something settle in my chest that I didn't want to name.
A message from Sven.
I opened it.
Flying north with Simone to close the volume. Should be back late tonight.
Two lines.
That was it.
I read it again.
Flying north with Simone to close the volume. Should be back late tonight.
No apology. No acknowledgment that I'd asked for this morning and he'd said no. No acknowledgment that I'd asked for one morning in eight years and he was giving it to someone else.
Just the facts.
Flying north. With Simone. Back late.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
The day went out of me.
Not all at once. Not like a light switching off. Just slow and gray and quiet, the way the tide goes out and you don't notice until the bottom's showing and the birds are back.
I stood there on the Charlene and looked at the cushions and the blankets and the cooler packed with food I'd made with my own hands and I didn't feel angry.
I felt tired.
Another buzz.
I pulled the phone back out.
A forwarded email. From Deshawn.
The subject line said Booking Confirmation.
I opened it.
It was a cruise. Scandinavian Heritage. Twelve days. Copenhagen, Oslo, Stockholm, Helsinki. Luxury balcony cabin, Deck Seven. Passenger name Etta Magnussen. Departure the 27th, return the 7th.
Single occupancy.
Fifteen thousand nine hundred dollars.
There was a note at the top, just one line from Deshawn, carefully worded. Mr. Magnussen asked me to forward this to you.
I stared at the screen.
He'd booked me a cruise.
One ticket.
Twelve days.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
I put the phone away.
Sat down on one of the cushions I'd just hauled out of the shed and put on the Charlene for him.
The light was all the way up now. The water was flat and gray and perfect. The kind of morning we used to love. The kind of morning I'd woken up early to give him.
And I was sitting here alone with a cruise booking and two lines about flying north with Simone.
The sun was breaking over the marsh now. I could see it spilling across the water, turning everything gold. Beautiful. The kind of light that made you want to stay out all day.
I'd wanted to watch his face when it happened.
I looked at the cushions. The blankets. The cooler with the food I'd made last night while he was in his office.
I'd done all this for a day he wasn't going to give me.
I didn't cry.
I just sat there.
"Etta?"
I looked up.
Yolanda was standing on the dock, a thermos in one hand, looking at me like she already knew.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked.
"Getting ready."
"For what?"
I didn't answer.
She stepped onto the Charlene and sat down next to me and handed me the thermos without asking if I wanted it. I took it. Opened it. The coffee was hot and black and I drank it and didn't say anything.
"When did you get here?" she asked.
"Four."
"You've been out here two hours."
"Yeah."
"Getting the boat ready."
"Yeah."
"For Sven."
I nodded.
She looked at the cushions. The blankets. The cooler.
"He's not coming," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"No."
"When did he tell you?"
"Just now. Got the message about ten minutes ago."
"What did it say?"
I pulled out my phone and showed her.
She read it. Then she read it again.
"Two lines," she said.
"Yeah."
"No apology. No explanation. Just two lines."
"It's work."
"I know it's work."
"The Finnish deal is falling apart. If he loses that volume?—"
"I know what's at stake, Etta. I'm not saying the work isn't important. I'm saying two lines is not enough."
She handed the phone back.
"Where is he?" she asked.
"Flying north. With Simone. To close the volume."
Yolanda was quiet for a long time.
"Bastard," she said finally.
"Don't."
"Etta—"
"Don't."
She looked at me. Then at the cushions, the blankets, the cooler.
"You did all this for him."
"Yes."
"You got up before light. You came down here in the dark. You provisioned this boat for a whole day on the water."
"Yes."
"And he's flying north with Simone."
"It's work. The Finnish volume. He has to close it himself."
"And you're sitting on a boat you got ready for a day he's not going to give you."