19
I feel a balmy breeze on my face as I open my eyes. The room—wherever I am—is rocking, violently, side to side. An earthquake? Maybe I’m still in Los Angeles. My heart lurches. Sabrina! Panicked, I brace myself as the rocking continues and a glass of water on the nightstand slides to the right, shattering
on the floor below.
My eyes dart around, taking in the small, claustrophobic room and circular window. This isn’t LA. There is no Marcus, nor
Sabrina in a nearby nursery. Aside from the extra pillow and rumpled sheets beside me, the bed is empty. It’s much smaller
than yesterday’s queen or the others I’ve woken up in previously, almost miniature-size, in fact. Either I’m an elf, or this
husband du jour likes to cuddle.
I rub my eyes, grateful when the rocking stops, though I freeze the moment I hear water splashing outside... the porthole ? I peer through to the turquois-blue sea outside. I’m on a boat—a very rocky boat.
I glance down at the ring on my hand—a simple gold band studded with tiny diamonds, a few of which are missing. Married again, I see. I feel a pang in my heart—for Sabrina, for Marcus, for yet another life I’ve been ripped from—but if I’ve learned anything from this journey, I know I have no choice but to forge on. I quell the ache inside of me as my imagination clicks into overdrive. Who have I ended up with today? Someone I dated in college? After college? Maybe a guy I met in those overcaffeinated years in New York? I freeze, remembering the handsome Canadian from the latter era—Trent? He talked about sailing, I think, and seemed charming; that is, until I realized he lived in his mom’s basement .
Okay, no. No, no, no, no, no.
Wait, why am I on a boat? Is this a vacation? A cruise? Maybe we’re... castaways, or... pirates? I pause, thinking back
to all the adventure novels I read as a kid. I laugh to myself, then grimace, imagining Trent in a tricorn and eye patch.
“Hello?” I say, poking my head out the door and casting a cautious glance down a surprisingly long hallway. Spools of neatly
wrapped rope hang on either side. Okay, this is a big boat. I hear the creak of footsteps on wooden floorboards overhead as I make my way up a varnished ladder that leads to the
open-air deck above. A spray of seawater hits my face as I reach the final step. I look up at two enormous white sails, taut
from the wind, and gasp. Okay, I’m on a sailboat, but not just any sailboat— this is a freaking yacht , as in the type of vessel you see influencers posting photos from in the South of France.
I clutch the edge of the railing for balance as I stumble ahead to the boat’s helm, where a man—his bare back all I can see—holds
the edges of a large spoked wheel. The captain?
“Hi,” I say, stepping closer, the wind whipping my hair against my cheeks.
“Morning,” he replies, his gaze fixed ahead. “We’re really clipping, aren’t we?” His voice sounds familiar, and Australian,
though I can’t quite place it.
“Totally... clipping,” I reply, eager for a look at his face.
“Glad you slept,” he continues, eying his wristwatch. “Passengers board at one. It’s going to be a full day.” He cranks the
wheel sharply, and I stumble, gripping the railing, as we veer right. “But everything’s ready. All stations prepped.” He finally
turns to me, his smile unlocking my memories like a key. “We have a few hours before D-Day, want to have a little fun?”
My God, Del? The Australian I met in... Positano? Yes, Positano! It was the summer before Frankie started grad school. She booked a
trip to the Italian Riviera, but Christian couldn’t get the time off work, so I took his spot. My boss wasn’t exactly thrilled,
and it took some creative convincing, but the Italian Riviera with my best friend? Duh! However impromptu, though, it was
a proper girls’ trip, and I had zero interest in meeting anyone. Honestly, I wasn’t even looking. But then came Del .
Frankie and I were on a morning walk, heading down the winding steep path to the village. When we got to the marina to take
photos, I spotted a handsome man tying his sailboat to a slip. Of course, I did my best to impress him, and by that, I mean
tripping in front of his boat on the dock.
I wince, remembering all those splinters in my left thigh. Frankie plucked most of them out later, but some were impossible
to remove. Souvenirs , we called them. I rub the edge of my leg, wondering if a bit of Positano lingered under my skin, perhaps even now.
That day, Del was a gentleman, offering to help and pulling out a first-aid kit. On a two-month break from his captain duties
on a large yacht, he had that rugged Matthew McConaughey vibe—tan skin, sun-kissed streaks in his hair, and a wild, adventurous
gleam in his eyes—that made me feel weak in the knees, just as it does right now.
“How about we veer north?” Del suggests. “Maybe head over to the little swimming hole off Thirassia, you know, the one you
love?”
I’m instantly charmed by his words, which sound like a page torn from a beloved novel. So, in this life I frequent swimming
holes off the coast of tiny Greek islands? Yes, please!
“So, what do you say?”
“Okay,” I reply, coming to my senses. “Sure.”
Del smiles, fiddling with a dial on the dash. “All right, we’ll head west, throw down anchor for a couple of hours before picking up our guests in Santorini. The winds look decent—shouldn’t run into any trouble.” He grins. “You and me, a little calm before the storm. Sounds perfect, right?”
I choose to ignore the word storm , focusing, instead, on Santorini . In fact, my heart begins to palpitate. Santorini! “Yeah,” I reply, beaming as I look out at the crystal-blue water dotted with islands as far as the eye can see. Some are massive,
with rocky cliffsides and endless white-sand beaches; others miniature—basically just rocks poking out of the Aegean Sea.
How many times did I tell Kevin about my dream of visiting the Greek Islands? A hundred? A thousand? Of course, he always
had a sensible reason why it wasn’t a good idea—timing, logistics, weather. But now I’m finally here. And Kevin? A distant memory.
“Sweetheart, why don’t you go get changed?” Del’s strong arms flex as he cranks the wheel again. “We’re only a few knots away.
I’m going to need your help bringing down the sails.”
Help? He speaks as if I have some inkling of how to be useful on a sailboat. I may have been a lifelong ferry rider, but I
have zero boating skills—as in, zilch. Seriously—I wouldn’t know an aft from my ass .
I climb downstairs to the little room where I woke up, opening drawers and compartments, with no luck. I need to find a swimsuit—towels,
too, maybe? It takes a few minutes, but then I pry open a storage compartment under the bed, where I find the mother lode:
my belongings. I reach for a pale blue bikini, holding it up to the light. Do I even have the body for this? I sigh, slipping it on, before making my way back up to the main deck, where Del is busy wrangling one of the sails.
“Thank God,” he says. “The wind just picked up. I can handle the jib, but I need you to put down the anchor, and fast.”
“The anchor,” I say, wide-eyed, as I watch him climb up an enormous pole (the mast?) and tie various ropes in place. Okay, if I were an anchor, where would I be? I decide to head to the front of the boat—the cockpit?—where I look around, though nothing seems obvious. In fact, it’s all foreign.
“Lena! What are you doing? We’re getting close to shore. You need to get the anchor down!”
Heart racing, I run my fingers along the various levers. What am I looking for? A button? A crank? Yes, a crank. I see it
now, attached to a rope, the anchor dangling at the edge. I start yanking, twisting it counterclockwise.
“That should be good,” Del says from his perch.
Whew. I smile, looking up at him, my arm a little strained.
“Lena!” he calls out again, startling me. “Secure the line!”
I freeze, completely out of my element.
“Hurry! Tie it up. We’re dragging!”
Dragging? I freeze, unsure of what to do. Fortunately, Del climbs down like Spider-Man, confidently swooping in to secure the loose
rope.
“Sorry,” I say, a little embarrassed as I sink into the captain’s chair, rubbing my arm. “I think I got a... muscle cramp.”
“All good, sweetheart,” he says, pointing ahead to the secluded cove. The clear blue water is breathtaking. “Shall we go for
a swim?” He sets his sunglasses on the dash, and I follow him to the boat’s upper ledge, where he takes my hand, smiling.
My heart beats faster as I look down at the water below. “I don’t know,” I mutter, nervously. “That’s a pretty big jump .”
Del laughs mockingly. “Wait, what? My wife, the water dog, is suddenly scared ?” He grins, pulling me closer to the edge, tickling my side. I flinch, laughing, as we both fall forward, plunging into the
sea.
I gasp, pulling the hair from my face, as Del takes a breath, then dives down again, coming up for air a few moments later,
triumphant. “Did you see the octopus?”
Before I can remember if octopuses—octopi?—are friend or foe, Del submerges again. A few seconds later, he returns above water,
holding his prey: a prehistoric-looking creature that I do not want to touch. Keeping my distance, I tread water as he sets the unfortunate thing on the boat’s back deck, before heading in for round two, then three. “There,” he says, proudly displaying his final catch. “Tonight’s appetizers.”
I can’t help but marvel at Del’s knowledge of the sea, which is clearly a language I don’t speak. True, I grew up splashing
around in the Puget Sound, but that’s a lot different than sailing the high seas. Frankly, I’ve always had a deep-seated fear
of the ocean—its power, mystery, and unpredictability. But my anxiety is quelled by Del’s strong, capable arms as he cradles
me in the clear blue water. For a moment the heaviness of my life lightens. For a moment I feel... weightless.
“Why don’t we shower and get changed into our uniforms before Santorini?” Del says as we towel off on deck. “I want to make
sure we’re ready when we arrive in port.”
Uniforms?
“You know how demanding these posh types from the UK can be,” he continues, with an exaggerated eyeroll. “We’re in for quite a week.”
“Right,” I say nervously, heading downstairs to shower. In the drawer beneath the bed, I find a blue polo shirt with an embroidered
logo that reads majestic charters ; I slip it on, along with a pair of very unflattering khaki shorts, pulling my damp hair into a ponytail.
Del sports a matching look, with the addition of a captain’s hat. We motor into the marina, and my jaw drops at Santorini’s
breathtaking beauty, with its pristine white stucco buildings wedged into the cliffside, sprinkled with pockets of bright
pink bougainvillea flowers.
“Toss me the stern line,” he says, jumping off to the dock.
“Um...” I pause, paralyzed with confusion. What’s a stern line?
He points to the rope ahead, and I hurl it over the edge, stubbing my toe in the process. Obviously, I’ve miscalculated the distance, because it lands with a splash in the water below. Del leans over the edge to fish it out before tying up. If he’s annoyed, he doesn’t let on.
Back on the deck, and in full captain mode, he rubs his forehead, pacing. “All right, the galley’s stocked, right?”
“Right,” I reply, in a yes-sir tone, though I have no idea where the galley is or whether it’s stocked.
I hear a loud thud and look to my right, where a man has just hoisted an enormous Louis Vuitton trunk onto the deck. I guess
Del wasn’t exaggerating when he said these people were posh.
“Good,” Del continues in a shipshape tone. “The porters are onboarding.” He turns to me. “Why don’t you get the champagne
popped and poured?”
“Champagne, yes,” I say, jumping into action. I descend a spiral staircase at the center of the boat that leads to a chef’s
kitchen, which is when it hits me: My God, I’m the “chef,” aren’t I?
How did this happen? I don’t cook. What are these poor people going to eat? PB&J? In a panic, I fumble for champagne glasses,
which I find in a lower cabinet. I set six on a tray, then peer into the wine fridge, reaching for one of the dozen bottles
of Dom Pérignon.
I struggle with the cork for a minute, but finally get the offensive thing pried off, before pouring bubbly into each glass,
sneaking a sip (liquid courage, you know) before heading back to the upper deck. Miraculously, I manage to hold the tray steady,
setting it down on a teak table just as our first guests arrive, and, oh, do they arrive .
A woman in her late forties embarks first, wearing a white caftan and Chanel slides, a Hermès silk scarf draped around her
neck. She adjusts her enormous round sunglasses, fanning her face. “Darling,” she says in a clipped British accent, “be a
dove and fetch me a Pellegrino, will you?”
“Uh,” I say, as she hands me her Birkin bag. “Sure.”
“Thanks,” she replies with a sigh. “And put my bag in my stateroom, will you? This blazing sun is the devil on leather.”
I nod, darting down the stairs. I have no idea where her “stateroom” is, so I throw the Birkin on the counter, then grab a chilled Pellegrino.
“Here you are,” I say, handing her the bottle. An equally posh man has also just arrived, and he’s busy grilling Del about
our course for the week. “Would either of you care for champagne?” I ask, holding out the tray.
The woman reaches for a glass, taking a dainty sip. “Are you the crew?”
“Uh, yes. I’m Lena. And you are?”
“Victoria,” she says. “My husband, Charles, is over there, speaking to the captain.”
“Well,” I reply, smiling awkwardly. “Welcome aboard.”
“Our friends will be arriving soon,” Victoria continues. “Well, family, I suppose—Pamela’s my younger sister. She’s here with
her new husband, who’s a bit of a character.” She sighs. “You’ll see.”
“Oh,” I say, a little confused.
“Dear, tell me, who’s the chef on this voyage?”
I swallow hard. “Well, I am.”
Her eyes widen. “Please tell me you’re Le Cordon Bleu–trained.”
“Definitely,” I lie.
“Good,” she says with a sniff. “So many of these husband-and-wife, captain-chef teams can be decidedly lacking in refinement.”
She fans her face, frowning as a very tall man steps on board, his face obscured by the large box he’s carrying. “Speaking
of the devil,” Victoria whispers with an eye roll. “My Irish brother-in-law.”
“Every voyage needs a proper supply of Irish whiskey,” he says, setting the box down with a thud that rattles the bottles
inside. “Well, would you look at this,” he continues, eyes running the length of the boat, which is when the blood practically
drains from my veins. That face, that voice. “I’ve gone from paddlin’ in puddles to sailin’ the high seas!”
Colm .
Suddenly my hands are clammy—no, downright sweaty. How is this even possible?
I remain frozen, heart pounding loudly in my chest. Victoria’s mouth is opening and closing, words are, presumably, coming
out of her lips, but I can’t hear them—it’s just blah, blah, blah .
Preoccupied with the vessel, Colm hasn’t noticed me yet. “Is this a sailboat or a floating castle?” he quips, running his
hand along the polished wooden railing. “Look at this beauty. My, she’s grand.”
When he turns around again, our eyes finally meet and his carefree expression morphs into pure shock.
“ Lena? ” he says, eyes wide.