Stay (15 page)

crossed the rope that was strung between the banisters. I made a

wrong turn and ended up in Sylvie’s bedroom. I saw her unmade

bed filled with white pillows and a plump white comforter and

a soft saffron-colored quilt, books all around, a room to love.

Her jeans were tossed on the floor, a pair of black undies, too. I

backed out, found the bathroom. It smelled good, and there was

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an array of bottles and lotions on the counter, a picture in a frame

facedown.

I had no time to snoop, but I did have time to lift the frame

and set it back down again, time enough to see the picture of

Sylvie Genovese standing next to a man holding a basket of

lemons in front of an orange house. I looked under the counter.

A box of tampons, toilet paper, cleaning supplies. Wait. A blue

plastic container with a handle. I yanked it out, opened the clasps.

Bingo. An Ace bandage, iodine, cotton swabs, all that stuff. I ran

back down the stairs.

Sylvie Genovese’s sweater was bundled up under my father’s

head. He was laughing, and so was she. She was looking right

down at him, and her teeth were so white against her olive skin,

and his hair was so black against his own. She plucked a strand of

grass from his shirt. I stopped suddenly, holding that kit, causing

Roger, who I didn’t realize had been following so closely, to run

into the back of my legs. Sylvie had not yet wrapped his ankle in

the tight, tan cloth. She had not yet cleaned her own wound.

But I knew right then I might be making it to Friday Harbor

after all.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Finn Bishop said.

“Just busy at work.” I smiled. I had waited for a long time for

the boat to come in, finally I saw the tip of the mast in the sharp

blue sky and there it was,
Obsession
, returning to the dock and get-

ting bigger and bigger as it neared. Finn had helped the passengers

off, extending his hand and all the while looking over at me and

beaming. Finally they had all disembarked, and Jack had headed

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over to get some food at The Cove. We were standing there alone,

alone if you didn’t count the fisherman and the tourists and the

knobby-kneed seagulls and a single pelican standing on a piling.

“Not fired yet?”

“No,” I said smugly. I was feeling smug.

“Ready to come on board?” He had his hands in his jeans

pockets. He was rocking a bit on his heels.

I was ready. “I’ve heard there were the ghosts of drowned

sailors haunting these waters,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am. You never want to be in a boat after dark.

They’ll grab you by the ankles and pull you down, trying to save

themselves.”

He hopped on the boat, reached over and took my hand, and

I came on too. I shivered in spite of myself. The image of a hand

around an ankle. “Cold?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. Great, actually. I was filling up with great.

Funny, but it was so different being on the dock versus being on

the boat, and we hadn’t even left yet. Maybe it was the thrill of

what was coming—the about-to-leave before the leaving. The boat

rocked. I realized you needed special footing to keep your balance.

“Careful,” Finn said.

“Where should I be?” There were bench seats by the big steer-

ing that Jack used, and there was the huge deck-nose of the boat,

lined with complicated rows of ropes. It would be easy to be in

the way here.

“The best seat—way up front. I won’t worry about you being

hit with the boom.” He slapped the huge metal rail at the bottom

of the big sail. “You’ve got to hold on. The boat will heel, right?”

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He tilted his hand. “You won’t fall. No one ever has. You got

these lifelines.” He pushed against the thin wires stretched along-

side the boat, a railing of sorts, but not one you could imagine

holding up anything, let alone a slipping body.

He waited. “If you’re nervous about that, you can sit back

here and listen to Jack bullshit the customers.”

“I’m not nervous,” I said. I could see Finn’s sure footing. I

climbed up, made my way over ropes and pulleys to the very tip

of the boat. “Here?”

Finn nodded, pleased. “That’s right.”

We talked for a bit. He asked where I was from and where we

were staying and for how long. I told him the
what
but not the

why
. Something occurred to me. Maybe Dad would consider it

cheating, but I asked anyway. “The house we’re staying in? The

one at the very tip of Possession Point?”

“I know it. We go right past there, what, six times a day?”

“Do you know who lives there?”

“Nope. Someone who’s gone a lot. It always seems empty.”

“So you don’t know if the guy’s a movie director.”

Finn laughed. “I don’t think so. Nope. We’d know it. Some

cousin of Kurt Cobain’s was out here for a while and everyone

knew the poor sucker’s every move. ‘He’s a vegetarian.’ ‘He

bought fifty pounds of concrete at the hardware store.’ ”

“We’re just trying to figure out about our host,” I said. “Lame

personal mystery. ”

“I can find out for you.”

“That’s okay. Dad would probably rather keep guessing,”

I said.

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He looked at me. “I like to guess about someone. But then,

it’s even better when you know more.” He was sitting beside me

with his legs stretched out. “I’d like to know more,” he said to me.

“You know, about you.”

My stomach flipped. His eyes really were sweet, if you could

believe eyes. It’s hard to trust those kinds of observations when

they’d been so wrong before. I thought about Annabelle’s word,

instinct
. I worried mine had been lost at sea like those drowned

sailors, the ways it had gone wrong haunting me forevermore.

“I’d like to know more about you, too.”

We had that pleased moment between us, where you both

just sit there and smile and don’t dare say anything to inter-

rupt it. And then there was the thud of shoes on deck, and a

shout.

“Break it up, love birds,” Jack said.

Finn blushed. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m going to kill him,”

he said. “Jack, shut your fucking mouth,” he called.

“It’s okay.” I laughed.

“You got ten minutes to clean those toilets before we take off

again,” Jack shouted.

“I hate him,” Finn said. “You’re a rat bastard,” he called.

Jack was in a fine mood. He cracked open the cap of a bottle

of root beer and took a long swig. “Ahh, not quite the real thing,

but it’ll do.”

“He’s got a new girlfriend,” Finn said. “He’s going to be

impossible. He’s been taking her out on the boat at night. Got in

at three a.m. Looks wide awake, too.”

“He does,” I said. Jack was about as happy as a guy could get.

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The swing of his arms looked happy. The curve of his back did,

as he bent over and untangled a line.

“That fucking seagull followed Cleo home again,” Jack

shouted to us. “And he was there on the table again at eleven a.m.

like he was ready to start work. Cleo’s finally got a steady guy.”

“Better looking than the last one. Probably smarter, too,”

Finn shouted back. “I better get going,” he said to me.

“Do what you need to,” I said. “I’m happy here.”

“This boat hasn’t been this lucky in a long while,” Finn said.

He leaped to his feet. I watched his ass in those jeans. I was

guilty of all the things Christian accused me of. I admired how

his belt sat on his hips. The braid of leather around his wrist. That

black shaggy hair that curled around his face. I watched the dock

move up and down, leaned back on my palms and breathed in

the good air. In a few minutes a middle-aged couple came aboard,

wearing matching sweatshirts. I might have seen them around

the grounds of the lighthouse. They sat in the seats back by the

wheel. He took her picture with the camera around his neck.

And then another couple. Matching blonds with blond chil-

dren. A boy and a girl. She was pouting about something, and

the boy went over to the wheel and was going to steer until his

mother told him to quit. Two guys in baseball caps came aboard

as their wives stayed behind snapping photos. We waited awhile,

but that was everyone for this trip. Finn got busy. He was undo-

ing lines from the dock and hopping back on again. Uncinching

ropes and cinching others. Jack was motoring, steering the boat

out toward the wide water, shaking his head at Finn and Finn

shaking his head back at him when a small motorboat crossed

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in front of them. Jack turned off their own motor, made a little

speech to the passengers, safety talk, a few jokes that made the

people laugh. I could only hear every few words where I was.

The wind was picking up. Finn began to hoist the huge sail. He

grabbed the rope with two hands and pulled down, crouching

all the way to the ground, one long movement that involved his

whole body. He did it again and again, until the grand white sail

began to lift and lift and then it was there, all the way up, and it

was enormous and majestic. You could see how hard it was to

raise that sail, how strong Finn had to be.

The boat took over from there. We sailed out, and it was fast,

and as the boat slanted, I held on as Finn had told me to, my feet

anchored hard against the floor. There was the speed, and the

holding on, and the thrill of the incline, yet it was relaxing, too.

The gliding along the water, the repetition of motion—it almost

made me sleepy. A second sail was hoisted, and then there was

only forward motion again. Calm speed. And then, a flurry—the

warning that they were “coming about,” the swing of the huge

boom, lines skittering on deck, the clatter of the rings and ropes

against metal, the tilt, the other way this time, and then, smooth,

fast sailing again.

“You okay?” Finn, on his quick feet. Standing above me. He

was brave to walk around like that.

“Great,” I said. “This is fantastic.”

“Right?” he said. He breathed. He stretched his arms

behind his head. I didn’t realize how much work sailing took,

or how much strength. You could see he was an athlete. Not

just for a season—you could see that this sport was a way of

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living. A connection to water and sky and rhythms of earth and

atmosphere. “Now you’ll come again?”

“Absolutely.”

Finn scooted off. He worked hard. I watched him. Maybe it

was just his ease here, or his physical strength, but he looked

healthy
. He looked like he was happy, even. I looked for angst in

his jawline. I looked for the possibility of dark thoughts there,

across his forehead. But he was just moving about that boat like

he and it were one, the way you see a cowboy ride his horse, the

way you see old people who know how to dance together.

The guy with the camera pointed one finger and everyone

stood and looked—there was the smooth black head of a sea lion

in the distance. A fishing boat we passed pulled up a huge trap

of crab. The sun, the waves. The sense of possibility. The crea-

tures doing the things creatures have been doing for centuries. It

seemed possible to find instinct here.

We docked. I felt so satisfied. It was as if I’d eaten a big meal of

fresh air and sun. I wanted to take a nap. I could have slept for

days. I hadn’t felt that relaxed in a long time.

I waited on the dock until Finn was done with his duties. The

couple asked me to take a picture of them, and the man showed

me how to use his camera. They looked great in the tiny square

with their matching shirts. Finn showed up. He’d snuck a mint—

I could smell the sweet puff of his breath.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “This was fantastic.”

“You free later?” he said. Casual. Easy. It all felt like that. “Get

some food or something?”

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“Butch’s Harbor Bar? Fried clam special, one week only?” I

said.

“One week only since, what, the 1970s? Excellent choice,

Miss Clara.”

We made a plan, said good-bye. I felt sleepy and rested and

happy, too, like my insides were having their own little party. I

couldn’t wait for Butch’s Harbor Bar. I felt so pleased and full

of regular life that I reached for my phone. I had my hand on

it, just like I always did—I was going to call Shakti and tell her

about this. I had it in my palm and looked down. My whole life

was sitting there, it seemed. But I just wanted to hear her voice. I

missed my friend so much right then. I missed the normal thing

you do, which is to call your best friend and share the good things

that might be happening. I put my phone back in my pocket. I