The Art of My Life (19 page)

Aly gripped the wheel and watched Cal
climb into the cabin. She hated for him to see how frightened she
was. A partner in a sailing business had no business melting down
whenever she lost sight of land or a storm rolled through. But Cal
shouldn’t have been smoking, regardless.

Dread settled over her. Cal used weed
as a crutch to deal with life. Today made that painfully clear.
She’d seen her dad drunk once as a kid and freaked out, thinking
he’d gone crazy. Panic still shot through her when someone she
loved got stoned or drunk. The few times she’d smoked with him,
she’d wanted his approval. Well, she wasn’t an adolescent
anymore.

The weed must not have hit Cal yet,
since he was sober enough to argue with her.

She checked the mainsail and adjusted
the sheet. All she could see was ocean in every direction. She’d
never been so alone.

Her fury whipped away in the wind, but
Cal’s anger clung to her. The look in his eyes seemed too intense
for losing three joints’ worth of marijuana. No, the disgust had to
come from something else.

He hadn’t reacted to her bringing up
herpes in front of him—probably because he hadn’t considered having
sex with her till Thanksgiving night in the Koomers’ kitchen. Of
course, Cal would be grossed out by the disease. He’d only ever
dated and slept with Evie, as far as she knew.

Their kisses had only reinforced how
easy she was. Guilt or no guilt, she doubted she had the strength
to say no to Cal if he wanted sex. She loved him, and she’d said
yes to a handful of guys she didn’t love.

She had the sick feeling it wouldn’t
matter. He wasn’t going to ask.

Her shame had dissipated after Cal
told her what the Bible said, but this morning it blackened her
like the outlined figures in the middle school sexually transmitted
disease video. Cal said God forgave, but people—not so much. Now
she understood.

The bottom line was she wanted to be
near him even though she repulsed him. Even though he’d likely
break her heart again and had issues with the law and
marijuana.

The brim of her hat flopped in the
wind and she checked the compass bearing.

Sick as it was, after two years
separated from Cal, working together felt infinitely better. But
maybe no Cal was better than spending time with stoned
Cal.

The wind picked up, and the floppy
brim of her hat smacked her neck. Another gust swept it from her
head. She lunged and touched the yellow fabric, but it tumbled onto
the deck. The hat lifted into the wind. She gripped the lifeline
and planted a foot on the deck. Her arm flailed toward the airborne
kite as the
Escape
hit a swell. The boat jerked downward,
jarring her fingers loose. As the
Escape
smacked against the
bottom of the wave, Aly lost her footing. Her body arced into the
air. Frigid blue water closed around her.

Cal downed a cup of coffee and headed
up the companionway with his sleeping bag and pillow under one arm,
Van Gogh under the other. Even pissed at Aly, beyond exhausted, and
a little fuzzy brained from the couple of tokes of weed he’d
managed to suck in, he couldn’t leave Aly topside alone. She was
frightened. He could sleep in the cockpit like they had on the trip
out. It wouldn’t kill him.

Through the open hatch he saw Aly dive
after her hat, then disappear.

Oh, God, no!

He scrambled into the cockpit and
dropped the dog and the bedding. Van Gogh woofed and found his
footing.

Aly’s head popped out of the water.
The Gulf Stream whisked her North while the
Escape
continued
on its Western course.

He jerked the boat into the wind and
leaped onto the cabin. His hands shook as he fumbled to loose the
line from its cleat on the base of the mast, one eye on Aly’s pale
head. Finally, the sail rushed down at him. He jumped into the
cockpit and wrenched the engine key. A bass drum banged against his
ribs as he listened for the motor to turn over.

Yes. The engine was worth every penny
he’d spent on it.

Where was Aly? He’d lost sight of
her—breaking the first rule in a man-overboard situation. He
reached inside the cabin for the binoculars.

God, where is
she?

He wheeled the boat toward the spot
he’d last seen Aly. His gaze scanned the ocean looking for the
orange of her PFD. He took another scan, slower this time, panic
rising in his stomach.

A replay of his exit from the cockpit
flashed through his head—his shoulder bumping Aly’s. She hadn’t
been wearing a PFD.

Icy fear ran through his veins,
cocktailing with adrenaline. Aly could swim, but he didn’t know how
much stamina she had. And he doubted she knew to disrobe, tie knots
in her clothes, and blow them up to create makeshift
floats.

He pressed the binoculars against his
face so hard the bones ached. Words poured out of his mouth,
incoherent at first, till he listened to what he was saying. “God,
keep her safe. Safe. Safe. Give me a clear head to think so I can
find her. I never should have smoked weed and endangered Aly. It’s
my fault. You should have tossed me overboard, not her. But I’m all
she’s got. If I don’t rescue her, there’s nobody else.”

He didn’t realize he was crying until
his tears fogged the binocular lenses. He dried the lenses with his
sweatshirt as quickly as he could, swiped an arm across his
eyes.

He hated people who bargained with God
at times like this, but he couldn’t help it. “I don’t care—whatever
You want, name it. Just show me where the hell Aly is.”

A picture of God’s palm cradling Aly,
keeping her afloat, protecting her on every side illumined the
screen of his mind—like a prayer God put in his head to steady
him.

He filled his lungs, released the air,
then methodically retraced every quadrant of water east of the boat
where he’d spotted Aly earlier. His eyes scanned for the slightest
nuance of variation of color. This was his strength. Color. If
anyone could spot Aly, he could.

Aly’s teeth chattered. She didn’t know
whether to swim to keep warm or float to conserve energy. One
sneaker slipped free, and she kicked off the other one. She felt
lighter without their weight tugging her down.

Peace settled over her, her body
feeling strangely numb. The terror leeched out of her mind, too.
She should still be frightened. Her situation hadn’t improved. She
was tempted to crane her head around to look at the
Escape
,
but she didn’t want to do anything to disturb the weird stillness
she felt now—as though she floated in the condo pool with all the
time in the world to assess her life.

She didn’t acknowledge it until this
minute, but she’d accomplished one of her life goals. She owned her
own business, two if you counted
The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com—which right now brought in more
money than charter sailing. Not too bad for twenty three years old.
And she and the bank owned her condo.

She did a slow breaststroke, a
compromise between floating and swimming.

A more elusive goal was to succeed in
her love life. Going celibate had been a positive step. She felt
better about herself than she had in a long time. Cal had helped
her understand that God forgave her. Which might be contributing to
her sense of peace at the moment. She might be meeting Him in the
near future.

Or it could be hypothermia and the
mental confusion hadn’t set in yet.

Her one regret was never gathering the
courage to trust Cal. He was imperfect—addicted to weed for
starters—but she’d probably loved him since she was fifteen if she
were honest with herself.

It wasn’t like her life was in perfect
order. She had herpes—something only death would resolve. And mega
daddy issues.

If she didn’t die, she’d live
differently. She’d trust Cal. She’d love him if he’d let
her.

A cloud moved and sun warmed her
cheek. Her gaze drifted to the
Escape’s
mainsail. What she
saw took a second to register in her brain.

There, a speck lighter than the ocean,
illumined by the sun freshly unveiled from cloud cover. He steered
the boat in that direction, not taking his eyes off the color
variation. It could be seaweed, driftwood, a dead fish.

He clamped down on his breath,
adjusted the
Escape
’s bearing, and opened up the
throttle.

Aly came into focus through the lenses
of the field glasses.

She waved her arms.

His breath whooshed out. His knees
felt like someone kicked them from behind, and his body
shook.

Hang on, Al. Just hang on.
He
set the binoculars on the bench.
Keep her safe.
Just a few
more minutes.

He came alongside Aly and killed the
engine. Van Gogh leapt from the deck and crashed into the water
beside Aly as if he wanted to rescue her himself. He swam circles
around Aly as she paddled for the transom ladder.

Cal fought the weight of her sodden
jeans and sweatshirt and hauled her onboard. He crouched over her
where she landed on the deck and crushed her against his chest.
“Thank God you’re safe.” Inside he felt the wonder, the reality of
the words he’d spoken.

His heart hammered against her
reed-like body, and her teeth chattered near his ear.

Van Gogh’s distressed yips sounded
from the base of the ladder.

He released Aly, scooped up the
flailing dog and deposited him on the deck.

Shivering, Aly kicked off the sock she
hadn’t lost in the ocean and twisted seawater out of the front of
her sweatshirt.

Cal clamped a hand to her armpit and
hustled her through the spray of water droplets flinging from Van
Gogh’s coat, down the companionway, and wrenched on the shower.
“You need a warm shower. I’ll keep the engine running to keep the
water hot until you’re done.”

He stripped Aly’s sodden hoodie and
T-shirt over her head.

She fumbled with the button on her
jeans with shaking fingers.

“
Here, I’ll do it.” He
unbuttoned her jeans, pulled the zipper down, slid them over the
gooseflesh of her hips, and helped her peel off the soggy
denim.

He couldn’t pull his eyes away from
the pale curves, the blue slips of material painted to the minutest
ridges and crevices of her body, He looked out the porthole. “Do
you need more help?” His breath held.

“
Sail while we’ve got
daylight.” She rubbed her arms waiting for him to leave.

“
I’m so sorry I left you
topside alone.”

“
Get out of here. I’m
freezing.”

Cal flicked his eyes over her body one
last time, memorizing the peaks and valleys of her ribs and hip
bones, the cerulean shade of material melded to small, taut
breasts, the sweep of leg she bent to keep his eyes from feasting
on the rest of her. He stepped out and shut the door.

The chill of his wet sweatshirt seeped
through to his skin—along with the knowledge he’d just seen more of
Aly than ever before. He’d marry her, touch all that beauty, make
love to her. His fingers flexed at his sides.

The next thought that whiplashed
through his head was the meeting with his probation officer he’d
missed the day after Thanksgiving. Not that he would have gone with
weed in his system and tested dirty.

He tore off the damp shirt, balled it,
and fired it across the cabin.

Twenty minutes later Aly emerged from
the companionway in a pair of his sweats and one of his
hoodies.

At the sight of her, gratitude crashed
over him, washing away his own mess. Aly was alive. That was all
that mattered. His problems weren’t life and death.

He killed the motor and cleated the
sheet. “Come here.” He folded her against him and hung on, his
cheek mashed to hers. “Thank God you’re safe. I’m not letting you
out of my sight until we reach land.”

Aly turned and nestled under his arm.
“It was stupid for me to chase my hat.”

He pulled her tighter against his
side, not wanting to break contact with her for a long time. “It
was an accident.”

“
I thought I was going to
freeze to death.”

“
You were in the Gulf
Stream. The coldest the water could’ve been is
seventy-two.”

Aly frowned. “Well, I don’t get into
the pool till the water’s ninety. How do you know all this
stuff?”

Cal shrugged. “I know trivia, just not
what’s important.”

The day spun out under a colorless
winter sun, their argument buried under the joy and relief of Aly’s
rescue. They took turns sailing and napping. At last, West Palm
Beach, backlit by the sunset, poked from the horizon.

Cal dropped anchor with only enough
energy left to murmur, “Good night,” to a bleary-eyed Aly as she
headed to the fore bunk.

He shut the door to the master suite,
stripped down, and fell into his bunk expecting the sweet blackness
of sleep to swallow him whole.

Instead, the thin cerulean of Aly’s
bra and panties burned against the insides of his eyelids. He
groaned and rolled over, burying his head in his pillow.