In through my nose, out through my mouth.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
And again.
But no amount of deep breathing is enough to keep me calm when, mere seconds later, the first bolt of lightning flashes across the sky. The air catches in my throat as undiluted fear hijacks my nervous system. My eyes press closed involuntarily, waiting for the answering call of thunder. I flinch when it arrives.
Boom.
The radio is poised at my mouth even before the rumbles fall silent. I make sure it’s set to Channel 16, the frequency for distress, and pray there’s enough power left to send out a call. My thumb presses the side button as I relay a series of words I never thought I’d utter in a shaking voice that sounds nothing like my own.
“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! This is the sailboat Cupid, out of Manchester-by-the-Sea.” I suck in a sharp breath. “We are taking on water in a storm, just south of the Misery Islands. Require immediate assistance—”
There’s a sharp beep as the radio dies in my hands. I swallow down a frustrated scream as I twist the power switch on and off several times, only to be met with a blank gray screen.
God damnit.
I have no way of knowing whether or not anyone heard my call. Whether they’ll come to my aid, even if they did hear it. The muffled drone of distant fog horns reaches my ears every few moments — a sign I am not the only one blindly navigating through this unforeseen tempest — but it’s impossible to pinpoint the origin. Those other boats could be ten meters or ten miles from me.
I’m on my own.
EIGHT
archer
Jammingmy finger against my cellphone screen, I send Tomlinson’s call straight to voicemail. I’m not in the mood for another guilt trip about attending his damn barbecue this afternoon. I have a dozen traps left to haul and, from the looks of the clouds gathering on the horizon, not much time left to do it.
Funny — the marine forecast didn’t call for a storm.
The rest of my traps will have to wait until tomorrow. With a sigh, I turn the Ebenezer back toward Gloucester. The faint murmur of the maritime radio provides an almost inaudible backdrop beneath the chugging engine. I put on a little speed as the clouds darken from slate gray to roiling ebony in a remarkably short amount of time, trying to outrun the imminent weather. Off my bow, I spot a handful of speedboats racing for the harbor, throwing frothy wakes into the air behind them.
Long before the storm rolled in, it was a quiet day on the water. Even the most dedicated lobstermen typically choose to spend the Fourth with family and friends. Tommy looked at me like I had two heads when I told him my plans to check the traps this morning, but he knows better than to argue with me by now. I may be the only bastard alive more stubborn than he is.
The waves build from a slow roll to a steady chop as I putter south, following the jagged Rockport coastline. In the distance, dark clouds reach skyward, rife with the promise of rain. I wouldn’t want to be caught on the wrong side of that mess. In six months working on the water, I’ve never seen a squall move in so fast.
As I pass by Crow Island, I try — as always — not to look at the sprawling estate perched on the cliffside… but Cormorant House has a unique gravitational pull. My eyes move of their own accord to the place that was once my home. You cannot, of course, see the less-than-elegant outline of Gull Cottage from this vantage point — the staff quarters that I shared with Ma, Pa, and Jaxon are set back in the woods, out of sight, where they won’t bring down the property values — but the imposing angles of the Valentine mansion make my chest tighten.
Is she inside?I wonder.Is she pressed up against the glass of her gilded cage, staring out at the ocean, wondering why that old yellow lobster boat passes by her cove so often?
It wasn’t intentional. Not in the beginning, at least. But over the past few weeks, since that June afternoon I first saw her out sailing by Great Misery Island, I’ve found myself steering a bit closer to the shore than I used to on my route home. Looking across the sheltered cove to the private dock where a small red sailboat bobs. Loosing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding when I see it’s still there. Because that means maybeshe’sstill there. Still within reach. Even if she’s no longer mine to reach for. Even if the sight of her is the most acute form of torture.
Twisted, I know.
But if I’ve learned anything in the past year, it’s that the only thing worse than seeing her isnotseeing her. On the days her boat is gone from the cove, I seek her out at sea. It’s almost involuntary — like a moth drawn to flame, I scan the surrounding waters for flashes of red as I go about my tasks, one eye fixed on the horizon as I restock bait bags and band crusher claws.
Tommy has surely noticed my recent distraction, even if he fails to understand its cause. He grumbles under his breath about my head being in the clouds — and, occasionally, up my own ass — but even that isn’t enough to make me quit my painful new habit. I live for those fleeting glimpses of blonde hair; for those scant seconds when our paths intersect. I’m always careful to keep just far enough away that she can’t recognize me. Not that she would. I doubt I bear much resemblance to the boy in her memories.
I justify my stalker-like behavior with flimsy excuses, telling myself it’s fine to keep an eye on her, so long as she never knows I’m there. A guardian angel, watching from afar when she takes her sailboat out alone in the afternoons.
Just one mariner looking out for another.
I’d do the same for anyone.
My lies sound hollow even to myself.