Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,49
it’s not Christmas yet, I’ve also brought something for Anna.”
Eamon reaches back into his duffel like a sailboat Santa and pulls out a device that resembles an oversized TV remote.
“Is that … an autopilot?”
“It is,” he says.
“You bought an autopilot for a stranger?”
“Not exactly. I know a guy.”
“Keane said the same thing when he showed up in Nassau with an outboard motor. Am I sailing the Caribbean with stolen goods?”
“Oh no,” Eamon says. “Nothing so nefarious as all that. There was a man at the sailing club who was selling it and I had something he wanted, so we made a trade.”
“Does it work?”
Keane snorts a laugh and we share a smile.
“Aye, it does.” Eamon hands me the device. “But my brother thought since you still have many a mile between here and Trinidad, it might come in useful.”
I sit, not knowing what to say, until finally: “Are all of you Sullivans this nice? I thought Keane was some sort of weird anomaly, but this—God. I can’t accept this.”
“Of course you can.”
“Take it,” Keane says. “Otherwise you’ll never hear the end of it. Truly. He’ll be a terrier on the leg of your trousers about it.” He glances at the dog. “No offense, Queenie.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I’ve spent too many hours sitting on planes,” Eamon says. “I’m ready for some fun.”
I wear my sequined skirt with a white T-shirt and a pair of ankle boots because tonight feels festive. A night for making new memories. Some of the more permanent boats in the marina have colored lights strung through the rigging and Christmas trees lit on deck.
Keane holds Queenie’s leash as we walk down the narrow cobbled Calle San Francisco, where the buildings look like colorful layer cakes—red beside yellow beside lime green beside purple—and the balconies are bedecked with red ribbons and swags of pine garland. Music spills from the doorway of every shop. The plazas—de Armas at the west end of the street and de Colón at the east—are decorated with huge Christmas trees. The gazebo in the Plaza de Armas serves as a manger for almost life-size Nativity figures, and the statue of Christopher Columbus in the Plaza de Colón is surrounded by lights in the shape of poinsettias and bells and stars. Old San Juan is covered in lights.
“I’ve never seen so much Christmas.”
Eamon laughs. “It’s a bit like old Saint Nick shite himself.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and I’m struck by the idea that I could stay here. Get a job at Starbucks and live in a colorful apartment overlooking a cobbled alley in a town that looks like it was transplanted from Europe. But every place I’ve visited has offered something new and unexpected. And there are so many islands I have yet to see.
“How does tapas sound?” Keane brings me back to the moment, outside a restaurant with sidewalk seating. “There are other people with dogs here, so I reckon they don’t mind.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Eamon orders a pitcher of red sangria and our first round of small plates—ham croquettes with a guava rum glaze, seafood flatbread, and seared octopus salad—and it takes a second for my brain to catch up with my body. I am more than a thousand miles from home, sampling new foods with two men I wouldn’t have met if I’d stayed in Fort Lauderdale. It’s wild and exciting. If Ben were here, none of this would be happening. I can’t even speculate anymore on what my life would be like with Ben because all I have is now.
“Everything okay?” Keane gives my hand a gentle squeeze beneath the table, and when Queenie notices the movement, her wet nose reminds me that tonight is about new memories.
“Yeah.” When I smile, I mean it. “Everything’s great.”
We share the food, kill the pitcher of sangria, and Eamon orders more. The night grows softer until the world twinkles around me, and the ring of my cell phone startles me. It’s been silent for so long. The screen says MOM and I realize I forgot to call her back.
“Hi, Mom. Check this out.” I press the FaceTime button and pan my phone along Calle San Francisco so she can see Old San Juan. I introduce her to Keane and Eamon, who lift their glasses in a toast, and lower the phone so she can meet Queenie. Then I turn off FaceTime so she can’t worry about my bruised cheek. “I know I forgot to call you back, but—”
“You’re not coming home,