Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,54

have been planted. We lost some of our roof, but life goes on, you know?”

Felix explains that he and his wife run a dive charter business. Unlike the crew on Chemineau, they have a waiting list of clients. “We just returned from Belize, so your timing is very good.” He laughs. “Our home is still clean.”

The house at the top of Man O’ War Hill looks as if it was built in sections, tacked on over time and painted whatever color they happened to favor at the moment, which Felix explains is exactly what happened. “It’s a strange house, I know,” he says. “When we first moved here from Sweden, we could not afford to build more than a one-room shack.”

As goofy as the place looks on the outside, the inside is beyond inviting. The floors are planked with dark, soft wood, and every single room has a balcony overlooking Great Harbour and the surrounding forested hills. “This is amazing.”

“See what I mean?” Keane says.

The furniture looks like it was acquired piecemeal, and from different places around the world. The threadbare gold velvet couch is draped with a multicolored Peruvian blanket, similar to the cushions on my boat. Diving magazines are piled on an African drum. And a huge aboriginal artwork takes up most of one wall. Another wall is covered with photos of Felix and Agda—usually wearing scuba gear—in various oceans.

“Agda!” Felix calls out. “Sullivan has arrived.”

The sound of bare feet slapping on the wood floor greets us, then a flash of red dress and white-blond hair as she flings herself into Keane’s arms. “It is so wonderful to see you,” she squeals as he spins her around. She is bony and wholesome and has the same Scandinavian features as Felix. I’m in awe of the whiteness of their hair, until I catch my own reflection in a mirror. The color has been leached from my braids by the sun while my skin is darker than it’s ever been.

“Agda, this is Anna,” Keane says. “We are traveling together to Trinidad.”

“It’s good to meet you, Anna.”

“Likewise.”

“Come with me.” She calls the words over her shoulder, already in motion. “I will show you to your room.”

The balcony serves as the hallway for the house, and I follow Agda to the end, where French doors stand open, inviting the sun and air into the bedroom. The bed seems enormous after weeks at sea and the blanket on top is a patchwork of old wool sweaters. A patchwork quilt for a patchwork house. My grubby bag on the floor is like a sliver of thumb across the corner of an otherwise perfect photo.

“This room is best because it has its own water closet.” She pulls back a white shower curtain in the corner to reveal a toilet and tiny wall sink. “And it is closest to the shower.”

She leads me back outside. Beside my room is an outdoor shower built of wood with a yellow canvas curtain. “My favorite time is when you are showering and it begins to rain.”

“This house is bizarre.”

Agda laughs. “It is bizarre, but we love it.”

“Me too.”

“I will leave you to shower or sleep or whatever you would like to do,” she says. “We have Wi-Fi if you need to write emails, and later we will go to Foxy’s for Christmas dinner, yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Agda smiles in reply and suddenly I’m alone. Keane finds me leaning against the balcony railing, trying to pick out the Alberg in the fleet of cruising boats moored in the harbor.

“Now that I’m finally thinking of it as my boat, it needs a name.”

“Don’t think too hard about it,” he says. “Boats reveal their names to you in good time.”

“Did you make that up?”

He nods. “It’s a solid theory, though, right?”

“I’m going to go try out that shower.”

“I wanted to warn you,” he says. “Agda typically walks naked to and from the bath.”

“Good to know, thanks.”

“You could do the same, if you like. When in Rome and such.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs as he bumps his shoulder against mine. “Don’t use all the hot water.”

Not nearly as brave as Agda, I draw the yellow curtain across the shower, but above me the sky is midmorning blue and the air is cool on my skin. Even though I can hear everyone’s indistinct chatter at the other end of the balcony, I can’t help feeling alone. This is my first Christmas without Ben. I turn off the faucet, but my thoughts keep flowing. I put on his old