Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,56

live Christmas tree stands decorated with lights and ornaments. Two couples are already seated, other friends whose sailboats are anchored in Great Harbour. Jefferson and Karoline Araujo are on their way home to Brazil after a circumnavigation, while Amanda Folbigg and Luke Cross have sailed up from Panama after doing a Pacific crossing that began in Australia. Leaving Fort Lauderdale almost a month ago seemed like a big deal, but sitting among these accomplished sailors, I feel young and green. Like I should be sitting at the kids’ table.

Felix orders a round of painkillers, a rum-and-pineapple drink claimed to have been invented on the island, and Amanda asks about my sling. I’m embarrassed to admit I fell overboard, but no one laughs. Luke points out a jagged scar on his forehead. “I failed to duck when the boom swung.”

“When I first started out,” Keane says, “I crossed the deck a bit too quickly on a tack and slid right under the lifeline. Grabbed on to a stanchion to keep the boat from sailing off without me, but I was dragged along, face-first through the water, until they managed to pull me back aboard.”

As we eat our Christmas dinners, everyone seems interested in hearing about my trip and they share their stories about the places Keane and I have been. The conversation never lags, but this time I’m part of it.

“So, Anna, where will you go after Jost Van Dyke?” Agda asks.

“I think Saint Martin.”

“Definitely go to the French side,” she says. “The Dutch side is overrun by tourists from the cruise ships and Maho Beach is a nightmare.”

I don’t admit that Ben’s original plan included Maho Beach, which is situated at the end of the airport runway. The incoming planes pass low over the beach before touching down, and the engines from outgoing planes generate so much wind that spectators are blown backward into the water.

“Ugh, yes.” Karoline nods in agreement. “It’s always crowded, and the novelty wears off after one or two planes. We’re all sailing to Saint Barths for New Year’s Eve. There will be concerts and parties and fireworks at midnight. You should join us.”

Eamon shakes his head. “Probably not the best idea considering—”

“Could be fun,” Keane says, cutting him off, and I’m surprised he’d want to go to St. Barths, given his history with the island.

“Are you sure?” Eamon asks.

“It’s been five years.” The muscle in Keane’s jaw twitches and I wonder if this is a brother thing—proving to Eamon that he can handle returning to the scene of the crime.

“Okay.” Eamon looks at me. “Anna, you’re the captain.”

I could overrule Keane, but I don’t want to embarrass him, especially since he’s no longer my crew. I have to trust that my friend knows what he’s doing. “I guess we’re sailing to Saint Barths.”

After dinner, we shuffle around the table, some going off to dance, while others stay behind and talk. Karoline tells me about her work as an interior design stylist, designing rooms for decorating magazines and personal clients. Her enthusiasm makes me long for … something that makes me feel that sort of passion. Something more than being a waitress for the rest of my life.

Keane returns to the table after dancing with Agda, Amanda, and Felix, and downs the remainder of my painkiller in a single swallow.

“Christmas karaoke in five minutes,” Eamon says to his brother. “I’ve signed us up.”

Keane shakes his head. “No.”

“It’s tradition,” Eamon says. “Besides, if Anna has thrown her lot in with the likes of you all the way to Trinidad, she ought to know what sort of man you are.”

Keane laughs at something only they understand. “Okay. If we swap parts.”

“Why ruin a good thing after all these years?”

“I know, but—” He fakes a heavy sigh. Eamon chuckles while the rest of us wonder what the hell is happening. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Can’t tell you,” Keane says. “It’ll spoil the magic.”

Christmas karaoke kicks off with Foxy himself singing a reggae version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and welcoming everyone to his restaurant. Foxy is followed by a pair of white women performing back-to-back renditions of “White Christmas” and “Winter Wonderland.” Both tease out the long notes and throw diva-like hand gestures. On any other day, we might be laughing at their overblown efforts, but tonight we clap like we are at the Grammys.

“It’s time.” Eamon pushes away from the table and Keane follows. Agda and I squeeze through the crowd to get a