Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,61
Eve crowd on the Rue Jeanne d’Arc, I keep waiting for his past to ambush him.
And then it does.
“Sullivan?” A man with salt-and-pepper hair springs up from a table filled with young sailors wearing matching red crew shirts from the New Year’s Eve regatta. A massive gold watch shines on his wrist, glinting when he shakes Keane’s hand. “God, it’s good to see you, kid. I didn’t know you were in town. Were you out on the racecourse today?”
The muscle in Keane’s jaw flexes, but the man misses it as he flicks the ash from his cigar onto the sidewalk. “No. We arrived this morning from Jost Van Dyke.”
“Good for you, kid.” The man clamps the cigar between his teeth and talks around it. “We won, so come have a victory drink.”
Keane glances at me, his expression uneasy. I don’t like St. Barths. The harbor and the water along the coastline are swarmed with mega-yachts owned by Russian billionaires, American politicians, and rap moguls, and I feel as out of place on this island as I did at Barbara Braithwaite’s dinner table. And I don’t know whether Keane is looking for an excuse to leave or permission to stay, but I am not the boss. I shrug. “Why not?”
Over glasses of ti’ punch that are terrible and strong, I am introduced to Jackson Kemp, the founder of the biggest waste management company in the United States, and the owner of the boat Keane sailed aboard five years ago. The same man whose email rejection in Nassau pushed Keane into a drunken binge.
“You’re looking great, kid.” Jackson claps him on the shoulder. “They’re doing amazing things with prosthetics these days. Almost as good as the real thing.”
The dismissive way he calls Keane “kid” crawls up my spine and settles between my shoulders. I don’t like this man or his careless language. Keane shoves a hand up through his hair and I don’t understand why he would continue doing something that causes him so much pain … until I realize I do understand.
“Shame they haven’t found a way to replace insensitive assholes yet.” I mutter it into my drink, but apparently loud enough for Jackson Kemp to hear. Keane blinks at me as if I am someone he’s never seen before—and right now I am. Jackson’s eyes widen, and he unleashes a booming laugh.
“Guess I deserved that.”
“I guess.”
“Listen, I’m throwing a party tonight at my villa. Y’all should come.” He looks from me to Keane and back, offering what might be as close to an apology as Keane is going to get. “The champagne will be flowing, and we’ll have a prime view of the fireworks.”
I set my drink down on the table and look at Keane. “I just remembered there’s somewhere I need to be.”
“Anna, wait.” I hear his voice behind me, but I don’t turn around. He catches up to me before I’ve made it to the end of the sidewalk. “Where are you going?”
I wheel around to face him. “I don’t know, kid. Maybe I’ll sail to Saint Kitts or Nevis. Anywhere is better than here. You can stay if you want, but I have no interest in anyone who doesn’t recognize you for the exceptional human being you are.”
Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he circles his arms around my shoulders and draws me to him. I slip my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his soft shirt. “You deserve so much better than this. Come with me.”
He exhales into my hair and kisses the top of my head. “Let’s go.”
Together we walk down the Rue de la Plage to Shell Beach and motor the dinghy out to where the four boats are rafted together in the small harbor. Eamon is playing poker with the other guys on Fizgig—Queenie sitting beside him as if she’s learning how to play—while the women sunbathe topless on Papillon’s trampoline. Keane crosses from one boat to the next to speak with his brother, while I take off the sail covers and secure our gear. I’m in the cabin when Eamon comes belowdecks.
“Anna.” He pulls me into a hug. One of my favorite things about Sullivan men is how unreserved they are with their affections. “Thank you for letting me sail with you. It’s been grand.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“My holiday is nearly over, so I’ll fly out from here in a day or two.”
“Thank you for the autopilot.”
“Thank you for looking after my brother,” he says. “I know