Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,64

it’s hard to tell where I end and he begins. Unlike last night, today is a doorway. We just have to step through.

“Is this going to ruin us?” I’m breathless as I ask.

“No.” He kisses my neck, sending a rash of shivers down my back. I shudder and his laugh is wicked and delicious.

“Are you sure?”

“I have been a sure thing since Bimini, Anna.” He touches his forehead to mine. “When you looked at me and said ‘I’ve changed my mind about those eggs,’ your face was frightened and fierce, and right then I knew I’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you’d let me.”

“I don’t think I really had a lightning bolt moment,” I say. Keane stepped into my world a stranger and quietly became someone so necessary that I don’t want to be without him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “We’ve arrived at the same place.”

“Where exactly are we?”

He laughs. “Go on. Have a look.”

I climb out on deck to find us anchored in a small bay on a volcanic island where thick clouds are gathered at the top of the tallest hill. “Is this … Montserrat?”

“It is.”

When Ben and I planned our trip, guidebooks made little mention of the island, aside from the Soufrière Hills volcano eruption in 1995 that buried most of the island under lava and ash. Even cruisers on internet sailing forums recommended the island only as an overnight anchorage while en route to more southerly destinations. Ben wanted to see this island more than any other, but I keep that to myself. If this is Keane’s favorite place, I want to see it through his eyes.

* * *

“Montserrat reminds me most of home,” he says as we run the dinghy to the town dock at Little Bay, although town is a generous word for a handful of buildings. “The cliffs and green hills are very much like Ireland, and a good many of the people, regardless of skin color, are of Irish descent.”

“It’s prettier than I expected.”

“Not an uncommon reaction,” he says. “People expect to see only devastation, but there’s so much beauty here. Just wait.”

The lady at the customs office checks our clearance papers from Jost Van Dyke—we pretend like St. Barths never happened—and we pay the necessary port fees. In the same building is immigration, where our passports are stamped, and we have officially arrived on Montserrat. We come out from the warehouse and a police car pulls up alongside the building. A brown-skinned officer wearing a crisp white uniform shirt steps out of the car and says to Keane, “Top of the morning.”

“May the road rise up to meet you,” Keane replies, his accent exaggerated. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to laugh, but I have no idea what’s happening.

“And may you arrive in heaven before the devil knows you’re dead,” the officer says, his attempt at an Irish accent mangled by his Montserratian tongue, and the two break into laughter, pulling each other in for a hug.

“Anna.” Keane slips an arm around my waist. “This is my great friend and quite possibly sixth cousin once removed on my father’s side, Desmond Sullivan. Desmond, this is Anna Beck, my partner in crime.”

Keane skillfully sidesteps giving our relationship a definition, a relief because it feels too new for that. I shake hands with Desmond, and he leads us over to his patrol car.

“My shift won’t be ending until midafternoon,” he says. “But I can drive you up to my house until I’m finished.”

“There’s a small matter of a dog,” Keane says. “A pot hound we adopted in the Turks and Caicos. She’s got all her inoculations and proper papers, but I understand there’s a necessary permit?”

“Bring her ashore,” Desmond says with a wink. “If anyone asks, she’s mine.”

“You sneaky bastard.”

Desmond laughs. “Runs in the family.”

Keane and I go out to the sailboat for Queenie and our bags, and return to Little Bay Beach, where we drag the dinghy above the tide line and tie it to a tree. Queenie does fishtail slides in the black sand, happy for freedom after so many hours on the boat. When she’s finally settled, panting and smiling, we clip her to the leash and head up to the road, where Desmond is waiting.

“The Montserrat Festival comes to a close today,” he says, driving us along narrow hilly roads lined with trees and ferns. Everything is so green. “Sharon and Miles will be at the parade, but when we are all