Float Plan - Trish Doller Page 0,82

know how to christen a boat, so I simply ask the wind gods to bless everyone who ever sailed aboard this boat, including Ben. Especially Ben.

“And let any name this boat has ever had be stricken from your books and the new name hold favor in your hearts.” I whisper the boat’s name and pour a bit of champagne on the bow. “May this boat bring fair winds and good fortune to all who sail it.”

I’m feeling pretty high, my insides bubbly with champagne, when I call Barbara Braithwaite. But before I can say a word, she cuts through the silence.

“The last time we spoke I was offended by what you said, the insinuation that I didn’t respect Ben’s choices,” she says. “But … you were right. Charles and I wanted what we thought was best for him, never stopping to consider that he might want something else.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Maybe I deserved it.”

“Maybe.”

“Ben was my only child, my heart, and I—Well, when he died, I wanted to gather up all of his things and hold them close,” she says. “When the lawyer told us about the boat––”

“You still can’t have it,” I say, this time more gently.

She laughs a little through her nose. “We’re no longer contesting Ben’s will. The boat is yours, along with some of the things in storage that I know he’d want you to have.” Her voice breaks. “You made him happy for as long as he was able to be, and for that … well, I can’t hate you. And believe me, I tried. Thank you.”

“Thank you for sharing him with me, even when you didn’t want to.”

“Goodbye, Anna. Be well.”

She hangs up, and one more door closes. I don’t think I’ll ever seen Ben’s parents again, and I have no interest in visiting his box in the ground when he will always have a place in my heart.

My buzz has worn off when I get into the dinghy and follow the contours of the coastline to a secluded beach in Scotland Bay—the one where Ben and I were going to get married. Queenie leaps onto the beach and I drag the boat above the tide line to keep it from drifting away.

The sand is soft beneath my feet and I carry the box filled with photos from Ben’s old Polaroid, the dried hibiscus flower from our first date, the handful of dirty-sexy love letters, and the suicide note.

I dig a pit in the sand with my bare hands and place everything inside, along with Ben’s chart book. I’ll have to buy a new one, but I have my own route now.

I strike a match.

Polaroids make little popping sounds when they burn. Tiny fireworks to mourn what might have been. Tiny fireworks to celebrate the life of someone I once loved. Someone I will always love.

I sit beside the fire—at the intersection of who I was and who I am—until the past is ash.

I bury the remains.

As I push the dinghy back into the water, my phone pings wildly in my pocket. I pause, worst-case scenarios running through my head. Mom had a medical emergency. Rachel was in a car accident. Something happened to Maisie.

Instead the screen is filled with a series of text messages.

I want you.

I need you.

I miss you.

I love you.

I am coming home.

state of grace (32)

I emerge from the cockpit the next morning, a little hungover and squinting into the sunshine, to find Keane Sullivan standing on the dock beside the transom of the boat. He looks at me with tired eyes and a face that’s a mess of stubble, but trying to keep from smiling at him is like pushing against a wave. When our smiles meet, my heart does a joyful dance behind my ribs and oh Jesus, do I love this man.

“State of Grace.” He glances at the words painted on the back of the boat. “It’s a beautiful and fitting name for your boat.”

“Our boat,” I say as he steps aboard and scoops up Queenie, whose entire body wriggles with happiness. I know exactly how she feels. She licks his chin and jumps out of his arms. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to Antigua?”

“I should, but after the last race, I booked a flight.”

“How was the regatta?”

“It was everything I’d hoped.” He exhales. “It was great, Anna. I was at the top of my game. Like the accident never happened. But … it wasn’t enough. I mean, if you’re not there at the finish,