swimmer. Is it something about the ocean? The creatures?”
Fearing she might dissolve again if she allowed him to be kind to her, she said, “Would it matter if I knew?” It came out snippier than she’d intended.
The color of his eyes darkened, like a blueberry with the bloom rubbed off of it. He looked away. She’d taken him for a younger man but now guessed he was in his late thirties. A scar interrupted his right eyebrow.
“Have you ever been snorkeling or diving?” he said.
“Never considered it.”
“There’s a dazzling world down there.”
“Is that another of your services, guided tours of the briny deep?”
“Dare you to try it just once,” he said. “You might be too entranced to panic.” He rose and went below.
Hugging the towel, she rocked until the sun melted her terror and her breathing, if shallow, was dependable again.
While Els steadied herself against the galley doorframe, Liz dished up platters of lobster salad and grilled vegetables with an economical grace different from Jason’s sinewy one. He’d changed into another Iguana polo shirt, dry except where its tails wicked up the dampness from his shorts. Billie Holiday, her notes bent and aching, sang softly in the background about wanting to try something she’d never had.
“Mr. S likes lunch on deck,” Liz said, “but you’ve already had too much sun. Get out of those wet clothes. There’s a robe in the master bath.” He pointed toward a passageway to the right of the saloon ladder.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re goose bumps all over. You’ve had a shock. Do as I say.”
She glared at him and considered resisting, but she’d already failed so dramatically to live up to her code—never show weakness—that courting further misery seemed pointless. She saluted, strode to the master suite, and rolled the door shut so hard it bounced open a crack.
Feeling better as soon as she’d shed her clammy bikini, she swaddled herself in the oversized robe and knotted the belt fast. When she returned to the saloon with her clothes rolled in a towel, Liz reached for them.
“I’ll hang these on the forward lines,” he said. “They’ll be dry by the time we get back.”
She handed them over, and he disappeared above.
She gripped the table edge. The clench in her chest gradually loosened, but she was still wobbly and disoriented. When Liz came down the ladder, she forced a smile. “You won’t tell him? The tears, I mean.”
“None of his business.”
“Give me a task.”
He handed her a cutting board with a baguette and knife. “You and Jason do everything?” she asked.
“When we’re cruising we have at least one more mate, plus a sea chef,” he said. “I sent the others ashore last night, thinking the Salustrios weren’t going out today.” He set an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne on the table next to a tray with cans of Diet Coke and bottles of sparkling water. That morning, she’d rescued Coxe’s bottle from its tepid bath and stuffed it into her mini fridge, planning to toast her birthday alone later.
“Where do you all sleep?”
“Forward,” he said, tipping his head toward a door marked CREW ONLY. He grinned and put on a Long John Silver accent. “With the sail bags and kegs of grog.”
“You enjoy this rental captain game.”
“We call it chartering.” He handed her flatware and cloth napkins. “How bad could it be, getting paid to sail around?”
“Depends on who’s paying,” she said. She laid two place settings precisely, folding the napkins and squaring the flatware. Salty air puffed through a porthole.
“Mr. S is better than many,” he said. “I’ve put ashore more than one captain of industry who tried to be captain at sea too.”
“Lucky you, being able to tell the likes of them where to go.”
“Captain’s command is law,” he said. “Ancient rule of the sea. Thwart it at your peril.”
“Aye, aye,” she said with another mocking salute.
His hair dripping onto his collar, Salustrio lowered himself down the saloon ladder. He strode to the table, brandished the champagne bottle—Billecart-Salmon—and said, “Pink bubbles for the birthday girl.”
“Never into pink,” she said, “but I make an exception for champagne.” Salustrio’s taste in bubbly outshone Coxe’s, but she steeled herself, guessing his agenda might be equally offensive.
When he popped the cork out the hatchway, it pinged off a shroud and plopped into the sea. After handing her a brimming flute and splashing an inch of champagne into a second, he glanced at Liz, who nodded and climbed up to the cockpit.
“Cin cin.” Salustrio clinked his glass against hers.