shoulder at the charts. The day-long sail across the Gulf Stream had boosted his confidence, even as the northerly winds and swift, relentless current had tested all of Sarah’s rusty navigation skills. “Shall we try to sail the whole way? Go where the wind takes us?”
She tried to return the smile, but her face felt tight. “We should at least motor out of the anchorage. And we need to leave soon to make it there before low tide.”
“I can take the wheel if you like. I think Noah is awake.”
Sarah nodded. “Sure.” He bounded back up on deck.
The first few days on the boat with Owen had been strange, as their relationship, established mainly over the phone, became embodied. She felt hounded by the mere bulk of him, though he moved around her with such circumspection that she knew he must be going out of his way not to crowd her. And it was no wonder: she could sense the barbed energy she was putting out. She tried to curb her anxiety by plotting and replotting their route, but it spiked no matter which way her thoughts tended—ARAMIS, Noah, Elliot, her latent sailing skills she prayed would return. Not to mention the sheer bodily strain of living in close quarters with a near stranger. But the more their minds were bent towards their journey, the easier they were with each other.
She had steered them 987 nautical miles down the Intracoastal Waterway from Norfolk, Virginia, all the way to the Florida Keys. Mostly they were motoring by day and mooring at night—by far the safest option as they were a stone’s throw from dozens of other boats, all cruising the sheltered route down to Miami. The Ditch, as it was known—a mix of canals, rivers, bays, and inlets—was a crash course in navigation. They were protected from ocean swells, but they needed to pay close attention to buoys and the depth sounder. Running aground was the peril of the Ditch, and Buona Fortuna had a full keel and a five-foot draft. Shallow water put Sarah on edge, and she’d longed to be out in the ocean right up until they’d faced the choppy nine-hour passage across the Gulf Stream to Bimini, in the Bahamas. Next, as weather allowed, they would cross to the Berry Islands, then to Nassau, to Rose Island, and finally to the Exumas for the rest of the winter. She wished they were there already.
As she stowed the charts, she remembered a saying about the journey being more important than the destination—a commonplace already too indulgent for the circumstances. She had a child and a man in her charge, and nothing mattered more than getting them all where they needed to go.
* * *
—
Sarah kept an eye out as Owen guided the yacht from the slip and set them on a steady course for the crossing. It was a perfect day, with favourable winds. After breakfast, she sat across from Noah at the table in the salon, watching as he copied a row of Gs, capital and lower case. A little before noon, Owen returned below.
“What shall we have for lunch?” The writer beat out a rhythm on his belly and Noah giggled.
“Hmm.” She pretended to deliberate. “Soup?” Soup was their usual meal, the default.
Owen laughed and Noah joined in as he always did, despite not getting the joke. Owen went to the galley and Sarah stayed at the table, progressing with her son through the alphabet, until she felt fingers lightly brushing her upper arm, a gauzy touch that was almost sensuous. She turned to see Owen bearing a large mug of soup that he put into her open hands.
“Captain,” he said. He reached out and smoothed her son’s blond cap of hair, then ran his fingers through his own silvering locks, a reflexive preening. “All hands on deck when you’re done eating. The water is as clear as a window. I’ve already counted thirty-four starfish as big as dinner plates.”
“I want to see!” cried Noah.
“Come on then.”
It was when he was with Noah that Sarah took the most interest in Owen, as the boy seemed to bring out a touch of whimsy in the writer. After they’d safely motored into Chub Cay that night, Owen announced he had a surprise for them both. He disappeared into his cabin, then returned with something behind his back.
“I’ve been expanding my artistic horizons.” He held up a large rectangle of white Bristol board decorated with thick black lines