Chapter 1: Oil and Rope
The sun was a brute.
It hammered down on the Swordfish’s aft deck, turning the polished teak into a plate of hot brass. Chermaine leaned against the bulkhead door, a coil of hemp rope in her hands, her thumbs working slowly over the rough fibers. The scent of coconut oil and salt hung thick in the air.
Lorna Green was spread on a lounger, a massive shape in a silk blouse that had gone translucent with sweat. It plastered itself to the rolling geography of her stomach, to the vast, shelf-like curve of her breasts. She’d undone too many buttons. Her skin, pale and freckled, glistened. She held a paperback novel up to her face, but her eyes hadn’t moved from the same paragraph in ten minutes.
“Aunt Lorna, you’re frying.”
Betty Shields stood at the rail, one hand shading her eyes as she looked toward the hazy green line of Antigua. Her cheerleader uniform—a relic of some earlier, dockside nostalgia trip—was a stark red and white against the blue. It was too small. The skirt barely covered her rear, and the sleeveless top strained across her back as she stretched. Sweat traced a clean line down the dip of her spine, vanishing into the waistband.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Lorna murmured, her voice a dusty, unused thing.
“You’re not fine. You’re the color of a lobster.” Betty turned, a vision of blonde ponytail and green eyes and toned, golden limbs. She smiled, bright and empty as a flashbulb. “Captain Chermaine, shouldn’t she come into the shade?”
Chermaine pushed off the doorframe. Her deck shoes made no sound. She saw Lorna’s eyes dart over, then quickly away, a flicker of something sharp and anxious beneath the polite veneer.
“Your aunt’s a big girl,” Chermaine said, her voice a low rasp that carried over the gentle slap of water against the hull. She came to stand at the foot of the lounger, looking down. The shadow she cast fell across Lorna’s body, a sudden coolness. Lorna shivered. “But she is burning. Might blister.”
Lorna lowered the book. Her lips, still a vivid red despite the heat, parted. She looked up into Chermaine’s face, into the flat, assessing gaze, then down at the rope in her hands. “What’s that for?”
“Everything. Nothing.” Chermaine let a length of it slither through her fingers, the thwip-thwip of the fibers loud in the quiet. “Fenders. Dock lines. Securing gear in a swell.” A slow, easy smile spread. “Knots are useful. You never know when you’ll need to tie something down.”
She held Lorna’s look. The older woman’s throat worked. A flush that had nothing to do with the sun bloomed across her chest, climbing up her neck.
Betty bounced over, the deck vibrating slightly with each step. She smelled of candy-sweet sunscreen and adolescent energy. “Can you teach me? Knots, I mean. It seems so… nautical.”
Chermaine turned her head, taking Betty in. The girl was standing too close, oblivious to the space she invaded, her body humming with a vitality that was both enticing and tiresome. So ripe. So unmarked.
“Maybe later,” Chermaine said. Her eyes cut back to Lorna. “First, let’s get you out of this oven. Help me with the bimini, Betty.”
The girl followed with eager obedience. Together they unlashed the faded canvas awning from its stowed position and pulled it out over the loungers. The shade it created was immediate, a tangible relief. Lorna exhaled, a heavy, shuddering sound.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re paying for the charter. Least I can do is keep you from heatstroke.” Chermaine knelt beside the cooler, dug out three bottles of water slick with condensation. She handed one to Betty, who took it with a cheerful thanks, and another to Lorna.
Their fingers brushed. Lorna’s were soft, slightly damp, and she snatched her hand back as if scalded. The bottle fumbled, almost dropped. Chermaine’s larger, darker hand closed around it, steadying, before pressing it firmly into Lorna’s grasp.
“Easy.”
Lorna couldn’t meet her eyes. She unscrewed the cap and drank greedily, water trickling from the corner of her mouth, down the pulsing side of her neck, into the dark, damp valley of her cleavage.
Chermaine watched. She took a slow pull from her own bottle. The water was tepid, tasting faintly of plastic. She swallowed. “You two are the quietest charter I’ve ever had. Most folks are drunk on rum by noon, begging to fish or snorkel.”
“We’re… relaxing,” Lorna said, recovering a shred of her boardroom composure. She patted her lips with the back of her hand. “It’s a retreat. From the city.”
“What do you retreat from, Betty?” Chermaine asked, still looking at Lorna.
“Exams,” Betty said with a groan, plopping down on the deck, legs folded. She was all flexible grace. “And my boyfriend. He’s being a child. This is way better.”
“A boyfriend,” Chermaine echoed, the word neutral.
“Ex, probably. I haven’t texted him back in two days.” She grinned, a little vicious, a little proud. It vanished as she looked at her aunt. “Lorna needs it more than me, though. She works, like, a hundred hours a week.”
“Betty,” Lorna warned, but there was no force in it.
“It’s true! You need to live a little.” Betty’s gaze, innocent and devastating, swept over her aunt’s vast, prone form. “Do something just for you. Something fun.”
The word hung there. Fun.
Chermaine finished her water. She set the bottle down with a definitive click on the teak. “Fun is what I’m here for. Within reason, and within the limits of the boat.” She picked up the rope again, began coiling it with deliberate, practiced motions. “We’ve got five days. No schedule. Just open water. A person can forget who they are out here. Or remember who they’re supposed to be.”
Lorna was watching the rope. The way it looped and tightened in Chermaine’s muscular, capable hands. Her breathing had changed, grown shallower.
“What’s the first rule on a boat, Betty?” Chermaine asked, not breaking her rhythm.
“Uh… don’t fall overboard?”
“Close. The captain’s word is law. For safety. For everything.” She finished the coil, tied it off with a quick, efficient knot. She looked directly at Lorna, holding up the perfect, tight bundle. “My boat. My rules. That work for you, Lorna?”
A long silence, broken only by the cry of a distant gull. Lorna’s blue eyes were wide, glassy. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good.” Chermaine stood. She walked to the helm station, storing the rope in a locker. She could feel two sets of eyes on her—the light, curious pressure of Betty’s, and the heavy, fraught weight of Lorna’s.
She opened another locker and pulled out a sleek, expensive bottle of lotion. She walked back and placed it on the small table beside Lorna’s lounger. “Aloe. For that burn. You’ll need help with your back. Unless you can twist like a pretzel.”
Lorna stared at the bottle. She said nothing.
Betty, already bored, stood up and wandered to the bow, pulling her phone from a pocket to take pictures of the horizon.
Chermaine lowered her voice, a tone meant only for the woman melting in the shade. “The first night’s always the hardest. Land still feels close. The walls of your life still feel solid.” She leaned down, bracing a hand on the arm of the lounger. She was close enough to see the fine tremble in Lorna’s limbs, to smell the desperation beneath her perfume. “They’re not solid out here. They’re just water. And I know what to do with women who’ve forgotten how to float.”
She straightened, leaving the aloe bottle there like a promise, or a threat. “Dinner at seven. I’m grilling fresh tuna. You’ll eat what I serve.”
She turned and went below to the galley, leaving the two women in the silent, shaded space. The boat rocked gently. A new tension thrummed in the air, electric and still, like the moment before a lightning strike.
The game, now, was underway.