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I scrub my arms and hands with the same lemon pumice soap I use to get the clay grit off after I finish a new piece, and then unpack the bags of food I brought before my hike. I arrange apples, pears, and peaches in a small, wooden bowl and leave a shrink-wrapped loaf of friendship bread atop a matching wooden platter. I check the refrigerator again, as if the eggs, butter, chicken, duck, and various sauces I left there a few hours ago might have walked away. They didn’t.
I line jam along the wall beside the sink, double-check the seal on three bags of homemade potato chips, and check the pantry for the pasta, canned goods, Pop-Tarts, and bags of popcorn I already know are there. I re-fold the towel on the oven—Home Sweet Home it says, in faded blue script—and drift back through the living room, picturing him walking down the short hall to the first door on the right, which I’ll leave slightly ajar.
It was my mum’s room, but when my parents passed, it became mine. It has one window, covered with a lace curtain and facing the ocean. When I was young, it held a full-sized bed, a bookcase, a dresser, and a rocking chair. Now I’ve moved the bookcase into Gammy’s old room, where I store my pottery and package it for shipment on occasions when I sell a piece.
I step in front of the vertical, wall-mounted mirror by the dresser and peer at myself. Still no wrinkles, no more freckles than I’ve ever had. I don’t look older than twenty despite my twenty-seven years. I pull my hair down from its tie and spread the long, rust-colored locks around my face. I blink my yellow-brown eyes, purse my lips, and study my cheekbones…the smooth skin of my throat and collarbones.
Will I look like an islander to him? Or just a woman?
I laugh. Does it matter? I suppose that shall depend on what I choose to do. The mere notion of that possibility brings about a need for smelling salts, so I move on from the mirror and my thoughts, stepping into the en suite washroom to pull open the curtains.
I look out at the vast, gray sea and smooth blue sky, and I try to imagine any other life for myself than the one I have. Could I have been happy here? If Mum had lived. The answer floats up from my bones, a truth too potent to quash.
The sea breeze slaps against the windowpanes and whistles through the thatched roof as I tidy up. Will our cottage be comfortable to him, or will this place appear pitifully lacking? The pristine American homes I’ve seen were all in magazines or movies, so I’m not sure they were the regular sort. Then again, neither is he. As my mum’s stories alluded, he’s more king than commoner.
I set my favorite eucalyptus bath crystals on the table by the claw-footed tub and arrange lavender fizzies in a wee bowl. These things were mine, once—but they haven’t been for a while. Anyway, I don’t mind sharing.
I stroll back into the bedroom, leaving a pack of Doublemint on the night table. I step over to the dresser and reach for the framed photo of Mum and me, twin flower halos on our twin red heads…but then I draw my hand away. I can’t say precisely why, but it seems important that I leave it in its place, that I let her stay here—perhaps especially now.
Another spin through the house with the duster, and I call it ready. I linger in the living room, my chest aching and my head too light. On a whim, I turn back to the bedroom. I fetch a small bottle of rose water from the top drawer and spray the living area, tucking it into my pocket as I go.
Two
Declan
I press the power button on my phone and squint at the bright light.
2:49 AM.
I stuff the phone under my pillow, roll onto my side. A bolt of pain sears my right shoulder, sending me onto my back again. Dammit. I’ve gotta quit forgetting that. Left side it is. Except the left side has me facing the door to my matchbox-sized stateroom. There’s a little window on it.
There’s no paps here, asshat.
I made headlines in November, but nobody besides my team at Red Sox headquarters and a bunch of folks in white coats know the worst of it. I’ve been out of the press since the TMZ video shit, in no small part because the Sox have taken care of me. I try to find some comfort in that. I think about my agent, Aarons; my publicist, Sherie. Even the Sox board was more than generous with me, more than forgiving.
Instead of making me feel better, remembering everyone’s kindness makes my throat knot up. I run a hand back through my hair and tug until my eyes stop stinging. Nothing’s fucking wrong. It’s always this way, I remind myself. I fold my knees up toward my chest and cover my eyes. I just need to sleep. Even an hour or two would help. A nap before breakfast…
After my identity was revealed, the ship’s cook demanded to know what I wanted for my last breakfast on board, and he’s now planning to cook omelets starting at six. He wants me there while he cooks—“to make sure I get it just the way you like it.” The chief navigator and the captain plan to join us in the kitchen. After that, more autographs. And pictures with the crew.
Fuck me.
I don’t know what to tell them. “No” makes me sound like a dick, and “yes” means I’ll end up trending on Twitter.
I sit up and rub the shoulder. Useless. Without my usual concoction keeping me numb, the fucker hurts every time I breathe. My Sox trainers pushed for surgery before this trip, but my med team pushed back. Of course they did.
I lie back down and shut my eyes and focus on my breathing. In and out…and in and out. Behind my eyelids, I see sunlight stretched in gold webs on the sand and on the underside of waves.
* * *
My phone’s alarm wakes me at 6:05 after one snooze. I throw some clothes on, climb the stairs on legs that shake, and step onto the deck, stopping as a soft breeze feathers my hair back. Fog settled sometime overnight, blanketing the ocean in a haze that’s tinted sepia by the rising sun. It’s so thick I can barely see beyond the deck’s rail.
I know I should haul ass to the dining room, but we’re close to the island now. I can’t resist climbing up onto the deck atop the nav po
st. The damp stairs squeak under my shoes as I hasten my steps. The stair rail is cool under my palm. I step onto the upper deck, feeling my pulse quicken at the thought of being here again. At that moment, a breeze pushes the fog aside, revealing a sight that I haven’t seen since I was six: Tristan da Cunha—a massive chunk of dark brown rock that rises to a cloud-swathed peak.
Of all the islands in the world, this one is the most remote—the most isolated patch of land where humans live. These thirty-eight square miles of land are 1,700 miles from South Africa and 2,000 miles from South America. With no airport and no safe harbor for large ships, no GPS or cell phone towers, people here live cut off from the world. Mail comes every two to three months, the birth of a baby is a rare occasion, and if someone has a medical emergency, it’s flag down one of the fishing vessels or cargo ships that travel back and forth from Cape Town to Antarctica and back, and hope it’s headed back.
My throat tightens as I squint at the island, searching the grassy valley at the foot of the volcano for cottages that I don’t see from here. Somewhere, maybe on the other side, there’s a little village. If the guidebooks are to be believed, there are just a dozen or so shy of three hundred people—fishermen and farmers, mostly descended from a handful of British.
