LITMIR.BIZ

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keep thinking about Sarah and the twins.”

      “Of course you do.” He said quietly, “Tell me what happened.”

      I hesitated. Angelo’s manner—careful speech and movement—signaled worry.

      “I, well…”

      “Mara, tell me. I need to know.”

      It tumbled out—the rolling buoy, the big sea. Peter taking my place, checking the buoy twice, crushed beneath it, airlifted to the hospital.

      Angelo’s face darkened with each revelation.

      I finished, and he shook his head. “My god. What might’ve happened to you.”

      He looked away and pressed his eyes shut for a moment.

      I brought him back to what he knew best. “What can you tell me about the winch?”

      “What make is it?”

      “Shapley Render-Recover’s written on the side.”

      “It’s new then, with top-of-the-line safety features.”

      I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold. “So an accident seems unlikely?”

      Angelo hesitated, his brow heavily wrinkled. “I’d think so, but accidents do happen. MOI will work with the Coast Guard to find out. They’ll want to interview you since you were right there.”

      I nodded. “Good. I want to tell them a few things that are, ah, peculiar.”

      “Yes?”

      “I returned to the ship to retrieve a flash drive. Seymour was on deck dressing-down one of the crew.”

      “What did Seymour say?”

      “Something about being clumsy.”

      “Anything else?”

      “You know that little lab off the fantail deck?”

      Angelo nodded.

      “The senior scientists met there to review cruise details. We asked about the loose buoy, but Seymour didn’t care.”

      Angelo frowned. “I’ve been on dozens of cruises and never saw a buoy roll on the deck. Seymour should’ve been alarmed.”

      “Right. At the time, the untethered buoy was bizarre. Now it’s, I don’t know, more than that.” I hugged myself. “One more thing. Peter asked about a guy on the ship he’d never seen before.”

      “And?”

      “Seymour said he was a friend interested in our work.”

      “It’s unusual he’d be on the cruise, but it happens if there’s space.”

      I slumped back in my chair.

      Angelo stood. “Mara, you must be exhausted. Let’s have dinner.”

      The Italian solution to any problem. Food.

      Angelo announced we’d have shrimp simmered in his special tomato sauce poured over pasta. In the kitchen, I sat at one end of the long pine table and watched him cook. With the quick, practiced movements of a chef, Angelo sautéed garlic and onions in olive oil and added tomatoes.

      Angelo’s actions faded as images and emotions washed through me—crushing weight, smashed bones, Peter in the hospital, Sarah in tears, my own guilt and grief.

      I sat back and closed my eyes. Angelo’s right. I was exhausted. I drank in the aroma of garlic simmering in olive oil. After a glass of wine, the cruise was far away and unreal.

      Angelo heaped two plates with linguini, shrimp, and sauce. I cleaned my plate and smiled at my godfather. “Guess I was hungry. That was terrific.”

      My cell phone rang. Harvey.

      “May I come over?”

      “Sure. I’m at Angelo’s. What’s happened?”

      “Tell you when I get there.”

      Fifteen minutes later, Harvey sat at the kitchen table. Her eyelashes were wet, face puffy. I held her hand and braced for the worst.

      It was barely more than a whisper. “Peter died an hour ago.”

       5

      PETER’S DEAD?” OPEN MOUTHED, I stared at Harvey.

      She dabbed her tears with a damp linen handkerchief.

      Angelo murmured, “My god.”

      “Massive internal injuries. Nothing the doctors could do.”

      “How did you find out? Isn’t he down in a Portland hospital?”

      “My niece is an intensive care nurse. Sarah was down there, of course, and said she wanted us to know.”

      “Give me a minute.”

      I stumbled into the living room, over to a window. Dizzy, I leaned against the pane and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the channel buoy’s warning light flashed red on the black sea.

      Angelo slipped next to me. “I’m so very sorry about Peter.”

      I held onto the sill and looked into the night. “A husband, dad, friend, young scientist. Gone in an instant.” I turned toward him. “It feels all too familiar. Mom and Dad, you know—”

      Angelo opened his arms and pulled me close. I rested my cheek against the soft wool of his vest and drank in warmth and succor. I stepped back, blinked, and whispered, “I love you, Angelo.”

      “I’m always here for you, Mara, you know that. Peter and your parents—two oceanographic accidents? It’s not surprising his death triggers old memories.”

      I coughed. “You’re right. We’d better get back to Harvey.”

      In the kitchen Harvey stared into space. As usual, everything about her—clothes, hair, posture—was perfect. But something about her gave the impression that, like a glass statue, she could fall over and crack with a little push.

      I slid into the chair next to her. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?”

      She murmured, “Just a glass of water.”

      Angelo let the tap run and placed glasses of cold well water in front of Harvey and me. Between sips, we talked about Peter and his family. Harvey was a good friend of Sarah’s.

      She leaned against the table and stood. “I’m exhausted. I’ll call Sarah tomorrow.”

      I walked Harvey to the kitchen door. We hugged and held onto each other’s hands.

      “Harv, I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

      She dropped my hand, turned, and walked down the stone steps. I expected her to do the usual reverse hand wave over her shoulder. But she didn’t.

      In the kitchen, Angelo lit a burner on his ancient gas stove and got out the Italian roast. The teakettle whistled. He poured steaming water into a press and coffee aroma filled the kitchen.

      Angelo slid a mug and bakery box in front of me. “Decaf and biscotti. You must be all in.”

      The sugar perked me up a bit, but sorrow and guilt had taken their toll. “I’ll be off in a few minutes.” I nibbled the biscuit. “When I’m interviewed, what will they ask?”

      “Why Peter took your place, what you saw. That type of thing.”

      I dunked the rest of the biscotti. “Ted was there too.”

      “Ted?”

      “New hire. Algae expert. Ted McKnight.” The last thing Ted and I talked about was the Prospect Institute email. I opened my mouth, then shut it.

      Angelo

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