"That makes sense." Elizabeth nods. "For Chloe, it was one of the servants. Mum was sick for a few months after she gave birth to my sister. She allowed this one servant, Lila, to take care of Chloe. The two of them grew very close. Even though Mum frowns at it, Chloe still makes sure to spend some time with Lila every day."
"Well I don't think it's hurt her," I say.
"Of course you don't." Elizabeth smiles in a way that slightly parts her lips, as she usually does before sex or when she wants me to do something. "I just hope," she says coming closer, putting her arms around my neck, "you don't wonder whether you got the wrong sister."
Our last night at sea, Elizabeth insists on staying above deck. I sit with her on the flybridge, watching with her for signs of land. The evening ocean has calmed so much that its waters are as flat as any lake and the Grand Banks glides along with only a gentle tip and roll to its movements-the hiss of the water, as it's displaced beneath us, commingled with the purr of our twin diesels. The mild rocking of the boat, the quiet lullaby of the passing waters finally overtake me and I fall into a deep sleep.
Elizabeth stays up, wakes me when she sees lights on the horizon. "The whole sky is glowing over there," she says.
She hugs me when I nod and say, "We're almost home."
The sun begins to break into the sky shortly before we reach the Fowey Rock lighthouse. I turn off the autopilot and take the helm as we approach it, the dark lines of its skeletal structure looking in the early light like a child's construction toy rising from the sea. Elizabeth stares at it, turns toward the lights of Miami-their glow bleaching out from the coming dawn-then gazes back at the dark, light-streaked clouds floating in a sky that first turns gold, then blue on the horizon as the sun rises. "It's all so beautiful," she says.
Her eyes widen as we enter Biscayne Bay and cruise by the first of the stilt homes that line the Biscayne channel, Miami's skyline still too far in front of us to be fully visible. But Key Biscayne, just a few miles to our right, sits close enough to dazzle Elizabeth with its upscale homes and towering, white-concrete condominiums. "Is that Miami?" she asks.
I shake my head, point to the dozens of high-rise buildings slowly rising into sight, far across the water.
"Oh," she says.
A pang of homesickness hits me when I glance to the south and see the green treetops of Soldier Key and the dark smudges on the water beyond it that I know will soon grow to show both Wayward Key and Blood Key. "See the islands?" I ask Elizabeth.
"Is that yours… ours?" She points to Soldier Key.
I shake my head. "Look farther south, the second one past it. That's your new home."
She stares, squints her eyes, then shrugs. "I can't tell," she says. "It's too far."
I examine the sandbars barely showing on either side of the channel, realize the tide has a while to go before it reaches its lowest point, leaving us plenty of time to reach the island. I grin and say, "You'll see it soon enough."
Chapter 17
The dogs hear us first. They start barking and yelping while we're still wending our way through the channel-the boat under just enough power to maintain forward momentum-my bride on the bow, peering into the water, shouting, "Watch out!", guiding me away from any threatening rocks.
By the time we reach Caya DelaSangre's small harbor, Elizabeth's shouted warnings of underwater dangers, the mutter of our motors and the howls of the dog pack have brought Arturo Gomez-bearded, barefoot, long haired, shirtless and tanner than ever-to the deck of his sleek, thirty-five-foot SeaRay cabin cruiser, a black automatic pistol in his right hand.
He uncocks the gun and shoves it into his cutoff shorts' right front pocket when he sees me. The weight of the pistol pulls the cutoffs down a little, accentuating the swell of his protruding stomach. I shake my head and smile when he takes notice of Elizabeth's red halter top and tight khaki shorts and sucks in his gut as he grins and nods toward her. It's hard for me to think that the scruffy vagabond in front of me is the same man as the dapper, always meticulously dressed president of LaMar Associates.
As I'd suspected, Arturo's anchored in the middle of the harbor to keep his distance from the dogs. There's barely enough room alongside his boat for the Grand Banks to pass. To reach the dock, I have to steer uncomfortably close to the SeaRay.
"Nice girl," Arturo calls out as he walks along the side of his boat, watching our movement, obviously prepared to jump forward and fend us off if it appears we're going to run into him.
"Nice beard," I say as we glide past.
He rubs the thick growth on his face and flashes one of his wide smiles. "You damn well gave me enough time to grow it."
"Didn't you say you could use a vacation?"
"A vacation, yes." Arturo laughs. "But I've been gone from the office so long I'm afraid they're going to think I either died or retired. Do you realize it's August already?"
I shake my head, and marvel how time has become so unimportant to me. "What day is it?" I ask.
"Tuesday, the second."
"Peter! Elizabeth warns from the bow. I look forward, see we're moving too quickly, back off the throttles and turn my attention to bringing us close to the dock without striking it. She maintains her position, a coiled line in her hands, waiting patiently for the opportunity to jump off the boat and secure its lines. As we close, Slash and Scar and a half dozen other growling dogs watch us from the dock, legs splayed, teeth bared, hackles raised.
"Are you sure she's going to be okay?" Arturo asks from the safety of his boat.
Elizabeth turns and stares at him as if he were a dead, rotting fish, spoiling the air with its odor. She purses her lips and whistles one sharp loud blast and laughs as the dogs scurry off the dock and rush out of sight. I laugh with her, amused to see the red flush rise on Arturo's face.
After Elizabeth cleats our lines, I cut the motors and sit back to stare at the dock, the nearby trees, the coral walls of my home. The sea breeze quickly washes away the last remnants of the Grand Banks's diesel fumes and I breathe in the familiar aromas of salt air and fresh green vegetation that welcome me home. I half expect to hear Father mindspeak to me, feel the loss of him once again, and wish he were here to meet my bride.
Arturo rows his dinghy over and joins us on the dock. "Good to see you," he says, shaking my hand and slapping my back. Turning his attention to Elizabeth, he asks, "Is this the bride?" He holds out his hand to shake hers, grins and says, "She's beautiful. Congratulations!"
Elizabeth looks past him, ignoring his gesture. "Can we go inside now?" she mindspeaks. "I want to see the house."
Arturo waits, sweating, squinting from the hot sun's glare, his smile now strained, his hand still extended.
"Please, Elizabeth, take his hand. The man is useful to me. He'll be gone soon enough."
Elizabeth sighs, offers forward a limp hand, gives a thin smile as Arturo grasps it lightly and quickly disengages. "Now Peter?" she asks.
I force a smile. "Why don't you go below and put your things together? We need to unload the boat. I'll come down in a few minutes to help you."
She glares at me, mindspeaks, "He's just a human. Why not have him do it?" Then she clambers onto the boat.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," Arturo says.