We climbed out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition, then wandered up a slippery, narrow set of metal stairs to the top deck in unspoken agreement. Since hardly anyone else had boarded we had our choice of seats, and Sam settled us near the starboard railing. It felt nice to be aboard a boat again, with the salt air in my nose and the afternoon sun on my face. We’d chosen an express ferry, which would get us to Santorini in a little over five hours instead of eight or nine. It might seem like a long time to some people, but I’d inherited a love of boating and water from my dad, and it had been too long since I’d been able to enjoy it.
“You look happy.”
“What?” I’d almost forgotten Sam was here. A hazard of spending so much time alone.
“I’ve been watching you for over a week now. This whole trip, whenever you think I’m not looking, you have this kind of conflicted expression. You chew the inside of your lips and cheeks, and your eyes get really far away.”
“That’s not creepy at all.”
“Well, you don’t talk to me, so I have to resort to creepy stalker tactics to try to understand what’s going on in that pretty head.” He smiled. “Anyway, just now you looked happy. Your mouth was relaxed, your eyes were on the horizon, and it was like nothing bothered you.”
I paused, because that’s what I always did. I stopped myself before words came out of my mouth. Analyzed them. What they could tell someone else, what they might reveal that I wanted to keep hidden. Whether or not it was information that would come back to bite me in the ass later.
The old Blair, the one determined to keep everyone out of her fucked-up inner world, would have smiled and shrugged. This one wanted to help Sam learn, because for some reason it didn’t feel bad when he inched a little bit closer.
“I love the water. Sailing is one of my father’s favorite things—he’s really good at it, too—and he started taking me out before I could walk. It was our thing even before my mother died. She never went because she got seasick.”
“Yeah, I remember Leo telling me your dad is a world-class sailor. One reason that it’s been hard for the authorities to track him down.” He paused, looking out across the water. More people wandered up onto the deck, milling around and chatting in low voices. An array of languages, mostly romance, swirled on the light breeze. They were mostly couples and the majority appeared to be non-Greek tourists, but the ferry wasn’t anywhere near as crowded as it got during the summer months.
A moment later, the engines rumbled to life. “It’s your home. The water. That’s why you’ve never been anywhere you’d want to settle down.”
A calm washed over me at the idea of living on the water. Now that he’d said it out loud, it made sense.
“You really want to go diving tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I do. Are you really certified?”
“Sure. When I was quite a bit younger. Even when I have the time now, I’m not really allowed to go because of the potential danger. Same with skiing, which I also love.”
I recalled that he hadn’t been able to go out on the slopes in St. Moritz, but that he had said more than once how jealous he was of the rest of us. Still, a few years of not doing those things was nothing compared with the kind of tennis career he was building. That would crest and start to fall off, probably by the time he turned thirty. He had the rest of his life to scuba dive and ski, or do whatever life-threatening activity he wanted.
“We don’t have to go diving if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“No, I want to do something you love. Then later, once my rackets get here, we’ll do something I love.”
“Did you get ahold of your rep at Head?”
“Yep. Answered my e-mail while we were in line buying tickets. Six new rackets will be delivered to the post office on Santorini tomorrow.”
“Bet it’s the first time your rackets will be delivered by donkey.”
“That would be a yes.” He paused. “I am surprised that you want to spend some extra time here if we don’t turn up anything at your dad’s house. I mean . . . don’t you have classes to get back to? Or your life at Whitman in general? Break has got to be over.”
Break ended several days ago, but my teachers were under the impression that my father had had a mild stroke. My dad’s staff would back up the story if anyone called looking for me. He thought I was out getting Sam to trust me enough to sign over his bank accounts.
Until sometime in the past forty-eight hours, that’s what I had been doing.
“It’s okay. I worked it out with my teachers. The only requirement is that I turn in projects and be there to take a couple of finals before Christmas break. If my dad isn’t here or the next place, I’m out of options, anyway. I’ll go back to Whitman and regroup, but still work on your specific loss if you’ll let me.”