Page 30 of Holding On

“I’ve got that one,” I say, grabbing the biggest duffle bag I’ve ever seen from her grasp before she topples over. I get it balanced and then look around.

“This slaps,” I say. “Totally worth it.” The barge is painted a glossy black with red trim work and alabaster white gunnel rails that match the window casings.

Maya goes back and retrieves a suitcase and a laptop. Back in the car is another suitcase, the printer, a blender, a box of groceries, and a ceramic pour-over coffee carafe thing.

She’s already made one trip into the cabin with toiletries and a little jewelry box. I set stuff on the pier and go back for a second load.

This time, however, I make it all the way onto the boat and down three steps of the cabin. The boat sways slightly. Maya’s turned on a couple of lights, and I get a good look at the inside. I can’t help myself and let out a long, low whistle.

The boat is sleek, retro, and fucking awesome. It’s all deep, rich oak and highly polished. Two swivel leather chairs sit bolted to the floor across from the red leather built-on sofa. A bar is stationed adjoining the galley at one end, and I make a note to check out Carlson’s liquor choices later. The galley, laid out in a perfect triangle, sports a small fridge, an electric built-in hotplate, a small convection oven, and a pint-sized dishwasher. Above, there are narrow cupboards with latches to keep everything inside from falling to the floor in rough water.

There’s a neatness coupled with an efficiency of space that always appealed to me about boats. But they take an awful lot of money. And time.

“It’s going to take some getting used to,” Maya says, waving me through a doorway and into the bedroom.

All the woodwork is dark and glossy, with glass partitions to the main room about elbow-high and covered in cotton curtains. Smaller sealed windows to the outside flank the wall the bed lies against. Another leather chair and floor lamp sit bolted to the floor across from a low full-sized bed with drawers tucked underneath. A closet and the head, both with latching doors, stand at the fore.

The last time I saw this boat was two years ago, and it was little more than a carcass. I’d returned with Devon a few days after the barge had been gutted by fire. Even with all this work, and I bet Carlson did a lot of this himself, this boat represents an attempt on another man’s life.

I set the duffle bag on the bed and duck my head into the bathroom.

“There’s the whole shower situation I have to figure out,” she adds, anticipating my question. There’s just a sink and a toilet.

“Where do you do that?”

“Not here.” She unzips the duffle. “Apparently, there’s usually five or six people who live along the dock, and there’s a community shower.” I must look concerned, because she says, “It’s fine. There’s a lock on the door and everything, and it’s actually nice. It’s just different. But at this end of the dock, it’s just me, and that feels a little weird. These slips are long too. The boats along here are mostly thirty-two footers and up.”

I nod. Even though I grew up on the coast, and I’ve been on people’s boats, I’m definitely not in that world of lounging. To me, a boat is a work vehicle. I can run a speedboat up and down the coast and paddle a sea kayak, but that’s it. This barge is close to sixty-feet long with a large flat hull and a lot of space for just that: lounging.

While Claire and I don’t enjoy being on deck, Laurel, Devin, and Chloe are all little pirates. Those three know a lot about sailing boats, types of ships, lines, navigation—the whole thing. I’ve always been more interested in what’s under the water—the plants, animals, and other aquatic lives being lived. I was snorkeling almost before I could walk. I know I terrified my family on more than one occasion while trying to stay under for as long as I could to take in one more look or swim into one more sea cave.

Ever since I was a kid, that was the superpower I wanted. Forget flying or being invisible. I wanted to be able to swim underwater forever without scuba gear. When I found out that Mateus and Bryce were former Navy SEALs, I started asking them about their training. Mateus sort of took pity on me and took me under his wing. Now he’s got me to where I can hold my breath for nearly four minutes.

I’m holding my breath now. We’ve been in the bedroom for too long, and her sudden nervousness is rubbing off on me.

Maya isn’t looking at me. She’s hurrying around for some reason, waving at the duffel and saying things like, “I’ll put all of that away later”—all clues pointing to the fact that she must want me out of here.

It’s not until we retrieve the rest of her stuff from the dock and she’s organizing the galley that she seems to wind down.

“This is nicer than anything left over from summer rentals on shore.” I swing a leg over and sit down on one of the padded red barstools.

“Beer?” she says and pulls out two chilled bottles from the little fridge.

It’s almost twilight, and stars are starting to pulse. She uncaps the bottles as I lean over and crank open a window.

“Jack—I mean, Detective Carlson—says this is much nicer than it was before.”

Reaching for the beer, I have to ask, “Did Carlson tell you what happened here?” I take a sip. It’s cold, and immediately all the awkwardness of the last hour seems to evaporate. She sits next to me and swivels back and forth on her perch.

“I get it was bad.”

“I think you should talk to Devon about it. I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but the asshole who set it, Kevin Barr, is the son of one of the judges you’ll probably run into at the courthouse.”

Her “Get out” has no note of surprise. She starts to peel the label on her bottle.

“The hardest part was that I was away at school when they finally caught the asshole. He’s psycho.”

“But he’s in jail now, right?”