Page 109 of Last Wish Wedding

The Nereid rose on a swell, momentarily further away, and in that instant, Mac confronted the distinct possibility of his own death. Not someday, not in the abstract, but here, now, in this expanse of indifferent ocean.

Images flashed through his mind—not the worn clichés of his youth or achievements, but a kitchen on a small island in Maine. Noah, laughing at the counter as he mixed pancake batter. Kelsey, sleep-rumpled and beautiful in the morning light, reaching for the coffee Mac had made.

The realization hit him with the force of the waves around him: he loved them. Not as convenient companions, not as a business arrangement, but deeply, completely. And he might die out here, alone, without ever having told them.

Mac redoubled his efforts, forcing his tired arms through the water. The safety line continued to trail behind the boat, tantalizingly close and impossibly far. His breathing grew labored, each gasping inhalation bringing spray with it.

Another wave lifted him, and this time, he caught a glimpse of the line’s end—the trailing portion had formed a small loop where the knot had begun to slip. One chance. If the boat rose on a swell while he was in a trough, the line might—just might—come within reach.

Mac stopped swimming directly toward the boat and adjusted his angle to anticipate where the next wave would place him relative to that trailing line. The cold was numbing his extremities, his thoughts beginning to slow.

A particularly large swell lifted the Nereid high, the stern rising as the bow dipped into the preceding trough. The safety line went momentarily slack as the boat pivoted, and the loop at its end dipped lower in the water.

Mac lunged with the last of his strength. The rough texture of the line brushed his fingertips, started to slide past—and then he had it. His frozen fingers closed around the wet rope with desperate strength.

He clung to it, breath heaving in great gasps as the boat’s movement pulled him through the water. Hand over hand, he began the agonizing process of drawing himself toward the Nereid, fighting the drag of the water, the weight of his waterlogged clothing, the increasingly clumsy movements of his cold-numbed limbs.

It might have taken minutes or hours—time lost meaning in the singular focus of survival. When his hand finally closed around the boat’s stern ladder, Mac almost couldn’t believe it. He hung there for long moments, gathering strength for the final effort.

With painful slowness, he dragged himself up the ladder, muscles trembling with exhaustion and cold. He rolled over the gunwale and collapsed onto the deck, chest heaving. Rain continued to lash down, but he barely felt it. The solid fiberglass beneath his body was the only reality that mattered.

Alive. He was alive.

When he could move again, Mac crawled to the cockpit, seeking shelter from the worst of the weather. The autopilot was holding course admirably despite the challenging conditions. He only needed to get below, to change into dry clothes, to warm his core temperature before hypothermia took a firmer hold.

But for the moment, he simply sat in the relative protection of the cockpit, shaking with cold and delayed shock.

Alone in the midst of a vast ocean, he had come within seconds of death—not from dramatic violence but from simple physics, from the implacable mathematics of distance and temperature and time.

And for what? To run from the one thing he’d been searching for his entire life?

“No more,” he whispered, the words lost to the storm. “No more running.”

He had nearly lost everything without ever having truly claimed it as his own. What was the point of protecting himself from potential future pain if it meant missing the life that waited for him back on that small Maine island?

Hours later, warmed and changed, Mac checked his course for Porto Santo. The storm had passed, leaving a clear night sky scattered with stars. Eight hours to landfall, perhaps twelve to the airport. A day, maybe two, of flights and connections.

He’d figure out the boat logistics along the way. Maybe arrange for it to be sent back to Maine. After this experience, he’d had enough of long-distance sailing.

In a few short days, he’d see them again. And this time he would never let them go.

Chapter 31

The sun was low in the sky as Kelsey, Noah, and Tyler made their way back from Amy’s. Noah kicked a pinecone ahead of them, keeping score in some improvised game he and Tyler had concocted.

“Twenty-three points!” Noah crowed as the pinecone skittered across the path.

“No way,” Tyler protested. “That was clearly out of bounds.”

“Mom, wasn’t that in bounds?” Noah appealed, walking backwards to face Kelsey.

“Hmm?” Kelsey pulled her thoughts back from their wandering. “Sorry, I wasn’t watching. Want to try again?”

Noah rolled his eyes with the specific exasperation reserved for parents who failed to pay attention to crucial sporting moments. “Never mind. We’re almost home anyway.”

Home. The word still caught in Kelsey’s mind. Mac’s house, their house now, rose ahead, welcoming in the fading light. Despite nearly three months of living there, part of her still felt like a visitor, especially with Mac gone.

As they approached the driveway, Kelsey noticed an unfamiliar sedan parked near the front door. Dark blue, luxury model, tinted windows.