Page 33 of Dead of Summer
“Well, I may have to do that later, but I was hoping to spend the time with you first.” Faith hesitates.
Their plates are filled with poached eggs and bowls of sliced exotic fruits flown in from some other, far more tropical island. An assortment of French pastries sits on a marble tray on the center of the table; the shine on their perfect lamination suggests that they too were imported recently, perhaps flown in this morning. Faith takes a bite of a croissant.
“Good?” David asks, watching her.
“Yes.” She almost hates to admit that somehow it’s even better than the ones she tried in the cafés of Paris when she went with Elena several years ago. David seems nearly relaxed now, more so than he’s been since they arrived. He’s uncharacteristically chipper for someone who was up in the middle of the night. He takes another piece of bread from the tray on the table and slathers it with butter. His appetite is certainly intact, she notes.
A massive white yacht is pulling into view just offshore. Faith counts five decks, angled aerodynamically on top of one another. On board she can make out the smudges of white-uniformed staff rushing around on the decks.
“What is that?” She drops her napkin on the table and leaps up from her chair, going straight to the railing to look at the massive white yacht that’s pulled into the harbor.
Behind her, David reluctantly rises from his breakfast and goes to stand next to her. “This must be Dad’s new toy,” David says. Faith lowers her sunglasses.
“His toy?”
“Yes, it’s been his hobby the last few years.”
“It’s huge.”
“Dad never is half-assed about his interests,” he says, amused. “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing. I think that’s what he always says.”
David folds his arms on the railing and leans out. Faith has been waiting for him to tell her what he was doing out so late, but she is starting to realize that is not going to happen unless she presses him.
“Are you okay?” she asks him.
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” He says it too quickly. The yacht is reflected in his sunglasses. So this is how it’s going to be.
“Well, there was the thing on the beach—” she starts, her stomach sinking.
“Fay, I told you she was just a friend, are we going to keep talking about this?” David says, cutting her off, the same irritation creeping into his voice as was there before.
“There was something else I wanted to ask you about.”
He turns, his eyes obscured by his glasses. “Go on?”
“Son!”
David stands up straight as Geoffrey comes out to the veranda, ignoring the two of them as he goes to the railing and looks out at the yacht. His father’s skin looks pale and vaguely unhealthy in the bright sunlight.
There is a small flicker of a smile on his face, Faith notices. One she hasn’t seen before. Perhaps Geoffrey Clarke is capable of joy after all.
“There she is.” He sighs. “Ophelia—the second one, of course. Been waiting for her to be finished for about three years now.”
Why do men always call a boatshe? Faith wonders. Probably because a boat is something they like to own, steering them whicheverway they like. An illusion, though, isn’t it? When the ocean is really in charge.
“Why the second?” Faith asks, keeping her voice light.
“The first one was sold off years ago,” David replies quickly.
“This one is better,” Geoffrey snaps. His fingers grip at the railing.
Faith lowers her sunglasses, looking out at the boat, where staff continue to dash around on the yacht, busily preparing for Geoffrey’s arrival.
“Over a hundred meters long,” Geoffrey says proudly. “See, David, the party you are dreading is already paying off dividends. This mooring just came through last night. What’s-his-name down at the harbor rang me up and said it magically opened up for us. Took me a lifetime to get a mooring in front of my own damn property.”
“Where will you take it?” Faith asks him.
He doesn’t look at her as he answers, his eyes fixed out at the water. “Newport probably. Possibly Martha’s Vineyard if those assholes let us moor.”
