Page 39 of The Second Chance in the Mediterranean
“What about you?” He leaned back and tucked his phone away. “You’re single. I’m assuming I would have heard otherwise.”
“Yes.” I bit my lip. Technically not a lie.
“The dating pool around the yachties is just a minefield, isn’t it? These young kids aren’t so levelheaded, and it’s the worst when it goes south, having to lose two crew members at once. They make me feel old.”
“I just try to avoid the drama.”
“What about those guys on the sailboat?”
I startled. “In the Pacific?”
“Yeah.”
“God, why does everyone think I was with one of them? Definitely not.”
He shrugged. “You have to really like people to be stuck on a small boat like that. It’s one of the things I’ve always been asked about: How do you stand being cooped up in here?” Dom spread his arms out. “Like this is tough, nineteen crew on a huge yacht. I can’t imagine five crew on a fifty-five-footer.”
“Well, nothing ever happened. Not with me, anyway, but yeah, two of the other crew members.”
“Was it bad?”
“It was justokay. Part of the reason I left. But I heard it got worse after I was gone. To your point, she was younger and didn’t take it very well.”
“There’s always one in the couple who can’t handle it.” He shook his head. “I know you’re more experienced than most of these crews, so you know better. They’re all young and think with their dicks—excuse my language. I can’t believe how many times I’ve had to mediate between a couple because they’re fighting or teaming up on others. Honestly, aside from being away from my kids, it’s the worst part of the job.”
My stomach was a lead weight inside me, full of guilt. Why did I think Seb and I were special, that we’d come out the other side of this with our jobs still intact? It had already backfired on me once. Maybe I was setting myself up to learn the same lesson the hard way.
Eighteen
Themishad toodeep of a draft to fit into the marina at Gouvia, the main one on Corfu, so we anchored outside in the bay. It wasn’t an easy stop for the crew—being at anchor and so far from the main town would make things harder—but fortunately the weather forecast looked good for the next week, a few days prepping for us and then through the Boyds’ visit. It could have been worse: taking the dinghy back and forth to shore with provisions or laundry was exponentially harder in the rain. Instead we looked forward to a few calm, sunny days at anchor.
When we connected to Wi-Fi in Corfu, Seb had an email waiting for him from the regatta. His application to the sailing coaching program had been denied.
“I just . . .” he started, running his hands through his hair and tugging. “I’ve been doing this job for a few years now, and I’m still a deckhand. I need something to give me an edge for a promotion.”
“You’re great at your job,” I told him. “And at least you are getting sea time in now, right?”
“Yeah, my sea time is good. I almost have enough to qualify for my captain’s license. But that’s just a piece of paper.” He shook his head. “I need someone to take a chance on me.” He closed his eyes. “My contract is up at the end of this season, and so is Derick’s. He’s a great bosun, and I like working for him, but, man...” Seb clenched his fists. “I want his job.”
I swallowed thickly. “What will you do if he renews?”
Seb turned his head to look at me. We watched each other, a few heavy moments hanging over us. Seb broke first, turning away.
“I don’t know, Marce. I just don’t know.”
My stomach plummeted, and I chided myself. Our jobs were temporary. Our relationship was temporary. My whole life was temporary. I shouldn’t forget that.
* * *
Dom pickedJustin and Natasha up from the airport the afternoon of their arrival. I had a simple Italian dish to prepare for the evening, a tuna puttanesca made with locally caught fish. Will was pairing it with a light Zinfandel and Roy had baked a boule to serve alongside.
When Justin and Natasha were comfortable on deck with pre-dinner cocktails, Dom called me up. I climbed the stairs, nervously smoothing down my chef’s jacket, with Roy right behind me.
I caught sight of Natasha first. She was petite and of Asian heritage, with long jet-black hair pulled up tight in a ponytail. Just like I remembered, she was lithe and immaculately dressed. She stood at the rail ofThemis,looking out toward the sunset, a martini in her hand.
She turned and spotted me approaching. “Marcella.” Her smile was warm and welcoming, and she had a soft British accent.
We shook hands. “Pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Boyd.”
