Page 3 of Natural Selection

“How long have you been married?” Wanda Ross asks.

Sophia should put an end to this charade now; she hasn’t lied, but she should have corrected Wanda earlier. However, Sophia doesn’t have the emotional energy it would take to clarify: Not wife, girlfriend. She would also have to watch her status plummet in Wanda’s eyes. “Six months,” she says.

“Newlyweds!” Wanda cries out. “Henry and I have been married forty-six years. This is our anniversary trip.”

“Wow,” Sophia says. If she and JP got married next summer, which is what she hopes (she has, secretly, started a Pinterest board), they would make it to forty-six years only if JP lived to be a hundred and one.

“Well,” Wanda says with a sigh. They both look over at Henry, who has fallen asleep sitting upright. His mouth hangs open, and Sophia pretends not to see the drool threatening to drop from his lip. “It’s work.”

In the San Cristóbal airport, Sophia creates a circle with the other people on her boat while they wait for their guide. Sophia can’t help but view her fellow travelers through a New York real estate lens. Tucker and Kelly are young and athletic looking; they’re both firefighters from Birmingham, England. Sophia would show them single-families in West New Brighton on Staten Island. DeAndre and Grant are from San Francisco. Downtown, Sophia thinks. Brownstone on Perry Street or West Fourth—or, possibly, Tribeca. They’re stylish: DeAndre wears immaculate white trousers and a pair of Stubbs & Wootton loafers embroidered with . . . Sophia peers at his feet . . . yes, blue-footed boobies, one of the birds they’re supposed to see on this trip. Sophia is dying to take a picture of the shoes and send it to Pierce; he has six pairs of Stubbs loafers, all of them custom. Grant is more appropriately dressed for the trip, in sturdy-looking canvas shorts and hiking boots, a daypack tight against his broad back. Next there’s a couple who look even more miserable than Sophia feels: Arn and Dolores from Evanston, Illinois. The group introduction has interrupted their vicious whisper argument. Sophia sees couples like this all the time. She’d be showing them houses in Stamford when really the wife wants Greenwich (but they can’t afford it). Arn has a dad bod and a meaty red face; he says he’s the senior vice president of Blah Blah Blah Tool and Die. Dolores is frighteningly thin, with straight black hair in need of a trim; she glares at everyone like a teenager with a bad attitude but says nothing. Henry and Wanda stand to Sophia’s left and inform the group they’re from Columbus, Ohio. “Go Buckeyes!” Henry says. He pulls his button-down apart at the chest like he’s Superman to reveal an Ohio State T-shirt underneath. The only place in New York that Sophia can picture Henry and Wanda is the New York Hilton on Sixth Avenue. The final person in the circle is Hugh, who is overweight, heavily bearded, and soft spoken. He has to repeat himself three times before everyone understands he’s from New Hampshire; he’s a biology professor. Sophia pictures Hugh in a one-bedroom, uptown West Side near Columbia.

“Are you here alone, Hugh?” Wanda asks. Sophia looks down at Hugh’s feet. He’s wearing sandals that reveal thick yellow toenails.

Hugh nods. He seems perfectly nice, Sophia thinks, and yet she fears she’ll be paired up with him by default for the next eight days, which isn’t exactly appealing.

The circle is infiltrated by a young, handsome Ecuadorian man who looks like he’s just stepped off the courts at Wimbledon. He’s wearing white shorts and a crisp white polo shirt with DORADO embroidered in gold thread on the pocket. “I am your guide, Miguel,” he says. His teeth gleam. “Welcome to the Galápagos Islands!” Everyone except Arn and Dolores bursts into excited applause. Sophia sets down JP’s camera case and claps along halfheartedly.

Sophia expects her spirits will lift once she sees the boat; she has her phone at the ready—she promised Pierce pictures, and she supposes she’ll send them to JP now too—but when she sees the Dorado, it’s like expecting a pair of Louboutins for your birthday and receiving Crocs. The Dorado is, by far, the smallest boat in any of the slips, the runt of the litter. Still, Sophia holds out hope. It could be a jewel box, beautifully appointed on the inside, a floating boutique hotel. She remembers all the amenities JP listed as they lay in her bed the morning they booked the trip: sundeck, air-conditioned salons, full complimentary bar.

She should have looked more closely at the pictures.

Sophia trails the group to the end of the dock, where a gentleman waits in a panga. He helps everyone down into the boat.

“Buenas días,” Sophia says. She left her tote and duffel to be loaded with the luggage, but she holds the camera case close to her chest. This is what she has left of JP; it might as well contain his ashes.

“Ah,” the man says. “Habla español?”

“No,” Sophia admits. “Cerveza, por favor, uno mas cerveza. That’s it.”

The man laughs. “Me llamo Luis Antonio.”

“Me llamo Sophia.”

“Me llamo Wanda,” Wanda pipes in. By the time the panga reaches the Dorado, everyone has said his or her name, as though it’s a party game.

The Dorado is not a floating boutique hotel, nor is it beautifully appointed. It’s tired and badly in need of renovation. Or, if Sophia is using her real estate speak: The Dorado is ready for its next owner to optimize its potential. They enter through a dining area, pass by three four-tops, and proceed into a living area that has vinyl couches running along the perimeter and a couple of glass-topped coffee tables. In one corner is the “full, complimentary bar,” stocked with things like Galliano and blue Curaçao.

Miguel is handing out keys. “You’re in Room One,” he tells Sophia. “The Honeymoon Suite.”

Sophia blinks. “The Honeymoon Suite?”

Miguel flashes his brilliant smile. “We call it that because it’s the only room with a double bed.” He sighs. “But I have been informed that your partner had an emergency at home and will not be joining us.”

Sophia wonders how Miguel knows this. Did young Penélope Cruz tell him, or did JP call himself? And has “incident” been upgraded to “emergency”?

“Is there Wi-Fi on the boat?” she asks.

“Of course, of course,” Miguel says. “We will go over all that at our meeting, which will be at one o’clock sharp here in the salon. Until then, please make yourself at home.”

The ladder down to the cabins is steep and must be climbed backward. Sophia lets Tucker and Kelly, the firefighters, go first. They must be used to ladders like this.

“Aw, lovely, thank you,” Kelly says in her cute accent.

They’re next to Sophia in Room Two. When they open the door, Sophia catches a glimpse of two bunk beds.

“At least we’ve got our own loo,” Tucker says.

Sophia opens her own door, sees the double bed. She isn’t sure what possesses her, but she turns to Kelly and says, “Would you like to switch rooms? My room has a double bed, and I’m here by myself now, so . . .”

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