Page 10 of Saltwater

She leads me up the worn stone stairs and down a hallway to a tall wooden door. She pushes it open. Inside is a simple bed made up with white linens, and an attached bath. A balcony lies beyond a set of French doors. An actual heaven.

“And our bags?” I ask.

“An hour or two. Nothing is fast on Capri.”

She closes the door, and I walk out onto the balcony. The house is flanked by a cluster of canopy pines. A single palm tree tips out over the cliff at the end of the garden. There’s nothing beyond it—the sea, Africa, my future. But only if I play this right.

I step back into the bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, pulling my laptop from my carry-on. I shoot off an email to the boat company, requesting a refund, but hold back information about the accident. If they deny it, that will be my response. Negligence. Trauma. Wealthy people being forced to confront mortality. The horror.

The email sent, I open the folder on my computer labeledTaxesand scroll through the countless articles I’ve archived there. The ones I like the best are the scanned, faded newspaper clippings from publications I found on eBay. It’s remarkable, really, what’s available used these days.

There’s something soothing about rereading them. Almost as if I’m reading articles about myself, my own biography. I know most of them by heart, the way the journalists set the scene—a rich family, Capri, a grieving husband—and then the disappointing conclusion: a tragic accident. I chew the edge of my fingernail, my other hand hovering over the next file—an email, not an article—and I hear them laughing downstairs.

When I started working for Marcus, I was curious; it was only normal. There were true-crime podcasts devoted to dissecting the days leading up to Sarah’s death, articles that went up as quickly as the family could pull them down. The tabloids, always. But I had signedan extensive NDA, received my first paycheck (which was more than I had ever made in a two-week span), and decided I would make a real go at a regular life.

Stan changed all of that. Helen did, too.

Helen always avoided the topic. Even after a few drinks, even when we became something resembling real friends, she never mentioned her mother’s death. I never pushed, not once.I liked Helen.I didn’t want it to seem like I was using her. Although I knew people like the Lingates—despite their guilt, their politics—wouldn’t think twice about using someone like me. And Helenwasa Lingate.

At the bakery on Twenty-sixth Street, we all knew her. She came in every day, paid in cash, and left a generous tip on her espresso and pastry. One day, I was working the register, just on this side of sober, desperately wishing I could strip off my apron and go two doors down for a drink, when Helen Lingate came in and didn’t have enough cash.

“We accept cards, too,” I said.

Almost no one paid in cash.

“I don’t have any on me,” she said.

I watched her reach for her back pocket, a flush moving across her face and down her neck. All she had was a small leather billfold with her initials on it, embossed in gold. The difference was three dollars.

“That’s fine,” I said, pulling out three ones from the tip jar. “You can pay us back next time.”

“Thank you,” she said.

The way she said it was uncomfortably earnest. I expected her to assume those three dollars were her due. That weowed herbecause of the number of times she had tipped us double her bill. Instead, when I put her order up, she reached across the counter and grabbed my forearm.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”

That was it, our first interaction. The three dollars that led me here. A twelve-step program that had left me more generous than I should be. I was making amends, even though Helen didn’t know it. The next day, she returned with a twenty for the tip jar.

I’d met a lot of rich people over the years, but I liked to believe Helen Lingate was different.

I push the computer away. I only have a few minutes until they expect me to come down. I pull the manila envelope I’ve brought all the way from Marcus’s office in Los Angeles from my carry-on and wedge it under the mattress, far enough in that the housekeeper won’t find it if she changes the sheets. Even if she does, I have a scanned copy. I have fallbacks.

I wish I could change my clothes, shower. But I can’t. Instead, I wash my hands and fluff my hair. I apply the smile I’m known for around the Lingates. The smile that says,Of course that’s possible, Right away,andYou can trust me.It’s exhausting, this act, but I can last a few more days.

I pull the door of the bedroom open, and Freddy is skulking in the hallway, waiting.

Irritated, I try to slip past him.

“Lorna—” He reaches for my arm but gets a piece of my dress instead. He holds on. “Wait,” he says.

Idon’thave a contingency plan for this.

“I just want to talk,” he says. He drops my dress and lowers his voice. He doesn’t want anyone to hear.

“Aren’t you worried they’re going to wonder where you went?” Isay.

“Lor—”

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