Page 4 of Saltwater

It’s who you know,my mother used to say.

And I knew all the Lingates.

Even now, thousands of miles away from my apartment and its flimsy blinds, they still won’t let me forget my role. While Marcus may have arranged my seat on the flight, I have handled everything else—the boat (which was late), the villa (which was secured a year in advance, as always), the dinners and the housekeeper and the beach club reservations. Naomi’s private shopping appointments at Hermès and Pucci.

Two hours earlier, as we waited in Sorrento for the boat, I hadn’t been sitting with them at the bar, enjoying a drink. No. I had been on the phone with the charter company, who assured me the delay was unavoidable. I had been walking the marina trying to find another boat to accommodate six people and their extensive luggage. But this being high season on the Amalfi Coast, there weren’t any. Andthen,when the boat did arrive—the captain saying, his voice a beautiful singsong:an impossible delay,signore,the motor,signore,the wind,signore,a late drop-off,signore—my employer took me aside and whispered in my ear,Make sure you get a refund.

They always want a refund. Rich people love a fucking refund.

I added it into my phone, at the top of my list for tomorrow—refund.

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The boat is slowingas we come into the Marina Grande. Into the heart of the port that serves Capri. Fishing skiffs bob past us. Small boats zigzag between the marina and the yachts anchored offshore. Yachts so big they look like islands.

Beyond the polished teak prow of our boat, the Marina Grande reveals itself to bealive.Peopled by bodies heaving fish and boarding ferries, slouching around café tables and smoking cigarettes. And there, on the dock, are the two bodies that will be helping us come ashore—one whistling, the other pointing.

I stand to help. It’s on instinct. I don’t know what I’m going to do; I’ve never docked a boat. But Helen grabs my wrist and pulls me onto the leather bench next to her.

“Just relax,” she says, giving me a full, gap-toothed smile. Her teeth are small and painfully white, like baby teeth. Her hands are cold.

Next to her, Freddy crosses his legs. A loafer connects with the opposite knee. “Watch out for the lines. They’ll wrap around your ankle. Take your foot clean off.”

Then he smiles.

I’m left with the visual: a rope twisting around my ankle, my wrists, my neck. Maybe he sees it too.

Meanwhile, the captain is backing us into the slimmest berth. During the whole process, his hands keep moving, like he’s conducting a symphony, one hand up, the other on the wheel, both hands under his chin, flicking at the guys on the dock. The stewardess coils ropes, pulls out fenders, suddenly all business after the crossing. It’s bravura, their performance.

We drift back into the tight space. And before we meet the concrete edge of the dock, the captain leaves the wheel and vaults over us in two quick strides to the stern. There, he places one foot on the swim platform and reaches for the dock with the other. The men onshore are too busy calling for the porters and watching the stewardess to see him stop the boat before it hits the seawall. But I see it. The waya simple movement, a well-timed gesture, can say,I am in control. You can let go now.

He dips his hand between the boat and the concrete wall. I can’t see why—if it’s a line that missed its target or just a burst of ego. But when he does, his foot slips. And the mistake is immediate. There’s nothing now to stop the boat. No fender. No foot. Only his hand in the water.

He pauses. His smile falters. I watch the recognition flash across his face. But it’s too late. The boat is surged by the wake of a passing vessel and we connect.

A cracking sound comes from the stern—flesh and bone and fiberglass mashing against the grit of the wall. Then the captain howls. And when I try to see it, the injury to his hand, all I can see is the way he has stained the teak swim platform pink. It’s beautiful, actually. The color of the bougainvillea that strangles the columns at the entrance to the cafés.

Next to us, towels are neatly rolled and stacked. I grab one and clamber to the back of the boat. It could be me, I realize, who might be crushed by all of this, by being of service to the Lingates.I’m on your team,I want to say as I hand over the soft terry.

On the stern, rapid Italian is being spoken. From the cockpit, the Lingates watch the scene. And although their lips are moving, I can’t hear what they’re saying. The captain bleeds through the first towel, and I look up in time to see Freddy throwing me another; I pass it on.

“Ciao,”says a voice from the dock. “Marcus Lingate?” A guide scans the cockpit, and my employer lifts a hand. “Can you come with me?” the man says. Already, he’s gathering our bags, lining his arms with the braided loops of our purses and carry-ons. Behind him, a porter is lifting our luggage into a wheelbarrow. “Your car is here,” he says. He gestures toward the heart of the marina.

The captain bleeds through the second towel, and our shoes are supplied.

“Are we just going to leave him here?” I ask. But the Lingates and Freddy are already off the boat, shoes on.

“Shouldn’t we stay and help?” I grab another towel.Shouldn’t they want to stay and help?

“What can we do?” Marcus says. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Here,” says Freddy. He pulls out an alligator billfold and passes me a wad of euros.

I stand there, holding them in my hand. The money feels hot, fresh from his pocket, and I consider keeping it, like I used to do when a man passed me a couple of bills, but I don’t. I just hold it. I hold it until I feel the stewardess trying to pry my fingers open. When I look down at her, her face is stained with tears.

I am not a Lingate.

This is not my vacation.

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