Page 46 of Saltwater

“Of course,” she said.

“Because, Sarah…” It was there, in her agent’s voice, a tone she had never heard, high and uncomfortable. “If he doesn’t, the agency heads have made it clear we’re going to have to sever ties. Not my decision, of course, but we can’t face litigation from a client—”

“He’s not your client.”

“You know what I mean.”

She did.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah.”

—

By midafternoon, they wereon a skiff, helmed by an Italian who spoke no English but did, apparently, understandlire. The glossy green dinghy was constantly rocked by the waves that crashed into the cliffs of Capri and surged back out to sea in a great churn of salt spray. They sat in the bow, arms against the railing, sun cupped out of their eyes. It had only taken minutes to find someone in the marina willing to rent them the gear and the boat. Naturally, Marcus had haggled over the price for almost twenty minutes before they all piledin.

Sarah had hesitated on the dock. Back at the house, she had tried to call Stan, to ask him if he could help her. Lend her an attorney, a little firepower against Richard. But he hadn’t answered. She was beginning to realize it wouldn’t be as simple as walking out, leaving. They wouldn’t let her go that easily. Even with a divorce, they might tangle her up in disputes like this for years, a slow-moving, suffocating revenge.

“Were you planning on joining us?” Marcus asked.

It would be so much easier, she thought, if they set sail and never came back. All three of them lost at sea. It made her almost giddy, justthinking about it. Sometimes it seemed like death was the only way she would truly be free of this family.

When she didn’t say anything, it was as if Marcus read her mind: “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Of course.” Sarah laughed.

Once they were aboard, their weight seemed like it might flood the boat; the gunwale dipped close to the waterline, and they occasionally took on water when the swells were big. Marcus bailed cheerfully. Below them, the seafloor fell away, the blue of the Mediterranean shifting from warm turquoise to navy. They were making their way to the tip of Anacapri, to a place not far from the Blue Grotto, where the shelf made for good diving and fishing.

“We should have hired something with a motor,” Richard said over the sound of the snapping sails.

“There’s an outboard,” Marcus said, pointing to a small contraption lashed to the back of the boat.

“This is more romantic,” Naomi said.

Sarah briefly wondered who would take care of Helen if the boat drifted off course, if they were all swamped and drowned. The thought strangled her the same way her agent’s words had—his attorneys have been in touch.

Within an hour, they were drifting idly, sail down. Their captain moved to the back of the boat to roll a cigarette, while Naomi and Sarah sorted through the diving equipment, passing flippers back and forth. Richard spit into a mask and cleared the lens.

“You’re not wearing your rings?” he said to her, the question so casual, so harmless, she almost didn’t hear him.

“They’ve been loose,” she said. It was mostly true. They were looser; she’d lost one in the house two weeks ago without noticing until Helen nearly choked on it. But also, she couldn’t bear to wear them.

This was what was so horrifying about the family, Sarah thought. They were so good at pulling a curtain across everything happening in the background. As if nothing was wrong. No lawyers called, no career in the balance. There was only the sun and the sticky saltwaterand the imperative toenjoy themselves.It made her want to scream. Instead, she pulled back the rubber band on the speargun and anchored it into place. She tested the tip with her finger. It was pleasingly sharp.

Marcus—following an unsuccessful attempt to bum a cigarette off the captain—had already stripped off his shirt and was deepening his rich tan, lying on one of the wooden benches that lined the sides of the boat, a shirt flipped over his face.

“You’re not diving?” Naomi asked him.

He waved a hand. “You’re not supposed to swim so close to eating.”

Marcus lifted the shirt to look at his wife, who had donned fins and slung the second speargun over her shoulder.

“Are you really going to use that, Nom?”

“What, you don’t trust me?” she said.

“I don’t trust your aim,” Marcus said, feigning a gunshot with his hand.

At this, the captain laughed and gestured a throwing motion.

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