Page 14 of His Secret Gift

“That willteachme how to do the evacuations.”

She frowns. “Can’t you just watchThe Titanic? I, for one, got a pretty good understanding from that.”

I laugh. “Yeah, something tells me we won’t be running into any icebergs from Florida to Greece.”

“Maybe not. But I have read that the Strait of Gibraltar,” she demonstrates with her fingers, “You know, the little piece between Spain and Morocco. I’ve read that the weather there can be rocky.”

“Well, then I’ll soon know how to handle bad weather.”

“I guess. What are these classes going to cost you?”

I finish putting my night cream on before swiveling around and answering her. “Absolutely nothing. Courtesy of Shelley Publications.”

She chuckles. “That’s not what his company is called.”

“Oh.” I join her in laughter. From everything she said before, I just guessed.

“It’s The Marina & Ollie Publishing Company.”

Marina. Why does that sound so familiar?

Around a weeklater, with an aching body from all the rescue exercises I had to learn and do, I realize after flying into Florida where I heard the name before.

It’s written on the back of the boat I pulled up to in my Uber.

The Marina. It seems to be a recurring theme in his life. I wonder who it was. His mother or grandmother, perhaps? Or maybe a lost sister.

Nevertheless, none of that helps me determine who Ollie (of Marina & Ollie) is. As his name is a nickname, I didn’t think he’d have another one. But who knows?

When my father was still alive, he called me “Kayla-la-la head in the sky” because I was always daydreaming as a child, “Kay-ya,” which was what my brother called me when I first came home from the hospital, and many other silly little things.

“Greetings,” Captain Bryant says with his hat resting against his chest.

“Greetings.” In person and in the daylight, I can see how deep brown his hair is, and that he has kind eyes.

Someone else takes my bags, and then they both help me onto the yacht.

A man who looks to be in his middle to late twenties is already standing up there.

“Hey! Are you Kayla?” He’s tall, lean, has blond hair, big light eyes, and not much of a chin.

“I am.”

He stretches his hand out for me to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Denver.”

“Denver.”What a cool name.

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins. “I’m the bosun.”

“Oh, okay.” I know from watching the show that makes him the senior deckhand.

“What size?” he asks.

“My what?” I’m confused.

“Your size. For clothes.”

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