@@CHAP@@ Prologue
HE SAID IT would be the perfect day for it.
The September weather has turned brisk, finally, after an almost unbearably hot, humid summer in New York City. The waves out on the Lower Bay are rolling and swelling, the water dark and threatening under scudding clouds. Jill breathes in deeply and fills her lungs with the sharp, saltwater scent of the sea. The sailboat rises and falls rather alarmingly. The two men have her under control, but it doesn’t feel that way to Jill. They have left the marina in Lower Manhattan and Upper New York Bay far behind and are heading toward the open Atlantic. Jill suddenly wishes she was anywhere but here.
She holds on to the pitching boat, closes her eyes, and tries to remember having coffee with her husband earlier this morning, in the serene kitchen of their Brooklyn Heights brownstone. She focuses on that. Out here they are no longer safe, cloistered; here the wind screeches and howls and whips at the sails as if they are at the gates of Hell. For a brief second, she asks herself what the fuck they’re doing. She looks across at her husband, and his steady gaze reassures her. He’s an excellent sailor. She must trust him.
He gives her a barely perceptible nod and reaches for the rigging. She sits in the companionway, holding on for dear life, life jacket on, hair wild, keeping out of the way. Two men can handle the boat, even one, if necessary, and her husband, Ted, and his older brother, Greg, have been sailing together on this bay since they were boys. They like it when it’s challenging. They are so confident – or careless – that neither of them wears a life jacket. Ted had told her the conditions would be perfect.
Greg flashes a big grin at her from the back of the boat, where he stands firmly gripping the steering wheel, his dark hair blowing about. He’s enjoying himself; he’s in his element. Ted was right about that. The sailing is putting him in a good mood.
The boat is named Fortune Seeker. Sleek and white – a fully equipped 36-footer. She cost a small fortune. Greg is worth a great deal of money, and he can afford it. She’s a beauty, and apparently a pleasure to handle in any conditions.
They’d ventured out around noon and had a light lunch on the boat while they were still in the Upper Bay, slipping away from Manhattan. The water had been calmer then, closer to shore. As usual, Greg provides the boat, she and Ted provide the meal. She’d brought chicken salad sandwiches that she’d made herself that morning, and champagne. They’re not celebrating anything – not yet – but they know how much Greg likes champagne and they want him to have a bit to drink. To that end, they brought his favourite – Dom Pérignon. Ted told her to think of it as an investment.
They sat on the deck of the boat eating sandwiches without crusts and downing Dom Pérignon, waving at passing boats, the embodiment of privilege. They were headed further out of the bay to where the real sailing was. Ted and Greg ate with gusto, but the mayonnaise felt thick in Jill’s throat. She was feeling a trifle ill, although she had never been seasick before. Her husband was drinking enthusiastically, which worried her a little. He seemed slightly too boisterous, and she wondered if Greg thought so too, if maybe Greg thought that Ted was going to ask him for money. She watched her husband and his brother carefully, while trying to appear uninterested. She knew Ted was encouraging Greg to drink more, but this wasn’t going to work if Ted had too much. He grabbed the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket, leaned over, and topped up his brother’s glass. He proposed a toast. ‘To the future,’ he said, and they all touched glasses. ‘To the future,’ they repeated together. Ted’s eyes met hers over the rims of their glasses. She knew what he was thinking. She was thinking the same thing.