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  Finally, she broke the silence. “I left him after that. I assume you went through the trouble of finding me because of similar behavior.”

  “Brad grabbed me when I was pregnant. He hasn’t done it again, but his temper is getting worse.” I had not told anybody that, not even Jessica, but this woman knew what I was going through. Only she could understand.

  “My advice is to leave while you still can. The Coolidge temper is infamous. He can be violent.”

  I thanked her and hung up.

  I leaned backward in the navigator’s chair and listened to Brad snore. He had an uncontrollable temper, a dark side, and it had always been there beneath a shiny surface.

  Had he done something to Emma? I pushed the thought from my mind, hating myself for having it.

  Brad’s snoring stopped.

  I held my breath.

  He choked, smacked his lips, and snored with ragged breaths full of mucous.

  I exhaled and tried to relax, but I kept my eyes on the stateroom door.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Halfway to the Andaman Sea, I swiveled in the navigation chair and plotted our position in the strait between Sumatra and Malaysia. In two days, we would turn to west into the Bay of Bengal and begin our long sail to the Maldives. It would be blue-water sailing, with no land within hundreds of miles. We would be on our own.

  Unable to relax, I stood and climbed the stairs into the cockpit.

  Brad manned the helm wearing white shorts and a white polo shirt. He was thirty-seven, and his first gray hair had recently appeared around his temples, which annoyed me, because instead of aging him, it made him hotter. Why did men age better than women? They had it so easy. With his dirty blonde hair, broad cheekbones, and arctic blue eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to Brad Pitt. Lanky and strong, he had defined muscles and six-pack abs.

  “See any ships?” I asked.

  “Not since yesterday.”

  I examined the sea. Nothing but curved blue horizon in all directions.

  Brad closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun. The wind ruffled his hair.

  I had to admit Brad’s rugged good looks had played a significant role in my decision to date him. And his dogged persistence. He had flirted relentlessly after he arrived at New England General Hospital, and when I left, the flowers and calls did not stop. His behavior had bordered on harassment, but I had been focused on my career, and with no social life, his attention had flattered me.

  Men found me attractive, but I had not been searching and had no immediate options. I had only dated four men during my five-year residency at New England General Hospital and none of those relationships had lasted more than a few months. Men had trouble being second priority in a woman’s life. I liked men, enjoyed sex, and had wanted to get married, but I had been on a mission. I had worked for years to become a pediatric surgeon, and I was close to achieving my dreams.

  Eventually, my hormones had taken control, and I relented. Brad met me at the hospital with two dozen long-stemmed roses and the whitest smile I had ever seen. As a fellow surgeon, I had thought he would understand me better than the others. I had doubted the relationship would lead anywhere, but I needed the intimate touch of a man, the physical release after my long hours and intense surgeries. Brad had given me that. We were not soul mates, but he had satisfied my carnal appetite.

  I sat on the bench and watched Brad at the helm. His appearance was his best feature—his defining quality—but what lay beneath troubled me. I had seen behind the curtain.

  “Why can’t we spot land?” I asked. “On the chart, the Strait of Malacca seems narrow.”

  “At some points, the strait is over one hundred and fifty miles wide, and we’re only twelve feet above the surface, which means we can see less than four miles under perfect conditions.”

  I watched the swells roll past us. Miles and miles of seawater. “What marine life is out here?”

  “There’s another world below us. The Indian Ocean is over twelve thousand feet deep and conceals a mountain landscape like the Himalayas. They discover new species all the time.”

  “Anything dangerous,” I asked.

  “There are lots of dangerous animals out here—tiger sharks, bull sharks, white tips—but the most dangerous animal is man. We need to avoid the big ships out here.”

  “Don’t forget the pirates.”

  “They’re a threat, especially off the African coast, but we shouldn’t have any problems between here and the Maldives.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ll be in the open ocean. Pirates target shipping lanes near choke points, like the Suez Canal. Our greatest danger will be our isolation. We will be alone.”

  “When did you become an expert on the Indian Ocean?” I asked.

  “I’ve sailed my entire life, mostly in the Atlantic, but I’ve always wanted to sail Asian waters. I’ve read about it for years. If you don’t hate this voyage too much, maybe we can try the South China Sea next year.”

  “You got me here . . . how, I’m not sure, but don’t push your luck.”

  I set the table for dinner, some kind of white fish and salad, and Brad opened a bottle of Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse.

  I never drank much alcohol, probably because of my mother’s raging alcoholism. I could not remember a night when she drank less than three or four glasses of wine. After the incident with my father, when I was ten, whatever self-control she had possessed completely disappeared. It had not taken long for her to fall into an uncontrollable skid. She drank every night, then every afternoon, then every morning. When I pictured her, I could still smell the whisky on her breath and the stale odor of sweat and desperation. Her liver failed halfway through my freshman year at Boston University.

  I reclined on the bench and sipped the tangy wine, tasting hints of grapefruit and hazelnut. It soothed me, numbed me. It dulled my mind, clouded my memories, and took the edge off my pain.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “More nauseous, but the Tylenol lessened my headache and joint pain.”

  “Are you improving at all?”

  “I’ll be fine. Maybe it’s something I ate on Bali.”

  “It’s not food poisoning. I hope it’s nothing serious, but you’ve been getting worse, not better, and I need you healthy enough to sail.”

  Brad nodded and gazed at the sea. “I needed this, Dags.”

  “What?”

  “This. To get away from it all.”

  It may have been the motion of the boat or the wine, but I felt dizzy and a little tipsy after only two glasses.

  Brad leaned across the couch and parted his lips to kiss me. It took me by surprise, and I turned my head away without thinking. His lips landed on my cheek. He looked sexy, but how did I feel about him as a person—his lack of empathy, his narcissism, hiding the lawsuit from me? His violence. My feelings were ill defined, but I did not desire him. Not now.

  He paused and looked at me, not appearing to notice my lack of interest. He cupped my breast in his hand. It had been six months since we had had sex, six months since I had an orgasm, six months since I had touched myself. My nipple rose to his touch. He draped his muscular arm over my leg and slid his hand between my thighs.

  “No, not now,” I said. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  Brad pulled away and glared, the fierceness returning to his eyes.

  I tensed.

  “Damn it, Dagny. When?”

  “I don’t know. Soon.”

  “I can’t wait forever. I need sex.”

  “I will. I promise, but not right no
w.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Brad slid off the bench and clambered to his feet, bumping into the table and knocking over his glass of wine. The liquid sloshed onto the table.

  “You’re ruining both our lives.”

  “Brad, I—”

  “Fuck this. Everything is so fucked up.” His face reddened and the veins in his neck bulged.

  “I’m sorry, really.”

  “The baby, the hospital . . . you. It’s too fucking much.”

  “Why don’t we—”

  “How much of this can I take?” He balled his fists.

  A flash of adrenaline hit my system. I sat up and placed my hands on the edge of the table, ready to move.

  “Seriously, fucked up,” Brad said.

  He stomped through the cockpit and climbed below.

  I did not blame him for being frustrated, not with the pressure of the lawsuit weighing on him, but his anger had boiled to the surface without warning. It happened fast, like a flash storm. He held a deep rage inside him, and it scared me. What if he became more violent? We were alone at sea, and I could not dial 9-1-1.

  What would I do if Brad lost control?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The wind intensified and shifted, coming out of the north the moment we reached the end of Sumatra. I took a starboard tack, and the yacht heeled to port, the sails filling and stretching. My fingers tightened against the wheel and I glanced at my safety harness. The early morning sun hovered low above the sea. Brad slept, leaving me in charge. Captain Dagny. I bit my lip as my eyes darted between the sails and the horizon.

  Brad popped out of the companionway a minute later. He inspected the sails, checked the radar, and smiled.

  “Welcome to the Andaman Sea,” he said.

  “Are we heeling too far?

  “Let me take the helm.”

  I unlatched my tether and Brad slipped behind the wheel. He was not wearing a harness, but if that concerned him, he did not show it. A lifetime of sailing in New England had endowed him with a confidence on the water I wished I possessed. I sat behind him and clipped onto a lifeline.

  Brad clicked through the control screens, studied the chart, then turned off the autopilot. He plugged in a new course—due west.

  “I’m glad the wind woke me up. We head west from here, across the Andaman Sea, the Bay of Bengal, and the Indian Ocean. Next stop, the Maldives.”

  “How are you feeling today?” I asked.

  “Achy, jittery, sick to my stomach. I don’t know.”

  “I’m getting concerned. Let’s head to Sumatra and see a doctor.”

  “No.”

  “But you’re getting worse,” I said.

  “It’s only a stomach flu.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a stomach flu. I can’t sail this yacht without you, and this is our last chance to make port until we hit the Maldives.”

  “Turning to port,” Brad said.

  “Our discussion’s over?”

  Brad spun the wheel and the yacht responded. Wind poured over the transom, the sails tightened, and we heeled hard to port. I held onto the bench as the bow oscillated between large swells and our speed increased from five to twelve knots. My legs and arms tingled.

  “Is this too fast? Is it safe?”

  Brad smirked. He let out the main sail, and the yacht slowed. “This is perfect. The currents change from east to west in winter. We’re in a transition phase, and by the end of our voyage, they’ll be moving counterclockwise across the northern Indian Ocean.”

  “Can we use the autopilot at night?”

  “For now, but the winds, currents, and weather change fast out here, faster closer to the equator. The Bay of Bengal is famous for its monsoons.”

  I stared at the horizon. “Great.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “The sea is much rougher.”

  “This is nothing,” Brad said. “Wait until we hit some weather.”

  The bow bounced up and down, filling my stomach with butterflies and making me light-headed.

  “I feel a little sick,” I said.

  “You’ll get used to it. This is only the beginning. We’re headed for the unknown, so get ready to take on everything nature can throw at us.”

  I went below to find the Dramamine.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A wave crashed against the bow and woke me at sunrise. I held onto the mattress as the yacht pitched like a rollercoaster. Sunlight reflected off whitecaps, streamed through the stateroom windows, and danced around the room as if nature put on a light show. The sea and air sparkled with life.

  Brad had taken the last shift and should be at the helm. I hoped. The AIS made our rotating shifts unnecessary, but I felt safer with one of us awake and on deck at all times, and taking shifts provided the added benefit of my not having to sleep in bed with Brad. He had not forced me to fend off any of his sexual advances in days, but my respite would not last. I had not fulfilled my physical obligations as a wife, and my chest tightened thinking about it.

  The stateroom became hot and stuffy, and I stood on the mattress and opened the hatches. Warm air blew across my face, a sign this would be another scorcher. I peeled off my underwear and walked naked across the berth into the bathroom, or head, as Brad reminded me daily. Brad, the nautical jargon Nazi.

  Natural light radiated through a large window over the sink, and I kept the lights off and soaked it in. Being at sea—away from the smog, the people, the traffic—recharged me. It made me feel human, part of nature. Strong. The head was modern and sleek, with a teak deck, ceramic sink, and other luxury appointments. I climbed into the shower stall, behind a clear plexiglass door, and turned on the rainfall shower head. I let the water flow though my hair and over my body. I turned it off, lathered, and turned it back on to rinse. Brad insisted we take “navy showers” to save our potable water. We would be in trouble if we finished it.

  After, I slipped on a skimpy black bikini, something I had owned for years, but had seldom worn. I had never minded showing off my toned body but working eighty-hour weeks had limited my sunbathing time. I inspected myself in the mirror. The baby weight had disappeared, and my familiar shape reflected at me.

  I grabbed a cup of coffee from the galley, climbed on deck, and smiled at Brad. It had been a long time since I had smiled without thinking about it. An excellent sign.

  “Morning, beautiful,” he said, rubbing his temples.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “Worse. Really shitty.”

  “Can I do anything for you?”

  Brad shook his head.

  Arguing with him about returning to port would make him dig in his heels, entrench his position. He never liked me to baby him, not when it came to his health. I sat beside him.

  He held the wheel with both hands, his muscles rippling in his forearms, and a light layer of perspiration beaded his brow. The sun had bronzed his skin, and despite being ill, he looked strong. I leaned across him to put my coffee in the cup holder and my breast brushed his arm.

  Brad smiled.

  “Brad, listen . . . I’m sorry about last night. I wish I felt like myself. We’re both under a lot of pressure and—”

  “I’ll try to be more patient.”

  “The past six months have been awful for both of us. I feel guilty about it.”

  “Let’s try to start over, enjoy the trip.”

  “At least we have a pleasant day,” I said.

  “Not for lon
g. Weather’s headed our way.”

  I soaked in the blue sky and the thin stratocumulus clouds. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “You’re facing the wrong direction,” Brad said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  I turned and stared over the transom. Giant clouds blanketed the horizon and dark towers climbed high into the sky, like fluffy mushrooms.

  “Those look ominous.”

  “They’re cumulonimbus clouds, formed by water vapor riding on strong air currents. See farther to the north, those high, fuzzy clouds are cirrostratus. They’re frequently associated with monsoons.”

  “You’re a meteorologist now?” I asked.

  “I researched the monsoon threat before we left.”

  “Can we outrun it?”

  “Not a chance, it’s moving much faster than us. The forecast has it crossing the Bay of Bengal by this afternoon.”

  My shoulders tightened and my breathing grew shallow. “How bad?”

  “It’s a serious storm. Winds as high as fifty miles per hour, according to the forecast. It’ll be sporting, but we can handle it.”

  “How can we sail in fifty-mile-per-hour winds?” I asked.

  “I’ll reef the sails by furling the genoa and lowering the mainsail halfway down. I think it is safest if I just steer us though the heavy swells. It’s called running off.”

  Adrenaline passed through me, like a cool wind. “Won’t the waves be too big?”

  “It’ll work. If the wind gets too strong, we can try lying ahull.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I drop the sails and batten the hatches, and then we hide below. I’ll deploy a sea anchor to prevent us from turning sideways, but we will drift and if we turn broadside to the surges, we risk capsizing.”

  My stomach felt empty and my cheek twitched. “Capsizing?”

  “It’s not as dangerous as it sounds. If a rogue wave broadsided us, we’d roll over and the yacht would right itself, because the keel is heavy. It’s designed to do that, which is why monohulls are safer than catamarans. When double-hulls go over, they stay over.”