The tide of grief would continue to try and rip us apart. There was no magic cure for what we had been through, but since we crossed the gap that had caused us to drift, entwining our fingers in a permanent show of solidarity, there was no letting go.
A cord of three strands is not easily broken.
No, nothing can break us,the look on my husband’s face communicated. Not even death.
Uncle Tito smiled at us when we emerged from the suite. “Going up?”
Brando looked at me, the fierce look in his eyes. “After hitting rock bottom, there’s only one way out. Up.”
Chapter Eighteen
Scarlett
The day was hot, bright, and full of robust humidity. So much so that the city of Nadi felt alive. After going so long without a touch that I could feel, I absorbed the breath of it like my skin soaked up vitamin D from the sun.
Brando still hadn’t told any of us where we were headed next. None of us cared. Before Uncle Tito took the seaplane back to the mainland, he took a happy pill and laughed all the way through it. He laughed even when we stepped off the plane, all throughout the ride, to the enchantment of Aunt Lola, whose camera continuallyclickedto the rhythm of her delighted finger.
Uncle Tito was even more elated when the yacht pulled up to the dock and Brando waved to the captain steering her.
I had worn my bathing suit underneath another Henley top and a pair of cutoff shorts. I pinned back the longer bangs to the center of my head. The humidity set my hair to high volume puff, and it circled me in a wavy halo.
Lowering my Ray-Bans, I examined our ride. The yacht was a three-level, 51-foot Riviera, made for fishing—a variety of poles lined the flying bridge, secured by holders, and seemed like a serious battle station for such things—and for luxury. I knew all of this because Brando and Uncle Tito chatted about it.
Why Not?—the name of the floating mansion—had a smaller boat on her bow, covered to protect it from the elements. Tall metal poles connected here to there, some of them forming ladders that reached the third level with two seats, high enough to see for miles around and possibly give you a nosebleed.
“I should’ve worn my leopard print bikini!” Aunt Lola whispered to me, her voice full of excitement.
I laughed and Brando looked down at me, grinning. He pulled my hand, which he had been holding, to his mouth, and placed a soft kiss on my knuckles. Then he lowered his sunglasses so our eyes could meet. They held and my breathing picked up. He moved the connection once it was established, but he didn’t roam far. Just to my lips.
I was as conscious of him as the sky was of a bolt of lightning. The lingering looks of longing and kisses, all of the subtle but intimate touches, were a prelude to an oncoming storm. Our time under the depths had fused us together, even stronger than ever, and a swell of—Love? Thankfulness? Security? Desire?—rose in me and flushed my cheeks.
“Land ho!” a voice boomed from the speakers of the yacht. “Land ho!”
Our pressure system broke at this cool intrusion. Brando’s eyes stayed on me for a moment longer before he followed the line of mine.
A man descended on deck, his thin white shirt flittering with the gentle breeze. His tropical-patterned harem pants were brighter than the glare on the water. The light blue handkerchief around his head was soaked with perspiration, and his skin shimmered like finely polished onyx beads in the sweltering heat. “You Captain O’Malley’s man?” he asked, peering at Brando with shrewd eyes. He had a thick accent, but one that I couldn’t pinpoint to one specific area. Perhaps Haitian or Jamaican?
“Yeah.” Brando held his bandaged hand out. “Brando Fausti.”
The man took it, ignoring the wrappings. “Agwe.”
The two men shook. Then Brando nodded to me and introduced me as his wife, but he didn’t give my name. He went on to introduce the good doctor and his wife, but the man didn’t seem to have any attention to spare for them. His eyes were solid on mine, and even with the protection of the glasses, the urge to squirm away came on strong.
“I tell de Captain, man.” Then he left us.
“You know the Captain?” I whispered.
Brando nodded, his eyes hard on the route the man had just taken.
“How?”
He glanced at me, our hands jingling. “When I was a Rescue Diver. He used to fish the Bering Sea.”
“Must’ve gotten too cold for him,” I said, thinking about how much of a contrast the Bering Sea was to the South Pacific.
“Something like that,” Brando said, but the man’s appearance seemed to have stolen his attention.
“You saw a lot there, Fausti.” I didn’t even need to ask—never did. I could feel it. Not his experiences but the depths he went to hide them from me. He refused to speak about his time in the Coast Guard.
