“You were mad that he didn’t get treatment.”
“So mad. I wanted him to fucking fight for his life. And he wouldn’t. Not even for me. And why? For a broken down, piece-of-shit boat? He always chose that fucking boat over me.”
Arden’s brow wrinkled and his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a pissed-off teenager. It was a rare glimpse of the temper he tried very hard to control.
“You could use this memoir as an opportunity to tell your side of things. You said he was captain and you were his first mate. There were probably a lot of emotions and impulses you had to stifle in order to preserve your relationship.”
“Yeah, there were,” Arden said with a brooding look.
“You said you only called him Captain?”
“And he only ever called me Kid.”
“Even as a child?”
“I didn’t even know him until I was nine. It was at my mother’s funeral service. I was standing with my aunt when he came up to me and said, ‘You’re with me now, Kid. Pack a bag. It’s time you got your sea legs.’ Less than forty-eight hours later, I was sailing away from everything I’d ever known.”
“That’s insane,” I said.
“That’s nothing,” Arden said a little bitterly. “The man was confounding.”
“You could try writing that memory and see what emotions it stirs up. Build upon it throughout. Maybe it will bring you some closure. Or understanding, at least.”
“That’s the goal. My therapist can only do so much. What are you working on?”
I smiled. “You convinced me. I’m starting a diary.”
We worked like that until the late afternoon. At one point, Arden was stretched out on the couch with his head propped up on pillows and his laptop resting on his abdomen, asleep. I watched the sunlight fall across his face and turn his eyelashes golden. He looked angelic—didn’t all beautiful boys have that ability to look utterly innocent at rest? Vulnerable too, as if he needed someone like me to care for him.
I refreshed his glass of water without disturbing him. Upon waking, he looked around sheepishly, hair mussed, lost as a lamb. I gave a little nod and acted as though I’d not been fixated on him during the entirety of his slumber.
We took a walk along Sacandaga Lake. Arden asked if it was my inspiration for the fictional body of water inCold Lake Chronicles, and I confirmed it.
“The city of White Mountain is based on Lake Placid, though. There aren’t any resort towns around here. I needed a place with a decent number of visitors to offer a little more variety.”
“You’d have run out of people to murder,” he said.
“Exactly.” I chuckled.
I told Arden about fishing trips with my father on this very lake, and Arden told me more about his father’s—now his—sailboat. Tondaleo was the vessel’s name. Arden’s father had named it after a Polynesian princess. It was a forty-foot Schucker sailboat with a “huge ass” that seldom got above four knots per hour, which I gathered was slower than your average sailboat speed.
“It’s going to cost more to fix it than what it’s actually worth,” Arden said gravely.
“Where is it now?”
“Tied up behind my aunt’s house. It’s something of an eyesore. She never fails to remind me when I talk to her.”
“You feel like you owe it to your father to maintain it?” I asked.
“That boat is my fucking albatross, but we have unfinished business.”
He didn’t say more than that, and I sensed he didn’t want to, so I picked up the thread. “I’ve felt that way about my mystery series at varying points.”
“How so?”
“Well, once I’d started it, there was the expectation that I’d finish. But every time I’d draft a book, I felt like I still hadn’t completed Nathan Shields’ character arc. With the tight publishing schedule, I also couldn’t abandon the series to work on other projects, so I just had to power through.”
“And now you’re on the other side,” Arden said.
