The swan boat returned to the shore. Mitch loped off, leaving Kaytha behind for a second time. Mitch did not turn to see how she was doing, and did not ask if she’d had a good time. He went straight to Hope, and the two dogs pranced and barked, in the way of dogs frantically, terrifically, hugely glad to see their master. Mitch hardly noticed his collies, but was enthralled by Hope. He seemed a little bit afraid of her, as if touching her hair would entangle him in more than a romance.
Kaytha’s jealousy was rising and expanding.
How she loved that feeling.
She had never tried drugs, but they must be just like this: a taking over. Where you became the container, and not the person.
Kaytha preferred being a container. When you were being a person, there were so many difficulties.
She let herself go toward the jealousy. It was hot and wonderful and cruel and fulfilling.
Kaytha never regretted anything. She could not recall feeling sorry for any action at any time. What happened, happened. Kaytha would deal.
And Kaytha always dealt herself a winning hand.
Mr. Senneth transferred Cotton’s leash back to Mitch, and then took Butter’s leash from Hope and handed that also to Mitch. “The girls and I have things to do,” he said courteously.
He pointed to a gray limousine waiting by the curb, over on Charles Street.
Mitch held the leashes loosely, and the dogs sat on the green, green grass. The trio deserved to be painted, or at least photographed. They were achingly beautiful.
“I’ll see you Sunday night,” he said to Hope. He didn’t want her to go.
“Yes.” She wanted to say more; much much more; but Kaytha and Mr. Senneth were pushing, maneuvering her away from him. “Sunday night,” she promised.
“The Boston Pops,” he said.
“Indiana Jones,” she said. “Superman.”
The distance between them widened.
“Jurassic Park!” he yelled.
“E.T.” she shouted.
Mr. Senneth said, “Hope. Please.”
“You skipped Raiders of the Lost Ark,” said Kaytha.
But they were too far apart for Hope to yell anymore. She waved at Mitch. He hadn’t moved. Nor had the dogs. A tourist took the photograph that Hope wanted. What if I never see him again? she thought. What if—but of course I will. We have a date.
They reached the limousine.
It was a gray prison, an underwater chamber. “Where are we going?” she said, suddenly choked with fear. I can’t go with them. I’ve got to run back to Mitch, I have to—
“Don’t be afraid,” said Mr. Senneth mildly.
Kaytha stretched and flexed her long fingers, with their far too large crimson fingernails. She smiled down at her tucked-in fist. She spread her fingers, as if they were a selection of weapons, and then she smiled at Hope.
And Hope was afraid.
Chapter 8
SUSAN’S MOUTH ACHED. SHE felt like a beauty queen who had been smiling for days. But she had finally gotten most of the tape off her mouth. What a relief to be able to suck in lots of air at one time! Not have that horrible sense that if she coughed or panicked, she might suffocate.
It turned out there was such a thing as momentary amnesia, either from shock or physical trauma. Like Hope, she had been too stunned by events to pull her mind into gear.
Susan could not remember being brought here. She assumed they had chloroformed her, a possibility she knew only from old movies. Carrying her on board, they probably explained to people that she was a drunk guest. Probably everybody had laughed, knowing what drunken guests were like.
Susan was not laughing.
She did physical things, centering herself: it was like yoga, except she was removing blindfolds and tape instead of reaching meditative positions.
They were talking now, she and the woman she could not see.
They were both prisoners. And the rolling sensation she had never experienced was water; they were on board a boat.
Susan could find nothing in it: no facts, no understanding, no clues, and, most horribly of all, no hope.
“But what,” said Susan, “is going on?”
“We’re going to die,” said the woman on the bunk opposite.
Soft warm leather, like doeskin, the color of alpine reindeer, lined the limousine. She stroked it, and then held herself still, wondering if the chauffeur would really take them to the hotel.
Mr. Senneth became involved with his Powerbook, fingers barely lifting as they typed. Kaytha fondled an old-fashioned ivory hair comb she had taken from her purse.
The dark glass windows of the limousine removed them from the rest of the world as sunglasses separate one’s eyes from the crowd’s. The interior seemed timeless, placeless. And she herself, nameless. Faceless.
She was a person literally along for the ride, and then, unexpectedly, the ride ended. She realized that she had not thought she would ever see The Jayquith again.
Doormen sprang forward, opening doors with a flourish. It would be fun, momentarily, at least, to strut in such gaudy uniforms. The Senneths, however, did not enter The Jayquith.
Mr. Senneth took Hope’s elbow, elegantly, as if escorting her to her chair at a banquet. “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “We’re just going to the boat instead.”
“The boat?” she repeated.
“We’ll be more private on the boat.”
“Boat” conjured up some little dinghy; some unstable wooden thing banging up against an old sagging deck.
They walked across the plaza, past the wagon where someone else sold T-shirts, past the history guides and the hotdog vendors. Past the commuter boat, past the wedding-for-hire boat, past a trim little sailboat tied up so the owners could have dinner at one of the wharf restaurants, and up to a magnificent private motor yacht.
The Lady Hope. A truly serious yacht. So feminine. No wonder they called boats “she.” So graceful you wanted to take her dancing. Long curving lines and sleekly rising cabins. Her windows, like the limousine’s, were of dark glass so no one could see in. Her paint was deep, rich, flag blue. A clear coat, like nail polish, made her glitter in the sun. She might have been a precious stone from a far country. In lacy script, her name said: Lady Hope. Her tender, lying on a sundeck, was More Hope.
No fewer than four signs guarded her:
PRIVATE.
NO TRESPASSING.
NOT A TOUR BOAT.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BOARD.
But they were boarding.
A pink-cheeked young man, so sunburned he glowed, appeared on the deck. “Good evening, Mr. Senneth,” he said, smiling. “Good evening, Miss Senneth,” he said jointly to Kaytha and Hope. He wore a uniform, summer white, crisp with little gold epaulets. “Lady Hope” was embroidered on his pocket and his name, “Billy,” embroidered just below.
Portable metal chairs were hooked over the edge of the boat. The sunburnt boy steadied the steps.
“This boat,” she said. “Is she—named for me?”
How strange to look into the eyes of this man, her father, to find out if he bought and sailed and named yachts for her!
“Of course she’s named for you,” said Kender Senneth. “You are my life.” He laughed ruefully. “And not an easy life, I assure you.”
The wooden dock creaked loudly, as if breaking up. The yacht bumped against plastic globes that protected her sides from scraping. Waves lifted the stairs right off the dock. The boat moved several inches away, and then gently back.
Kaytha kicked her shoes off and into a wicker basket lying at the foot of the steps. Kender Senneth slipped out of his in the same way.
How extraordinary. Hope stared at the shoes. She could think of no ritual in America that required the removal of shoes. She deposited her sandals into the growing pile of footwear in the basket. Her bare feet followed his socks up the nearly vertical stairs and onto the deck of Lady Hope. She couldn’t find handholds.
I’ll fall, thought Hope. I?
??ll fall between the dock and the boat. Be crushed and left for crabs to chew on.
Kaytha was laughing at her.
She was swamped in a sense of no control. Events had swirled around her, like the tornado around Dorothy in Kansas. Momentum was rushing her from one impossible setting to another.
I want to leave! thought Hope.
As if it were a stage, and she didn’t want the part after all, she looked back over her shoulder, searching for the wings and the exits.
But the sunburnt boy steadied her, the father grabbed her hand, and she was brought aboard.
Wooden decks glistened as if it had just rained. Not a scuff nor a scratch marred the entire ninety-foot length. Think of growing up on a yacht like this! There was such beauty in the Senneths’ lives. Such perfection.
She imagined eight-year-olds, skidding in a game of stocking-footed tag around and around the deck. She imagined playing treasure island, and pirates, and walk-the-plank off this boat.
Am I imagining, she thought …
… or have I done it?
It took Mitch considerably longer to cross town. The collies were exhausted and hot, and their feet hurt. The pavement was hot and broken, and hurt their feet even more. They wagged their tails sadly at him, and tried to be nice about it.
Mitch gave up and took a taxi.
Butter and Cotton loved the backseat of cars, and joyfully stuck their noses out the cracked windows, savoring the world through its windblown scents. He hugged them both, and they wagged their entire bodies in the sheer and absolute delight of being loved.
Back at the T-shirt wagon, Derry was doing an extremely poor job selling. “I hate people,” Derry confided.
“How can you be a stewardess on a yacht and hate people?”
“Oh, those people. They’re nice, clean, rich, well-spoken people. Your T-shirts seem to appeal exclusively to mean, dirty, poor, foul-mouthed people.”
Mitch was insulted. “Just for that, you have to sell another hour. I want to run over and talk to Ben Franklin.”
“Another hour?” cried Derry.
“Hell lasts longer,” Mitch assured her.
Derry muttered to herself and was immediately surrounded by kindred spirits, except that they were muttering for T-shirts.
Ben Franklin and Michael the headwaiter were outside the restaurant while Michael had a cigarette and Ben Franklin told him how bad it was for his health.
“Mitch!” said Ben gladly. “Have you seen Susan? Did she call you?” For once Ben wouldn’t mind—well, not too much—if Susan had called Mitch. He was excessively worried about her, and he knew it, but she was such a solid person. So reliable. It wasn’t like her to abandon a job.
“No,” said Mitch, with the blank air of one who never thought about Susan. Like her roomies. Ben felt a surge of anger at Mitch. Why couldn’t he appreciate what kind of girl had fallen for him?
“She quit the restaurant,” said Michael, “and Ben’s worried about her. But she called in, Ben. I mean, she isn’t dead in an alley somewhere. I heard from her.”
Ben waited for Mitch to express concern but he didn’t. “People quit their jobs all the time,” said Mitch. “She’ll drop by in a day or two and let us know what she’s up to. And if she doesn’t, we’re in the same drama class in September.”
September! Mitch actually expected Ben to wonder until September where Susan was?
“Your Miss Amnesia boarded Lady Hope, by the way,” Michael said to Mitch. He pointed through the tourists, ticket stands, and masts to the brilliant blue hull. “And it was weird. I don’t think Hope has ever boarded a boat before. She didn’t know how.”
Mitch blinked. A boat named for her? A boat her cousin ran on and off so easily? “But it’s hers,” he said. “Of course she knows how to board the boat.”
“There’s something fishy about that boat,” said Michael.
Ben laughed. “‘Fishy,’ meaning people who go out to sea to catch a tuna? That is the least fishy boat I can think of. That kind of yacht is for parties. For fund-raisings. Gala events where the women got their gowns in France.”
“That’s true,” agreed Michael. “In fact, they’re having a huge event tonight. Everybody’s been notified. Special parking. People are going to be allowed to drive right up on the plaza and leave their Rolls-Royces and Mercedes and Jaguars here.”
So those are the plans, thought Mitch. So that’s why Mr. Senneth collected Kaytha and Hope—they have to get ready for this gala event that I’m not invited to.
He was extremely hurt, even though there was absolutely no reason to have invited a T-shirt acquaintance, and many reasons not to.
He told himself not to think about crashing the party.
“Susan and I were talking about Lady Hope last night,” said Michael. “We agreed the Senneths are drug dealers.”
Mitch was shocked. Drugs? His beautiful Hope? Her distinguished father? The weird cousin, yes, she definitely had that I’ll-try-any-pharmaceutical-on-earth look to her. “Hope is a pawn in a drug deal?” he said, frowning at Michael’s idea. “But then, what’s with the memory loss?”
“Whoa,” said Michael. “I don’t think Miss Amnesia is a pawn in anything. What I can imagine is Mr. Senneth exchanging money with some very well-to-do addicts who aren’t going down an inner-city alley to buy.” Michael shrugged. “But maybe they’re clean. After all, Lady Hope is clearly a toy boat.”
“Toy?” said Mitch, outraged. “How dare you—”
“Every toy in the world is tied down on that upper deck, Mitch, just waiting for some athletic little guest to use. They’ve got two Wave Runners, scuba equipment, Jet Skis, snorkeling gear, a Sunfish, every kind of fishing gear in the hemisphere, old-fashioned water skis, and a Boston Whaler to pull you. I bet they’ve got fax, computer, modems, radar, depth sounder, loran, a chef instead of a mere cook, closed-circuit security monitors. It’s the kind of boat multimillionaires charter for a season.”
“Wow,” said Ben. “I say definitely board her. See if we can play with their toys. At least get a party invitation.”
“You can’t board Lady Hope. They have a guard,” said Michael.
“They have a deckhand,” said Mitch, “whose cutesy little shirt has cutesy little pretend military insignia. It’s some college kid just like us.”
He grinned at his best friend. “I’m crashing it. What are they going to do about it? Throw me in the harbor? Call the police?”
“Cancel your date with Miss Amnesia is more like it,” said Ben Franklin.
Hope would have expected a ship’s living quarters to be cramped, with low ceilings and salt-crusted portholes. But the salon was spacious and airy, with large high windows overlooking the wharf.
The Lady Hope’s salon was ringed with sofas, built-in half-moons of luxury. The carpet underfoot was thick as a goosedown jacket … and pure white. No wonder shoes were forbidden. Both white carpet and varnished deck would be destroyed by gritty-bottomed city shoes.
The air-conditioning was like a gift. You could sit within the perfection of Lady Hope, floating on the water, and experience no weather whatsoever: no heat, no humidity, no sun. But there it lay in front of you, sparkling and without flaw, for money—the wealth that built Lady Hope—kept passengers safe from flaws.
The pink-cheeked Billy served drinks in stemmed crystal glasses. Hers, with a twist of lime, was clear and bubbly. Designer water.
Her thoughts were as shaken as Kender Senneth’s drink.
Kender Senneth belonged on such a ship, being served by a steward in a monogrammed shirt, sending faxes from the wheelroom, and she was sure that any minute he would exchange his suit for something casual, something wonderful, and probably also white, probably so fashionable she would hardly recognize it.
Who could be afraid in such a place, where the only thing that could happen to you was too much pampering?
Food appeared, as exotic as edible sculpture. It didn’t look like something people ate, but like an art
istic window display.
The salon was covered by an immense map of the waters themselves: rocks and shoals, currents and channels. Hope studied it without learning anything.
It was strange to know so much, and at the same time so little.
The steward shifted his weight. A servant. She did not think she had ever come across a real-life servant. Barely out of his teens, in his perky uniform he might have been a kid ready for Halloween night. She had a creepy flash of memory: she had seen him before—dressed differently—dressed … ?
The chef, for of course Lady Hope did not simply have a cook, next brought in desserts.
Hope clapped her hands, the sweets were so adorable. Huge chocolate-dipped strawberries, with V-shaped centers of white chocolate. Dotted on the white V were three tiny, dark-chocolate buttons and a bow tie.
“The strawberries are wearing tuxedos! That’s wonderful,” said Hope. “I love that.”
The captain looked in briefly. He too was cranberry pink from too much sun and wind. His clothes were ice white with thin gold trim, and his sunglasses actually matched: gold rimmed. The crew was dressed entirely in white and gold. Hope was entranced. They were like boxed dolls, that came in a set on your birthday.
Each pillow on the built-in sofas was embroidered in delicate gold script with the same lovely name: Lady Hope. The frosted glass on the teak doors was etched with a profile of some ancient ship at sea, sails full and proud.
“You must love this boat,” Hope said to the captain.
He smiled at her. “She’s my life,” he agreed. “She’s a good girl. She’s easy to clean, she’s great-looking, her engines are in great shape. She was built strong enough to cross the Atlantic, and she’s done it more than once, but she’s a little too old to try it now. She winters in Fort Lauderdale.”
Hope loved how he referred to the boat. He seemed to be talking of a beloved aunt or grandmother. His eyes rested with great affection on every inch of Lady Hope. Mr. Senneth seemed only to be passing through, as he passed through The Jayquith, but the captain lived on the boat, and loved her.