right.”
Angelo enveloped me, and I leaned into the softness of his down vest. My exhaustion and anguish gave way to tears. He let me go, and I stepped back and pulled myself together.
“My god, Mara. When I heard on the VHF about an accident on Intrepid. Well—”
“It was awful, dreadful. There’s so much to talk about. But not now.”
“I’ll make a nice dinner tonight. We can talk then. Okay, sweetheart?”
That sounded perfect. Angelo strode away with a brisk step, and he waved at two seamen on their way to the ship. I watched until my godfather disappeared around the corner.
With the ship docked, we had to unload her. Even after a two-day trip, there was a lot to haul. Scientists and students marched up and down the gangway with crates of water samples, chemicals, computers—all the paraphernalia they’d brought aboard. Everything had to be moved to the loading dock, up the elevator, and into MOI labs. After it was stowed, people could go home to hot showers and meals with their housemates and spouses.
Except Peter, of course.
I did a final check of my lab. The microscopes were back in their usual places, computers reconnected, water samples stored safely in the freezer. All in good order, except for a flash drive I’d stashed in a drawer in Intrepid’s main lab. With a sigh, I schlepped back to the ship.
I stepped off the gangway. Two men caught my eye. Seymour was talking to a crewmate—liver-eyed Jake. Seymour’s face was inches away from Jake’s nose as the crewmate backed away. Hidden by a portable van, I slipped closer. The van blocked my view, but I could easily hear them.
Seymour growled, “Don’t give me that duff. You’re a clumsy fool!”
“But I mean that—”
“You mean? Mean what?”
Pause. Someone spoke in a calm, firm voice. Ted.
“Gentlemen, either of you need help?”
I backed off. The last thing I needed was for Seymour and Ted to see me spying on them. I made my way to the lab, pocketed the flash drive, and leaned against the counter. Seymour only spoke to the crew if he had to. But clearly Jake did something to make Seymour livid. Maybe the crewmate was somehow involved in the buoy disaster. If Seymour knew that, maybe he also knew why Peter kept checking that buoy—and other critical pieces of information.
Angelo De Luca is a widower who frustrates Spruce Harbor’s older ladies. He’s got a full head of hair—thick, white, and swept back—and a square chin sometimes darkened by stubble that gives him a rugged look. With the classic aquiline nose he calls beaked, his face would be at home on an old Roman coin. And, he can pull in a fighting bluefish no sweat.
But four years after they were married, Angelo’s wife died in a car accident. She was twenty-five. Angelo says he’ll never love another. Recently retired from MOI, Angelo is a brilliant marine engineer. In the 1960s, his oceanographic engineering teams designed instruments to help meteorologists make better weather models. That saved lives of Maine fishermen and boaters, some of them now his friends.
Angelo’s home sits atop a bluff at the tip of Seal Point, one of Spruce Harbor’s two headlands. At seven on the dot, my car splattered pebbles across the driveway as I swung to a stop. I reached for the door and hesitated, hand in mid-air. In order to make it on time, I’d driven too fast—and now wasn’t ready to get out of the car.
Leaning back against the headrest, I deliberated in the shadow of the old gray shingled cottage that had been my refuge for the last eleven years.
I was uncertain about what to tell Angelo. I wanted him to know that Peter was injured by a buoy I was scheduled to deploy. But I had no evidence that inexperienced crewmembers might’ve been the cause. Maybe I was over-reacting to what Intrepid’s captain guessed was an accident caused by a defective winch.
Start with the buoy, that’s it. As a marine engineer, Angelo was the perfect person to ask why a winch designed not to fail did fail. Even better, Angelo helped lead buoy cruises on the newly acquired Intrepid. I stepped out of the car and walked briskly up the granite steps.
I kissed my godfather on the top of the head. He smelled of sea with a touch of olive oil. I took the opposite armchair in front of the crackling fire. He wore the wool vest I’d given him for Christmas. The blend of fibers picked up hints of blue in his gray eyes. A glass of wine sat on the wooden coffee table.
Like every good Italian, Angelo talked with his hands. Palms up, he gestured toward the solo glass. “Want some? It’s Gavi, your favorite.”
“Gavi would be perfect.”
I leaned back in the chair and let out a long, slow breath. For the first time in days, I could let go and relax.
The living room—with wood planked floors and windows facing the harbor on one side and open Atlantic on the other—is my favorite. Growing up, I’d spent hours staring out those windows while Angelo and my parents talked about fish, fishermen, boats, and everything else to do with the sea.
Angelo returned with my wine and handed me the glass. “You seem far away.”
“Oh, just picturing myself when I was little, nose pressed against the pane.”
“The ocean was like a magnet for you.”
I gestured toward the harbor. “Gorgeous sunset tonight.”
Angelo nodded. For the evening’s show, clouds on the horizon were slowly fading from vermillion to shifting mixes of purple. They’d soon turn gray.
We sat in comfortable silence—as people who’d suffered and taken care of each other can do. Finally, the only light came from dancing flames in the fireplace. Angelo got up and turned on a brass table lamp in the middle of an antique cherry table.
It was time to sift through the events on Intrepid.
Angelo slipped into his chair. “Any news about Peter?”
My throat tightened. “I called the hospital twice. He’s unconscious in critical condition. I’ll try again tomorrow.” Staring at the dancing flames, I said, “I keep thinking about Sarah and the twins.”
“Of course you do.” He said quietly, “Tell me what happened.”
I hesitated. Angelo’s manner—careful speech and movement—signaled worry.
“I, well…”
“Mara, tell me. I need to know.”
It tumbled out—the rolling buoy, the big sea. Peter taking my place, checking the buoy twice, crushed beneath it, airlifted to the hospital.
Angelo’s face darkened with each revelation.
I finished, and he shook his head. “My god. What might’ve happened to you.”
He looked away and pressed his eyes shut for a moment.
I brought him back to what he knew best. “What can you tell me about the winch?”
