THE DAY OF the regatta seemed tailor-made for sailing, the sky cerulean and clear, the wind pulling steadily northeast. The crowd swarmed all the way from the public landing to the yacht club, tourists and locals mixing, snapping pictures of the yachts, eating ice cream and fried seafood sold at the takeout on the waterfront walkway.
Pearl put her hand up to block the sun, spotting Bridges sitting on one of the granite posts by the yacht club marina entrance. He wore a navy-striped hoodie, chino shorts, and boat shoes without socks. “Very nautical,” she said as he slid down to his feet. “Did a big kid take your captain’s hat?”
“Hey, I’m just the first mate. We don’t get hats.” They fell into step, the silence self-conscious but not uncomfortable. More experimental, trying out the new intimacy between them. They’d been chatting online almost every night this week. Silly verbal sparring on the surface; beneath, reaching out to each other while the rest of the world was asleep. She often wondered if he’d just come back from another clandestine boat ride with Tristan, going God knew where on the bay at an hour when almost no one was on the water. “I only got here a couple minutes ago.” He checked his phone, snorted. “Akil’s bitching at me to hurry. This way.”
She followed him through the crowd. A steel drum band was playing somewhere, hammering out a deafening rhythm as they passed other sailboats lined up for the race.
Tristan’s Islander 36 was at the end, brilliant white with a blue cabin housing. The name stenciled across the stern was the Cassidy Claire.
Akil sat in a deck chair above, mirrored aviator shades on, one foot propped up. “Dude. We thought you’d bailed.”
“When have I ever.”
Pearl stepped onto the deck and saw Tristan kneeling by the mast, pulling the lines off their cleats and winches. He stopped what he was doing at the sight of her, one arm resting on his knee, the wind stirring his hair around his collar. She’d taken more care with her appearance today, khaki shorts and a white gathered top she’d bought last summer and only worn once because she didn’t think it was really her style.
There was movement on the opposite side of the deck, and Hadley Kurtzweil walked into view. She stopped at the sight of Bridges, flushing slightly. “Hi.” She held up a bottle, giving it a shake. “Water?”
Akil waved at the cabin door. “Go ahead.” Hadley went below, and a moment later, Quinn followed. She wore a black crocheted bikini that showed off every sinewy inch of her; she caught the cabin door and held it, facing Bridges and Pearl. “Akil sent us an invite. Hope you don’t mind. Oh, wait.” She tilted her head. “Is this awkward for you, Bridge?”
Bridges didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was flat. “It’s Tristan’s boat.”
Quinn turned to Tristan, hand on her hip. He was silent for a beat, then looked back to his work. “You should stay,” he told her.
She smirked and disappeared down the steps. Bridges slowly turned to Akil, his eyes wide, jaw set. “What . . . the hell.”
Akil tipped back in his chair. “Hey. You bring around whoever you want, why can’t I?” The look he leveled at Pearl blew away any pretense: she was a joke that had worn very thin. She held his stare.
Tristan straightened. “Akil, let the topping lift out.”
Akil got up and let down one of the lines that held the boom until it hung loosely, then recleated it. Bridges turned to Pearl. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. We can leave—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She heard the girls’ laughter below, tinkling and faint. “I can take it if they can.”
“Are you sure?” She nodded briskly, and after a second, he breathed out. “Cool. Okay.”
She found an out-of-the-way place to perch and watch the boys finish prepping. Tristan started the motor and steered them into the direction of the wind while Akil and Bridges hoisted the sails, which luffed briefly against the mast before Bridges cleated them off.
There were eight yachts already at the designated starting area near the end of the breakwater, one by the name of Freedom, another Starchaser; from here, the crowd on the docks was little more than distant color and sound. The girls came back up and resumed their positions on the far side of the deck, stretching out on towels with tanning lotion and magazines, seemingly oblivious to the competitive tension in the air.
At ten, the starting shot sounded. Tristan came forward from the cockpit. “Starboard tack.” He switched places with Bridges, trimming the jib while Akil did the same to the mainsail. The Cassidy Claire tilted to the right, sails puffing with wind, sliding with surprising nimbleness toward the rocky breakwater.
They glided past the Freedom, the Penobscot Princess, the Stand Fast. Rocks loomed large.
No one spoke as the hull passed within twelve feet of the breakwater. Pearl gripped her knees, straining for the grinding sound of rock against wood. Bridges was rigid at the helm; Akil crouched on the deck, waiting.
They slipped along soundlessly, close enough to see a Styrofoam cup wedged in a crevice. Tristan called, “Port.” The boys trimmed the sails again, Bridges turning the wheel to the left. They cut off the front-runner, Starchaser, so narrowly that Pearl heard Bridges curse under his breath.
The wind pushed them out into the open, and as the other eight yachts struggled to keep up in their wake, a distant cheer went up from the docks. Tristan stood against the mast for a moment, looking back, then went to Bridges, pulling a flyer out of his pocket as Akil moved up beside them. “This is the course.” He unfolded the sheet to show the line diagram. “Windward toward the Nicatou buoy, then southeast to the Whale’s Tooth buoy, southwest around the entrance of Somes Sound, then home.”
“Three, four hours?” Bridges glanced back.
“Less. If we do our jobs.” He tucked the map away, in full possession of himself and the day. It was as if the white, shaking boy in the gym had never existed, and she wondered if his wingmen had ever seen that side of him. “We bought ourselves some time. Set the sails.” He turned away, adding vaguely, “The bar’s stocked.”
Bridges and Akil exchanged a look, grinning.
Bridges and Pearl went below first. The cabin was polished teak, a galley to the right, a chart table nearby with two white leather settees and a stained-glass lamp mounted above. Gilt-framed photos hung on the walls: a candid of Cassidy and Joseph standing on the Islander’s deck, holding a just-caught fish with tropical-looking water in the background. Another professional family photo, everyone dressed in denim shirts and khakis, barefooted, sitting on a beach somewhere. Tristan was much younger, maybe twelve, his hair cut short, sitting chin-up, his fingers spread on his thighs. The more Pearl studied the photo, the more the pose took on a rigid show quality, like a Labrador waiting for the Westminster judges.
Bridges went straight for the galley, locating the liquor cabinet, where expensive-looking bottles sat in a rack coated with a fine layer of dust. “You want anything?”
Pearl dragged her eyes from the photo. “Do you guys sail a lot?”
“Tristan and Akil and I usually just knock around in the motorboats, cruise the islands and stuff. Competitions like this were something he did with his dad. David entered regattas all over the world, had a whole case of trophies.”
“Sounds like he and Tristan were pretty close.”
One of the ice cubes Bridges held dropped into a snifter. He cleared his throat, let the rest fall into the glass, and broke the seal on a bottle of brandy. “Not really.”
She sank onto the settee, watching him.
“Truth?” Bridges glanced over at her. “David was a real hard-ass. Nothing was ever good enough, you know? He was one of those self-made men, had to remind everybody about his amazing work ethic all the time. Especially his kids.”
“New money.”
He glanced up, gave a laugh. “Yeah. And he was a dick to Tristan. Like, bad. Cassidy was his princess, and Joe was his favorite.” He paused, fingering the foil seal. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
Bridges was silent as he poured his drink. “My gramps would say that’s bad luck. Speaking ill of the dead.” He gave a humorless smile. “Bet you don’t think I’m so fair now.”
“I think you’re being honest. Sometimes that’s better.”
He was still frowning. “Are you hungry? There’s supposed to be cold cuts and stuff in the fridge.”
“Sure.” She went to find the head, fastening the catch on the door. There was a toilet, sink, and shower, thick towels with Gs embroidered on them. Pearl ran the faucet and carefully opened the medicine cabinet. A small first-aid kit, a hairbrush, a box of tampons. In the sink drawer, there were some prescription bottles with Cassidy’s name on them, dated a year and a half ago, nearly empty. Pearl slipped her phone out of her pocket and Googled the medications. Sertraline: antidepressant. Trazodone: antidepressant and sedative.
She hunkered down and opened the cabinet below the sink, painfully aware of the passing seconds, of how long she could stay in here without drawing attention. There were more first-aid supplies underneath: Ace bandages, gauze pads, more boxes in the shadows behind. She pushed through, heard the rattle of a small object being dislodged. After a quick inventory, she heard it again when she shook the box of gauze.
Inside was a memory card no bigger than her thumbnail, the kind used for file storage in digital cameras. Pearl turned it over in her fingers, mind racing, then jumped at the sound of Bridges’s footsteps passing by outside. She pocketed the card, turned off the faucet, and went to meet him.
Carrying two plates loaded with sandwiches and chips, they went back on deck, sitting together where Bridges could keep tabs on the sails while Akil went below. She could feel the memory card against her thigh, as if it generated its own heat. Tristan stood at the helm, seemingly oblivious to all of them, his gaze on the green navigational buoy about a quarter mile offshore from Little Nicatou.
Akil brought up a drink for himself and white wine for Quinn and Hadley, leaving the bottle between the girls. The wind shifted, and the boys went back to tacking, only Tristan speaking now and then to issue orders. The boat heeled around the buoy, avoiding bad waters, bearing southeast toward Whale’s Tooth. Pearl sat by herself, glancing over once or twice to catch Hadley and Quinn looking in her direction. They didn’t seem to be whispering about her, just looking, sizing her up. Feeling increasingly foolish sitting alone with a plate of half-eaten sandwiches, Pearl stood and made her way over, leaning on the cabin housing for support when the boat pitched.
Quinn and Hadley said nothing as she sat on the deck beside them, her stomach knotted, already regretting this. Approaching two girls bonded in their hatred for you was like sticking your head into a wolverine den and hoping for the best. They were painting their toenails ruby red, trading off the brush. None of them spoke for so long that Pearl almost stood and left, though the shame of retreat made her hold out for an extra minute. Quinn said, “Bridges won’t like you being over here with us.”
“It’s not his call.” She shrugged at their long looks. “We’re friends.”
Quinn’s mouth quirked. “How original.”
“It doesn’t have to be original. It’s true.” Quinn gave her a moment’s appraisal before facing back to the ocean. Silence settled in again.
“So . . .” Quinn leaned back, crossing her long legs at the ankle. “Does anybody else find it weird that we’re basically sitting on a floating mausoleum right now?” Hadley shushed her, glancing back to see if Tristan had heard. “Seriously. He hasn’t gotten rid of anything. I saw some of Cassidy’s hair elastics and lip gloss down there. That’s like one step away from saving fingernail clippings.”
“It’s only been six months.” Hadley spoke in a hush. “He’s probably not ready yet. I mean . . . can you imagine? The last time you see your parents alive, you get into a fight over something stupid?” She shook her head. “How do you get over that?”
“He could hire somebody to put their stuff in storage. He’d never even have to look at it. My mom did that when my aunt died. I mean, you have to deal with these things.” Quinn adjusted her sunglasses. From this angle, it was obvious that she was no more a natural blonde than Pearl, but her highlights were exquisite, ranging from honey to platinum. “Do you think their house is like that? Everybody’s stuff still lying out, like, creepy as hell?”
Hadley coated her pinkie nail. “I heard the fire was really bad. There probably isn’t much left.”
“He should bulldoze it.” Hadley burst into exasperated laughter. “What? Look, I’m not being a bitch here, I’m serious. It cannot be healthy to live across town from a monument to your murdered fam while you try to work through your PTSD issues. He never should’ve spent the winter here.” Quinn glanced back at Tristan. “He doesn’t look good.”
“He’s beautiful.” Hadley’s voice was faint.
“Well, yeah. But he doesn’t look good.” She gave a barely detectable nod in Pearl’s direction. “Too bad you weren’t around the last couple summers. Tristan, in his prime? Basically ruled the whole Tenney’s Harbor party scene. Some craaazy shit went down.”
Pearl raised her brows. “Wow. He seems like such an introvert.”
Hadley looked thoughtful, finishing her wine and refilling her glass. “He’s changed a lot. After everything being in the news and the reporters . . . I guess he just wants to be left alone. But when his family first summered here? Oh my God.”
“What happened?” Pearl watched them exchange a look, familiar helpless frustration rising at their telepathy, the higher plane of girl friendship that she had never reached herself. “What?”
Quinn settled back, smugness playing across her lips. “Debauchery. That’s all I’m saying.”
Hadley giggled. “You oughta know.”
“Shut up. I’ve heard things, I didn’t say I was a joiner. Becoming a YouTube porn star doesn’t exactly make my bucket list. Besides”—she let the pause drag out, resting her head back against the chair—“it’s mostly townies who get into that stuff. Give them, like, one wine cooler, and they’ll do anything the guys want.”
Pearl turned to the water, measuring her breathing, waiting for the red to fade from her vision. Looking embarrassed, Hadley bit her lip, finally saying, “For real, Quinn? I mean . . . the guys really made a video . . . ?”
“I’m not saying who did what. You must know. You were with Bridges last summer.”
“He’d never do something like that.”
“Look, all I know is some freaky Skinemax action got posted for a week or two before somebody took it down. Maybe it wasn’t Bridges or Tristan who made it, but it happened at one of their parties. It got like a zillion shares.”
“Who was the girl?” Pearl said.
“As if I watched it. I already said, some random townie.” Quinn glanced up as a second bottle lowered down between them, Akil holding it by the neck. “And now the Wine Fairy’s here.”
“Drink up. This is the good stuff. Ol’ Dave left the place loaded.” He took Hadley’s glass and topped it off, clinking it with his own. “May all our ups and downs be between the sheets.”
Hadley laughed, coloring slightly, while Quinn looked coolly back. When he’d gone, she said, “He’s trying to get you drunk.”
“It’s working.”
“Do you think he’s cute?”
“Yeah. I mean—yeah.” Hadley flicked distractedly at her hair.
“But he’s not Bridges.” Quinn shook her head. “Remember what today’s about. Proving you don’t need him to have a good time.”
When Pearl glanced back, Akil was conferring with Tristan, who made some small comment without taking his eyes off the Whale’s Tooth buoy in the distance.
Akil crept up behind Hadley, tickling the exposed skin between her tank top and shorts, making her shriek. Pearl took the opportunity to remove herself, going back to pick at the food and watch Bridges, who was watching Akil, his brows drawn. The memory card held a new weight in her pocket, and she squirmed a little, thinking of what Quinn had said about freaky videos.
Time spun out in the sunbaked quiet. The water was jewel green, endless. Akil led Hadley down below, his hand on the small of her back. Bridges stood stiffly, then walked away from the sails, taking up a solitary position on the pulpit.
The boat lost some speed, no longer angled properly into the wind, but Tristan didn’t seem to notice, sitting in the captain’s chair with one knee drawn up, his right forearm draped across, lost in thought. Bear Island lay ahead, the lighthouse crowning the rocky heights. Maybe this was the direction the boys had gone after they left the party on Little Nicatou; there were any number of small islands out here, not to mention harbor access to all the little towns dotting the coast of MDI. Not much else to do after ten p.m. on the open water.
Some sound or intuition made Pearl glance back. The Starchaser was closing in off the port bow, crew members in bright Windbreakers scrambling around on deck, adjusting sails. Pearl raised her voice: “Should they be passing us like that?” No one answered. She went to Tristan, stopping a couple of feet away from him. “They’re passing us.”
He turned, saw the Starchaser, and got to his feet, his expression freezing when he saw both Akil and Bridges gone.
She hesitated, thinking how long it had been since she’d sailed, how little she knew about handling a boat this size. “I’ve got it.” Pearl ran for the sails, loosening the line with a few tugs. She looked back to find Tristan staring. “Trust me. Grab the wheel.”