Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

The new day promised another relentlessly blue sky. Neither Sam nor Donovan had much of an appetite, but they coaxed each other to eat a few pieces of ping pong fruit, washing it down with water. They’d finally dragged themselves back to the encampment, each lying beneath the tarp in an approximation of sleep until the sun was high enough to give up the charade.

Neither felt inclined to dig for clams or go fishing, though they had nothing left but coconuts and fruit. Sam sat cross-legged on the sand, aimlessly dragging a twig through it.

Donovan came up to stand beside him. “Let’s go do the signal mirror. Come on, Sam. We can’t give up.”

Sam didn’t look up. “You go. I’ll be along in a while.”

After a beat, Donovan moved away.

Sam felt numb. He knew he was letting Donovan down, but he couldn’t seem to rally himself. His determined belief that they would be rescued had been severely challenged when that freighter had moved past them, blind to their best efforts. He realized now that no ship could get any closer—the water near the island must be too shallow. And smaller crafts would have no reason to be out this far. Unless some kind of low-cruising plane flew overhead and looked down at precisely the right moment, they might be spending months—even years stranded and alone.

You’re not alone.

The words drifted unbidden into his mind. That was true at least—he wasn’t all alone. If he had been, he would have succumbed by now to despair, sapping him of the will to keep up the fight to survive.

Sam smiled sadly as he gazed down toward the shore where the tall dark-haired man in tattered clothing was waving his arm in a slow, even arc, the sun glinting off the mirror at intervals. Thank goodness Donovan was able to take charge, now that Sam’s will seemed to have deserted him.

Maybe that’s how it was with real partners. When one couldn’t quite handle what life dealt, the other stepped in to take up the slack. Partners. Did he dare use the term with its implied permanence? Twice now he’d declared his love aloud to Donovan, and neither time had Donovan replied in kind.

He needed to be prepared for the very real possibility that Donovan had only turned to him as a necessary diversion while he waited to return to his real life. And there went Sam, like a lovesick fool, falling head over heels for a guy who might just be using him to pass the time.

“Stop it,” he said aloud, forcing himself to his feet. Brushing the back of his jeans, he realized how they hung on him, slipping almost off his hips when he walked. Even the ring on his finger was getting loose. Where had his good luck gone? “Things are what they are. No point in making yourself crazy, Jamison.”

So, they’d missed a chance. There would be others.

~*~

Warrant Officer Tom Francis glanced at his watch—fourteen hundred hours. He checked the coordinates again on the flight console and peered through his binoculars out the window of the Coast Guard helicopter dispatched from San Juan. “I think I see it.”

As the other three crew members peered down, he confirmed, “Yep, these are the coordinates radioed in by the Greek cargo vessel. That’s gotta be it. Pilot, let’s make a landing and see who’s hiding on that bit of uncharted paradise.”

“The ship said they were pretty sure there was a bonfire on the shore. They caught a few flashes of light as well, perhaps a signal mirror. But they couldn’t move close enough to confirm—the water wasn’t deep enough and they were on a schedule,” Ensign Brady said.

“So they called the United States Coast Guard to the rescue. Semper Paratus.”

A few minutes later, the pilot executed a perfect landing on the bit of sandy beach, the wind from the helicopter’s propellers swaying the tall, slender coconut trees. While the pilot remained aboard, the other two men climbed out to survey the site, rescue gear in tow. Ensign Brady walked over to what appeared to be a burned down bonfire. He kicked at the charred wood with his foot. “This is recent. There’s someone here all right.”

~*~

“What the hell is that?” Donovan and Sam stopped dead in their tracks as the loudest sound probably ever heard on the tiny island erupted over the beach.

As they listened, Donovan was the first to register the sound. “A chopper. It’s a chopper! They’ve found us. Sam, they’ve come for us!”

Dropping the hard-won fish, the two men scrambled over the rock and crashed their way through the brush. They stopped short as they saw two robust-looking men in Coast Guard uniforms standing near the remains of last night’s bonfire.

Sam felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. He stood stunned, forgetting to breathe.

Donovan fell slowly to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks.

~*~

“I’m okay, Mom. Yeah, I’m okay. Really. I love you too, Mom. Mom, stop crying.” Sam smiled at the receiver, his heart overflowing to hear his mother’s voice. “Yes, I’ll let you know as soon as I’m back in New York. I’ll come up to see you guys as soon as I get myself resettled… Yes, I promise. I promise. Say hi to Pop and Harry for me… I love you too, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon.” Sam hung up the phone and glanced over at Donovan in the other bed in their semi-private room. He looked exhausted.

Sam wanted to climb into Donovan’s bed and put his arms around him, but of course he did not. Donovan hadn’t said much since the rescue, letting Sam do most of the talking as they were quizzed and questioned by the Coast Guard crew. He seemed to be dazed by the attention, which was certainly understandable. He’d called his father, but he’d mumbled into the phone at the same time a nurse was taking Sam’s vital signs, so Sam hadn’t heard much of the conversation.

They had been flown to a San Juan hospital for observation. “Remarkable,” the doctor kept saying as he examined them each in turn. “Other than sunburn and a bit of malnutrition, you’re both in excellent health. We’ll keep you overnight for observation. What you really need is rest right now. That and a few square meals.”

They’d been separated while each was taken for x-rays and blood work. While Donovan was gone, Sam had taken a long shower. The hot water with plenty of soap and shampoo had been incredible. They’d even been visited by a barber. Sam kept his hair long, the streaked blond hair tucked behind his ears, though he did allow the barber to trim his beard back to its pre-island closely-cropped state. Donovan got a short cut suitable for the corporate world, his firm jaw once again smooth.

 

“Donovan, you asleep?” It was well after midnight, though the bright light shining in from the hallway illuminated the room. The nurse had left the door ajar after the last annoying check of vital signs.

“No.”

“This is weird, right? We’ve been gone from civilization for a month but it feels like a lifetime.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

So far, they’d had little chance to interact alone. After a month of complete privacy, they’d been surrounded non-stop by people—the Coast Guards, the reporters waiting to accost them when they’d landed and been taken to the hospital, the nurses, doctors and technicians milling around them, poking, prodding and questioning them. As each hour passed, Donovan seemed to be slipping further away, and Sam was no longer certain where things stood between them. He wanted to ask—to demand that Donovan stop pulling away, but he also understood Donovan was dealing with a lot right now.

To his surprise, Donovan voiced the question Sam had been thinking.

“What happens to us now, Sam?”

“I don’t know,” Sam answered softly. “What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t know.” Donovan’s voice caught. “What we shared on the island was amazing. But now, here in this hospital with all these people around, what we went through almost doesn’t seem real.”

“It’s funny you say that,” Sam said, trying not to leap to any conclusions about the direction of Donovan’s thoughts. “To me, this is what doesn’t feel real. I got used to the quiet, the peace and our simple way of life. We might have been stranded, but we were free.”

“Yeah,” Donovan agreed. “Things were simpler there, right?  I didn’t have to decide stuff, like who the hell I am. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now. Or what I’m supposed to feel. I’ve always had girlfriends. I never even fantasized about being with a guy.” He turned a beseeching gaze toward Sam. “But what we did—what we had. Does that mean I’m gay now?”

Sam shook his head, smiling in sympathy while also feeling frustrated and anxious at Donovan’s consternation. “We don’t need labels to feel what we feel,” he offered.

“That sounds good, Sam, but that’s not real life. At least not my life,” Donovan snapped. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Sam could tell he meant it. “Sometimes I think I’m channeling my dad. He’d have a fucking heart attack if I told him anything about what happened on the island between us. I know I’m a grown man and shouldn’t give a shit what he thinks or doesn’t think, but the truth is, it’s fucking with my head.”

Sam climbed out of his bed and moved to sit on the edge of Donovan’s. Donovan continued to stare at the ceiling, his body radiating tension. “This has been a crazy twenty-four hours,” Sam said softly, “but we’re still who we were on the island. I still…” I still love you, he wanted to say, but didn’t quite dare. Instead, he finished with, “want you in my life.”

Donovan blew out a breath and finally turned his head to regard Sam. “I know you want me to say I want that, too. The truth is, I don’t know what the hell I want right now. I don’t know what I’m doing. Sam, I still have feelings for you, deep feelings, but I don’t know if… I mean, I’m just not sure if…” He pressed his lips into a thin line, again looking away.

“Stop.” Sam’s voice came out harsher than he’d intended. He couldn’t bear to hear anymore, not if Donovan was gearing up to say things were over between them. Trying to keep the tide of emotion threatening to wash him away at bay, Sam forced his voice to sound light and soothing, as if he were trying to calm a wild animal. “Listen, Donovan. We both need time to decompress—to rediscover our lives, to pick up the pieces. You don’t have to decide anything right now. You don’t have to define yourself or figure out what went on between us. Take a little time. Reconnect with your life. Things between you and me will work out how they’re supposed to.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right,” Donovan said, the relief palpable in his voice.

Sam leaned over and gave Donovan a quick hug. It felt so good—so right—to hold him in his arms. He quickly disengaged before his impulses got the better of him. Returning to his bed on the other side of the room, he placed a hand on his chest, pressing down hard, as if that would stop his heart from breaking.

~*~

They were released from the hospital the next afternoon, each dressed in ill-fitting khaki pants and heavy cotton T-shirts with the hospital logo on the front that the nurse had provided for them.

The phone call with his dad had been nothing like what he’d overheard between Sam and his parents, full of laughter and repeated assurances of love. No, after the initial statement that he was relieved to know Donovan was alive and doing well, Raymond had reverted to his usual brusque, slightly irritated self. Though he didn’t come right out and say it, Donovan got the definite vibe that his father blamed him for going on a cruise on an inferior ship and then getting himself washed overboard in the process.

Donovan still felt bad for how he’d behaved with Sam. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt him, but at the same time, they would both need to face the fact that clinging together while stranded on a deserted island was very different from continuing that relationship back in the real world. Sam was on his own in the city, and was completely comfortable with what he was. He was a dreamy, artistic type who didn’t have to answer to anyone but himself. All the rules and strictures Donovan was forced to observe as a highly visible trial attorney didn’t apply to Sam. Nor did he have a controlling father breathing down his neck 24/7.

Not for the first time, Donovan wished he’d had brothers or sisters to give his father someone else to focus on. One of the best things about being on the island, not counting the amazing connection with Sam, was the freedom to be himself without worrying about his father’s judgment.

As they thanked their caretakers and stepped outside to the waiting shuttle that would take them where they wanted to go, they were assailed by a new mob of reporters and camera crews eager to get the scoop on their dramatic story. Pushing through the throng, they tried to answer the questions hurled at them, both of them overwhelmed by the attention.

Their first stop was the bank where Donovan’s father had arranged to have funds wired, along with a copy of Donovan’s driver’s license and his credit card information. The bank manager had kindly provided them with the use of a desk and a laptop computer. Sam had been able to get online with the New York DMV to retrieve his license information, and then they began to search for a commercial flight home.

“There’s nothing available until tomorrow afternoon,” Sam said dispiritedly. “I guess we could go hang out at the airport and try to get on standby or something.”

A distinguished man stood nearby dressed in an elegant suit, his silver hair brushed back from a high forehead, his dark eyes sharp and intelligent. Something in his face and bearing said he was a man of considerable importance. “Please excuse me for intruding, gentlemen, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he said in flawless English, his Spanish accent slight. He held up a copy of a newspaper, adding, “You two are the young men who were thought lost at sea, but in fact survived that dreadful shipwreck a few weeks back, am I correct?”

As they agreed they were, the man continued, “I’m fascinated with your story. You must be longing to return home to your loving families.”

“Yeah,” Sam said somewhat ruefully. “We were just trying to figure out how to do that.”

The man moved closer and extended his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Carlos Jimenez.” He shook hands with them both. “I have a proposal for you that might work to our mutual advantage. As I said, I’m fascinated with your story, and would love to hear more about it than the brief accounting in the newspaper. I have to fly to Boston this morning, and in fact was just on the way to my private jet. I would be honored to give you a lift, as they say in English. I can arrange for my pilot to drop you at the Teterboro Airport in New Jersey along the way. That’s only about thirty minutes from Manhattan.”

Donovan and Sam looked at each other, and Donovan could see the astonishment in Sam’s face that mirrored his own. Was this guy for real? As if on cue, the bank manager approached them, beaming. “That’s a very generous offer, Señor Jimenez,” he said in English, clearly for the benefit of Sam and Donovan. Turning to them, he added, “Señor Jimenez is our most valued customer.”

Donovan looked at Sam, who nodded, telegraphing that he was onboard if Donovan was. Reassured by Sam’s comfort level as well as the manager’s testimony, Donovan said, “Thank you, Señor. That would definitely help us out. Once I have access to my funds, I’ll be able to pay you back.”

“Please, call me Carlos. As to paying me back, I wouldn’t hear of it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “As I say, I’m already making the trip to the mainland. Please, do not insult me by offering again.”

“This is amazing,” Sam whispered as they followed the guy out of the bank.

“Yeah,” Donovan agreed, dazed by the man’s generosity. 

They approached a black sedan idling at the curb. The driver jumped out and raced around the side of the car to open the doors. Carlos spoke to him in rapid Spanish, no doubt informing him what was going on. Carlos sat in front beside the driver, and Sam and Donovan slid onto the leather seat in back. As the car pulled smoothly away, Carlos twisted back to regard them and said, “Assuming everything goes smoothly, we should be in New Jersey by”—he glanced at the heavy gold watch on his wrist— “three thirty this afternoon.” He held out his phone. “Would either of you like to text someone to meet you?”

Donovan glanced at Sam, who shrugged and shook his head. Turning back to Carlos, Donovan held out his hand. “Thank you. I’ll text my father.” He shot a quick text to Raymond, identifying himself because it would be a strange number, giving him a quick summary of the man’s generous offer, and letting him know the details as to the location and arrival time.

Donovan half expected his father to protest that Donovan didn’t know this man and was a fool to assume his intentions were good. But to his surprise, after a moment’s pause, Raymond only texted back, “I’ll be there.”

 

The small, private jet was incredibly luxurious, with comfortable, wide seats that fully reclined. Instead of stale pretzels and cans of warm soda over ice, there was a refrigerator stocked with fancy cheeses, caviar, fresh fruit and chocolate truffles, along with chilled white wine and sparkling water. Carlos insisted they help themselves to whatever they wished. Unable to resist after so long on the island, they gorged themselves on the delicious food. 

Throughout the flight, Carlos peppered them with questions about the shipwreck and their subsequent struggle to survive. Both Donovan and Sam tried to comply, answering all of his questions as they flew toward home, though of course they left out the personal details.

When the jet finally touched down on the runway in New Jersey, Carlos warmly shook both their hands. “Yours is an amazing story,” he said. “You will need to write your memoirs quickly while the experience is still fresh.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew a slim leather case. From it he extracted two business cards. “I own a publishing company. When you’re ready to write your memoir, please drop me a line.”

Donovan had to admit, the idea of writing an account of their incredible experience was intriguing. Not that he’d ever have time to write a book—not in this lifetime.

Sam smiled at Carlos. “Thank you, sir. We’ll do that,” he said.

The pilot opened the door for them and lowered the folding stairs. Unlike their tropical paradise, the autumn day was overcast and chilly, and a haze of pollution lingered over the buildings. Though he knew he should fall to his knees and kiss the ground with thanks, all Donovan felt was numb.

~*~

A man Sam assumed must be Donovan’s father was waiting for them on the tarmac. He was tall like Donovan, his dark hair streaked with silver, his back a little stooped. He raised his hand in greeting as they deplaned. “Donovan,” he called, striding quickly forward. 

“Dad,” Donovan cried, moving toward his father. They embraced briefly and stepped apart.

“It’s good to see you, son,” his father said. He looked toward the small plane, which was already taxiing away. “I did a little research on this Carlos Jimenez fellow. Seems like a standup guy. He owns a sizable chunk of Puerto Rico prime real estate and a number of profitable businesses. Always good to make new contacts. Did you get his business card?”

“Yes, Dad,” Donovan said, flashing a quick grin at Sam as if to say, “See, I told you he was like this.”

Mr. McNair turned to Sam. “You must be Sam Jamison.” He extended his hand, capturing Sam’s in a bone-crunching grip. “I’m Raymond McNair. You and my son have been through quite a harrowing adventure.”

“I wouldn’t have made it without him,” Sam said sincerely, resisting a strong desire to put his arm around Donovan. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Is that so?” Mr. McNair said. He looked Sam slowly up and down as if he were assessing him and finding him wanting. Sam looked calmly back at him, aware Donovan’s father probably disapproved of his long hair and beard. “Well, you two made page one of the local section of the paper, above the fold.” He pulled some newsprint from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Unfolding it, he showed them a photo of the two of them looking rather dazed as they climbed down from the helicopter. The headline read, “Castaways from the King Cruise Tragedy Rescued.”

He handed the paper to Donovan and then clapped him heavily on the back. “Let’s get a move on, boy. Traffic’s going to be a bitch.” Turning back to Sam, he added, “Can we give you a lift somewhere?”

“Yes,” Donovan said, taking a step toward Sam. “Come with us.”

Sam’s heart lifted at Donovan’s words. While he’d greatly appreciated the free flight on a private jet, Carlos’ constant presence and attention had made it impossible to talk one on one with Donovan. He had hoped for more of a chance to break through the walls Donovan had been steadily erecting around himself since the rescue.

He fervently wished Donovan’s dad hadn’t shown up to ferry them back to the city. Donovan had shut down even more with the arrival of his father, if that was possible. Still, by accepting the ride, at least they could put off saying goodbye for a little longer. “Sure,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.” He turned to Donovan. “You could drop me at Tim’s gallery in Chelsea if that works for you. He’s got a spare key to my apartment.”

They climbed into the car—Donovan up front beside his father, Sam in the back alone. As Mr. McNair drove, he asked about their day-to-day survival, as well as what exactly had transpired on the ship during the evacuation. “There’s a class action suit already filed on behalf of the passengers for flagrant violations of the international safety laws that govern cruise lines, but that could drag on for years. I’m just so relieved you’re home, son, safe and sound.”

They were quiet as Mr. McNair exited the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan. Sam stared out the window at all the traffic, tall buildings and concrete, such a contrast to the lush tropical vegetation, white sand and endless blue ocean of their tiny island. He directed Mr. McNair to the gallery on West Broadway, dreading the moment he would have to say goodbye to Donovan.

When Mr. McNair pulled up to the curve, Sam leaned forward and touched him on the shoulder. “Thanks very much for the ride.”

“No trouble,” Donovan’s father replied.

Sam climbed out of the car, and was glad when Donovan also stepped out.

They embraced, Donovan holding Sam tightly for several moments before abruptly letting him go. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’ve been acting like a jerk.” He glanced toward his father in the driver’s seat and then back at Sam. “I need to get my head on straight. Everything feels so surreal right now. I just…I need some time.”

“I get it,” Sam said, though he didn’t, not really. He was in love with this man, and pretty damn sure Donovan loved him back. What else could possibly matter? But he recognized it would do no good to push Donovan for something more definitive right now. Donovan would have to come to terms with his feelings in his own way.

“Go with your dad,” Sam said gently. They had exchanged email and cell phone information while in the hospital, and there would be time to reconnect once Donovan felt more settled. “Call or text me any time, day or night.” 

“Yes, okay,” Donovan said, the relief palpable in his voice. “Thank you, Sam.” A tear rolled down Donovan’s cheek and he brusquely wiped it away. “For everything.”

On an impulse, Sam took off his ring and held it out toward Donovan. “I want you to have this.”

Donovan stared at the ring and then looked up into Sam’s face. “Thank you,” he said softly, closing his hand around the ring. He leaned closer, and for one crazy, heart stopping moment, Sam thought he was going to kiss him.

Then his father tapped the horn, making Donovan jump. He took an abrupt step back. “I better go.”

The door to the gallery swung suddenly open, and Tim Fletcher, all six-foot four, two-hundred-fifty pounds of him, appeared, a huge smile on his face. “Sam! I thought that was you standing out there. It’s so fucking great to see you alive and well!” He leaped from the door and threw his arms around Sam, lifting him into a tight bearhug.

When Sam could extricate himself from his friend’s exuberant embrace, Donovan’s car was pulling away, taking a piece of Sam’s heart along with it.

He allowed himself to be guided into the spacious gallery. A few people were milling around looking at the artwork on the walls. A tall, slender young woman Sam didn’t recognize stood at the reception desk, a polite smile on her face. “Veronica,” Tim said, bringing Sam along with him. “This is Sam Jamison. The Sam Jamison.”

Sam steeled himself, waiting for her face to crumple in sympathy at the ordeal suffered by the castaways from the King Cruise debacle, but instead she said, “I so admire your work. I love the play of light. It’s just fantastic.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, both confused and pleased. He’d noted the pieces in the gallery as they’d walked through, and none of them were his.

“Veronica is an art student at NYU. I’ve had to hire staff since your show totally sold out. You’ve put Fletcher Gallery on the map, Jamison.”

“What?” Sam said, even more confused. “You went ahead with the show?”

Tim shrugged. “We didn’t get the news of the shipwreck until the day before the show was scheduled. The lifeboats were just being towed to safety and we didn’t really know what was going on. Obviously, I couldn’t reach you, but I decided to go ahead with the show. A couple of key art critics were planning to attend, and I didn’t want to lose the momentum. You’ll be pleased to know every single piece sold, most of them on opening night. Do you know how rare that is?”

Sam grinned. “I guess it pays to be presumed dead, huh? Dead artists always do better than their living counterparts.”

“No way, Sam. Your work sold one hundred percent on its merits. I didn’t tell anyone you were on the ship’s roster. I knew you were alive. I just knew it. Then, when it came out that you weren’t among those rescued on the lifeboats…” Tim’s voice caught and he wiped at his eyes. “Christ, I felt so responsible. I sent you on that damn ship, and then you—”

“It’s okay, Tim. I don’t hold you responsible, believe me,” Sam interjected. “I was actually in a small rescue raft, and we made it to a small island.”

“That’s right,” Tim said. “I read about that. You were stranded with another guy, right? What an experience! I can’t wait to hear all about it. But first, come back with me to the office. I have something for you.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Veronica,” Sam said as Tim led him away.

In the small back office, Tim went to his desk and pulled a manila envelope from the drawer. “This is for you.”

Sam took the envelope and slid out the contents. There were several articles about the show from various art magazines, along with a check, which was for more money than he’d ever made in his life. He stared at it, stunned, and then looked up at Tim, who was grinning broadly. “You earned it, buddy. Every penny. Now you need to get your butt in gear. I want another show in six months. That’s an order.”

Sam laughed. “I’ll see what I can do, boss. I actually already have a series in mind. The light on the island was fantastic. I can’t wait to try to recapture it in oils.” He touched his finger, now bare of the ring he’d worn for so long. Despite the uncertainty of where things stood with Donovan, Sam was excited and happy about the success of his first solo show.

He was alive. He was home. At the age of thirty, he was making his mark at last in the art world. All in all, life was good.