Kate lowers herself into the pool, which is just deep enough to cover her as she stretches out horizontally, her hands propping her up from behind, her legs extended in front of her. She begins chatting with another passenger, and I wonder whether she’s telling her new companion all the same things she was just telling me. But she’s acting different than she had with me; her sentences are short, her smiles brief. She’s closed off again, and I consider what it was that made her open up to me, of all people. Maybe we’re more alike than I realize; maybe, like me, she’s always been the type who’s had more books in her life than friends.
To say I wasn’t popular in school is an understatement as vast as the Ross Ice Shelf. Even my home life was quiet—my father, the one I was closest to as a child, traveled for work, or so I’d thought at the time; my older brother, Mark, kept busy with sports and friends when he wasn’t trying to fill my father’s shoes. My mother was in her own world—lost in prayer, or obsessively cleaning the house. Whenever Mark or I were home, she admonished us for leaving water spots in the bathroom sink, or footprints on the newly vacuumed carpet. Mark wasn’t around as often, but I spent my time skimming around the edges of rooms, ghostlike, hoping to remain unseen. When the weather was warm enough, I stole away to the tree house my father had built years earlier for Mark, who’d since abandoned it. It was my favorite place to read, and the bird feeders I hung on nearby branches fed the cardinals and sparrows as well as the fox squirrels.
I did enjoy school, in a nerdy sort of way—I embraced Science Club and the library’s book club rather than sports or social events. And it wasn’t until my junior year in high school that I finally made a good friend, Alec. It happened after he’d been seen kissing a guy in a car somewhere in the Central West End; back then, Clayton, Missouri, wasn’t ready for that sort of scandal. His conservative parents almost sent him to one of those so-called reform schools for him to be “cured,” but the guidance counselor at school managed to talk them out of it.
I saw Alec sitting alone in the cafeteria a few days later, and I sat down next to him. He gave me a weary look and said, “What do you want?”
“Fuck ’em,” I said. “One day you’ll leave here and none of this will matter. We both will.”
On weekends Alec and I would park over by the airport to watch the planes take off and land. When his popularity rebounded after everyone mellowed out, Alec enveloped me into his circle of friends, and he made my last two years of high school more bearable—weekends at Cardinals games, nights at the Steak ’n Shake, jogging in Shaw Park. After graduation he moved to New York. We’re still close, though we rarely have an opportunity to see each other. I’ve always admired Alec for living the life he’d dreamed of having. He married his partner of four years, a poet he’d met through the publishing house where he worked, and eventually moved to the suburbs with his husband and their two adopted daughters.
About thirty feet away, I notice a Zodiac heading toward the shore, piloted by an orange-jacketed crew member I don’t recognize. I think of the Australis and reach for my radio—no more than one tourist vessel is allowed to come ashore at a time, and whoever this is will have to back off—but as I’m about to call Glenn, I stop. There’s something familiar about the driver, and I start walking toward the landing, holding my breath.
I see the red bandanna as he swings himself over the side of the inflatable and begins to pull it up on the sand, not far from the makeshift hot tub where Thom looks up from taking photos of the wading passengers. As soon as Keller’s feet hit the ground, Thom’s face breaks into a smile, and I watch the two of them shake hands and slap each other’s backs. And by the time Keller turns around, I’m right there, my arms around his neck even before he has a chance to speak.
“This is an illegal landing, you know,” I whisper into his ear. His shaggy hair whips against my face in the wind, carrying the scent of the sea.
“You going to report me?”
“Maybe.” I pull back to look at him, at the spreading grin creasing his face, which is thinner than when I last saw him, but also, somehow, more relaxed.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “You can’t land all those passengers, can you?”
He shakes his head. “We’ve got a few VIPs who paid big bucks for a special landing,” he says. “Group of ten. We’ll bring them over later tonight. But when I heard the Cormorant was here, I couldn’t miss the chance to see you.”
“You’re crazy, you know that?” I say. “You’ll get fired. Again.”
He kisses me. “It’ll be worth it.”
I look around—a few yards away, Kate is still in the hot tub with two other passengers, and Thom is stowing equipment in a Zodiac. The beach is otherwise empty; for the moment, I’m free.
I grab Keller’s hand, and we make our way inland, toward relative privacy behind a large rusted oilcan where, about twenty feet away, a chinstrap penguin stands alone. We’re not exactly out of sight here, but we’re out of earshot, and the penguin is the only one watching us.
“I’m sorry I—” I begin.
He puts a chilly finger to my lips. “I don’t have much time here,” he says, “so let’s not waste it.”