Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

Brad finished and got up. I watched him pull a long fishing pole out of storage and attach a thick sliver lure to a metal lead.

“What are you fishing for,” I asked.

“Whatever’s biting.”

Brad tugged on the lure to make sure it was secure, then cast off the stern into our wake.

“That lure is huge.”

“There are monsters down there,” he said.

“Wonderful.”

“The wind will be weaker here, coming from the north, and we’ll have to tack back and forth across the strait,” Brad said.

“That sounds like real sailing.”

“The strait is wide, and we can sail in one direction for hours. Just keep your eyes on the sails in case the wind changes direction.”

He locked the fishing line, set the pole into a holder, and wiped his hands on his shorts.

“I’ll take the first watch and wake you around two o’clock,” I said.

“If your eyelids get heavy, come get me. The strait is congested, and someone needs to stay on deck.”

Since leaving Bali, we had taken shifts keeping watch at night. Brad said we could both sleep once we hit the Bay of Bengal, but there was too much maritime traffic in the Java Sea. He told me stories about tankers arriving in port with rigging wrapped around their bows. The crews of those commercial behemoths never felt the impact of a small sailboat.

“The time alone . . . it helps,” I said.

“That’s why we came.”

I had to admit, despite his flaws, Brad was trying to save me. “I’ll wake you if I see anything.”

“Dagny?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad this is working,” Brad said.

“Thanks for supporting me.”

Brad lifted the remains of half a chicken off his plate and tossed it over the transom into the sea. I had noticed him throwing scraps of food overboard after every meal.

“Won’t the food attract sharks?” I asked.

“Fish need to eat too.”

“I don’t think it’s smart to chum around our boat.”

“You worry too much,” Brad said.

“Please stop doing it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“My concerns aren’t ridiculous.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and stood.

He confirmed the Automated Identification System was functioning and went below to sleep. The AIS transceiver broadcast our vessel’s identification number and GPS location to any vessel within twenty miles. It also had a collision avoidance function, which sounded a loud alarm if another vessel came close. It was not foolproof, but it was a nice backup if we both fell asleep.

I cleared our plates, climbed back on deck, and sat on the bench behind the helm. The breeze blew across the starboard side, holding the main sail to port. The wind diminished, as it did every night after the sun set.

I watched the horizon. Sailboats had running lights at the tops of their masts, and cruise ships lit themselves like Vegas casinos, but we had seen a few fishing vessels with no exterior lights at all. I also watched for sea garbage. Hitting anything at eight knots could put a hole in our hull and sink us. When we left Bali, my fear had bordered on panic, but days of monotony had dulled my worry, like a sore tooth, always present, but possible to ignore.

I pulled a harness from the cabinet, stepped into it, and connected the tether to the instrument panel. I made a habit of wearing it when I stayed on deck alone. I tugged on the lifeline to ensure it held and rested my hand on the wheel. If a rogue comber hit us or the wind changed direction and I fell overboard, Brad would never find me. The thought of floating on a black sea waiting to be eaten or drowned raised gooseflesh on my arms.

My worst nightmare.

Darkness enveloped the night sky, veiled the textured sea, embraced us. The strait blackened, hiding the marine world below. The surface flattened, making the swells almost indiscernible, and our speed lowered to two knots in the nearly windless night. I leaned backward on the bench and stared at millions of stars filling the sky. The night at sea, away from the ambient light of civilization, turned the world into a planetarium, a canvas painted with awe and wonder, and it stretched to the horizon.

I had never seen anything like it.

As a city girl, born and raised in Boston, the natural world seemed foreign. I had grown up in a two-story, nineteenth-century brownstone near the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Fairfield Street. Three, enormous bay windows faced the street, and as a child, I would watch the parade of humanity jogging and walking their dogs on the Commonwealth Avenue Mall. The city had soothed me, surrounded me with life, with love—as if the City of Boston had wrapped me in a hug. I remembered listening to the melted snow spinning off tires as cars hurtled down Commonwealth Avenue. The sounds of the city had comforted me like an infant listening to a mother’s heartbeat. My father had paid the house off, and after my parents passed away, I stayed.

Until I married Brad.

We had moved to the suburbs, but I kept the brownstone. When I thought about it, I could smell the smoke from our burning fire, as if remnants of the past reached out to me. It reminded me I came from somewhere. It was my family home, my last link to my father, and I would never let it go.

I surveyed the horizon. We were alone. The moon reflected off the surface, like a giant spotlight shining down from heaven. I sighed. For the first time since Emma’s death, I felt a measure of peace. Maybe I could learn to be happy again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Morning, Dags,” Brad said, standing behind the helm.

“It’s after seven. You let me sleep.” I exited the companionway with a cup of coffee and walked across the cockpit.

“You needed rest. It’s why we came.”

“See any ships last night?” I took a long pull of French roast. The warm, aromatic liquid sloshed over my tongue, relaxing me and sharpening my mind. I