The Sky Beneath Her(6)

It was kind of a miracle that Kaitlin and her mother had taken me in after Mom vanished. My dad had never been in the picture, and Mom and I had no roots. A few times I’d made friends, but we were always gone soon after. Friendships didn’t gel with a nomad’s life. So, I’d stopped trying to get close to anyone. Mom had become my buddy. She’d started teaching me how to dive when I was five, and the undersea world became my home. In the water, I felt free of worldly dramas. In the silence of the ocean, the past and future compressed into the present.

Mom became obsessed with shipwrecks when I was about eight. The first wreck was a Spanish galleon that had gone down in a Caribbean hurricane in 1749. She taught lessons in the mornings, and during her off-hours, she researched wrecks. So that I could spend more time with her, I became her research assistant. We’d learn all we could about a downed ship, and then we’d lead expeditions to their remains. Wreck dives became her thing, and she started taking jobs near interesting ones.

I had no formal education, but when I arrived on the Outer Banks, my collection of homeschooling teachers, made up of sailors, dockmasters, and local tour guide historians, put me ahead of my fellow students.

Kaitlin had also been a senior at First Flight, and she was really into surfing. She was failing history, and our teacher paired us as study buddies. Our friendship took off.

We’d texted and called each other over the years, but I hadn’t seen her since I’d left the Outer Banks. She was all I had, and I could use a friendly face. I typed.

Kaitlin: You r alive?

Me: I am.

Kaitlin: When’s the last time you reached out to me first?

Me: Maybe never.

Kaitlin: LOL. What’s up?

Me: Coming to OBX. Can I crash?

I wasn’t ready to camp out in the Southern Shores house.

Kaitlin: Sure. Why are you coming here?

Me: Longish story.

My phone rang. It was Kaitlin. “The divorce must be final.”

“It is.”

“Are you crying?” she asked.

I sniffed. “No. Just not sleeping great.”

When I’d lived with the Stewarts, I was plagued by terrible nightmares. I’d had a front-row seat when Mom had her diving accident, and it had left a mark.

“These days it’s anxiety, mainly,” I added.

I’d never spoken to anyone else about my panic attacks but my therapist and her. Somehow distance had not derailed my friendship with Kaitlin, mostly because she’d been great about writing, texting, and calling.

“You get fired?” Kaitlin asked.

“New assignment. Kind of.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’ll explain when I see you,” I said. “But I’m there for the summer.”

“If you’re looking for cash, I could use the help.”

Kaitlin ran MERmaids, a lucrative home-cleaning service on the Outer Banks. Among her clients were private homeowners as well as rental companies overseeing hundreds of vacation homes. I’d worked with Kaitlin and her mom cleaning that long summer seven years ago.

“Not glamorous,” Kaitlin said. “But cleaning up other people’s messes has always paid the bills. And you can stay above the surf shop for free.”

“You have no help?”

“I have a few kids joining me, but it’ll be a couple of weeks until they arrive.”

I had no idea what the Southern Shores house required, but Kaitlin and her mother had taken me in when I was lost. The least I could do was help her for a couple of weeks. “Sure. I can help, but I have this house to clear out.”

“You won’t be the first person who balances a couple of jobs,” Kaitlin said.

“I know.” Scrubbing toilets had never been my jam. But the easy, predictable duties had helped me to cope. Whenever life felt out of control, I could count on freshly wiped countertops, crisp lines in vacuumed carpets, and fresh bedsheets.

“You going to take up diving again?” Kaitlin asked.

I pulled the manuscript pages out of the folder. “One step at a time.”

“One step is better than no steps. Traffic isn’t crazy on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. We can get a few drinks. We have another week before the tourists show up in droves and the bars are jam-packed.”

I groaned. “Crowds.”

“Who spend a lot of money down here. We like their tax dollars and the services they buy.”

I knew hordes of tourists were great for business. But jam-packed roads and restaurants weren’t ideal. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“I’m on my way, first thing in the morning.”

“Terrific.”

I ended the call, dropped the phone into my lap, and started the car. Warm air-conditioning blasted my skin. I looked at the yellowed, water-stained title page, which read only: The Oceanus.

Mom had always said, A ship in port is safe, but if it remains too long, it will decay. I put the car in drive. “Time to knock the barnacles off, Tula.”





Chapter Two


Chief Mate Kevin Riggs





Monday, April 20, 1942, 12:00 noon


Four days until the Oceanus is torpedoed


Port of Spain, Trinidad


Passage through the calm waters of the Gulf of Paria into Port of Spain had been smooth and uneventful. With no U-boats, no mines, no trouble, the Oceanus had arrived in port at sunset yesterday.