Preview

chapter 1: GRAND HARBOR

ROWAN

Paisley was concerned with her tan again, checking the brownness of her arms from behind her vintage Goldsmith sunglasses, the same style Audrey Hepburn wore. They were sitting together in the sun on a street-side patio café, tucked in the secret back streets running the heart of Valetta, midway on the medievally narrow Triq San Gwann, one side in blue shade, their side in hot Malta sunshine.

“Ten bucks he doesn’t show, Rowan,” Paisley said, stretching her long arms out now and rotating loose fists.

“He’ll show.”

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,” she said and patted his hand. And it was true: his best friend in the world (at least for a four-year window of time during boarding school), Grady Fletcher, was perpetually unreliable. Not out of some lack of care, or purposeful disrespect, it was just the way it was for Grady, forever untroubled.

“My hopes aren’t up. Believe me.” But there in his voice for his girlfriend to hear was a certain disappointment already weighing him down.

Paisley detected it and tried to be more positive. “Give him a call.”

“We spoke yesterday. He said he’d be coming in on the one o’clock ferry. And he doesn’t keep that stupid phone on.”

Paisley contradicted herself for his sake. “He’ll be here.” She patted his hand again. Then to herself, cursing Grady Fletcher: “A flip-phone of all things.”

“That’s Grady,” he lamented. His boarding school roomie had abandoned his trusty smartphone this summer, bringing along only an old flip-phone he rarely even kept turned on.

Paisley rose now, stood table-side straightening the pleats in the long skirt of her white linen summer dress. There was a split in the skirt that ran almost to mid-thigh, and her bony knee jutted out toward him. He batted it with his own knee. She pivoted then, and sat in his lap, hooked an arm around his neck and they kissed. It felt good to have her in his lap. It had been an amazing summer together so far, and it’d only just begun. He looped arms around her waist. When the kiss broke, she cupped his cheeks. “Time for one more coffee?”

“How about another one of those pistachio biscotti?”

She thought about it, mouth squished aside. “How much money do you have?”

“I think I might have enough. Why don’t you check in my pocket?”

“You want me to put my hand in your pocket?”

“Do you want any money?”

Paisley laughed. “I’m not doing that in public, you pervert,” she said, lightly clapping her warm palms on his cheeks and thumbing the sides of his nose. They kissed again.

“Hold on,” he said, shoving a hand into his pocket, bracing Paisley’s waist with the other. “This would be a lot easier if you would carry some money.”

“This dress doesn’t have any pockets,” she said (though it did, Paisley just didn’t like them weighed down).

“There,” he said, holding out a few Euro coins in his palm. “Biscotto, the pistachio, and two Turkish coffees.”

She gathered the coins in her own hand, looked at him seriously. “We have time for coffees, Rowan, we can split a biscotto, then it’ll be ten-to-one. We’ll go down to the Terminal . . .”

“And Grady will be there,” he said.

***

PAISLEY

For Rowan’s sake, Grady better be there. That aloof asshole. If he let down his best friend, Rowan, one more time . . . well, it could be the end of their friendship. But worse than that, it would hurt her Rowan.

First thing she thought when learning their paths would intersect on her and Rowan’s backpacking-across-Europe summer, was that they would arrange to meet Grady and it would fall through. And then she would have a mopey divot in her otherwise fun summer with the young man she was absolutely head over heels in love with.

“Two Turkish coffees,” she said, “extra cream, okay, please? And one of those,” pointing to the glass display case where the biscotti were arranged on paper doilies over brass plates. “The pistachio.”

The server got her order together, and she leaned an elbow on the counter, looking back out to the sunny street-side where Rowan sat in deep contemplation. Grady had been traveling west to east across the Mediterranean coast this summer, going out with two friends from Yale. Rowan was invited—hell, both she and Rowan were invited (they were Europe-bound together already)—but she and Rowan decided they would do it as a couple instead of tagging along in a five-way with a bunch of guys. They figured sometime over the summer they would try to cross paths, but two days ago Rowan heard from Grady by phone call that Grady’s travel partners had parted ways, but he was still continuing solo—something he said he preferred, anyway. She and Rowan’d been in Sicily, and Grady was somewhere in northern Italy, near Genoa. They agreed to meet in her and Rowan’s next destination: Malta. And Grady better well show up.

The server, smiling: “Your order, here . . .”

She turned, paid the man, took the tray out to the patio. They ate quickly, sipped their coffee quickly, talking about other things than Grady. Happier things. If Grady showed up, all would be well. Grady was never not a good time, it wasn’t that at all, it was his dependability that was of concern. That, and that Rowan relied on him so much at The Brinkley School where they’d boarded together in Manhattan, now they’d split up and gone to separate universities Rowan sometimes seemed lost at sea. Despite her boyfriend’s amazing winning personality, friendliness, and inherent charm, he didn’t easily divulge a full friendship. It was reserved for a select few. She loved being in his graces. They’d been dating now for five years. Through her last two years of high school at the Iris Duncan Academy, she would travel two weekends a month from Hartford into Manhattan to spend a Saturday afternoon with him. Never an overnight, because her mom forbade it, making sure her daughter checked in from the hotel she’d booked, working in conjunction with Rowan’s mom. But she was alone in Manhattan with a young man she loved, and she didn’t need to spend an overnight with him in order to do the things they wanted to do. Now they were at university together, saw each other all the time, and it was Grady missing from Rowan’s life.

They gathered up their things when they were done, brought the plates and cups on the tray into the café, then strode southward to the Upper Barrakka Gardens, then west on the Xatt Lascaris and when she lamented tired feet, Rowan got her up on his back and gave her a piggyback ride, her legs hooked around his waist until they emerged on the Triq l-Għassara ta’ l-Għeneb at the Grand Harbor, a bright white ferry coming into port at the Sea Passenger Terminal, and Grady Fletcher better be on board.

***

GRADY

The best sight for his travel-tired eyes: two familiar faces in the sea of awaiting Maltese swarmed at the navy railing barrier running the port’s landing point at the Sea Passenger Terminal.

Two whole days with his best friend who he missed so bad, but kept distance for his friend’s sake. And lucky Rowan—so blessed to have a girl like Paisley at his side.

It was Paisley that saw him first, her noticeably tight expression scanning the ferry passengers, eyes hidden behind an enormous pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, her eyebrows popping right up, smiling with teeth, then waving a long tanned arm above the crowd and elbowing Rowan who jumped, looked at her, then looked where his girlfriend was looking.

And his own heart thudded in his chest to see Rowan’s look of relief and happiness wash away the worry in his perpetually concerned friend. No wave from Rowan, only a wide and happy smile and a slow head nod. He offered up his two friends a casual salute and stood patiently at the ferry’s railing, waiting for the boat to dock.

Almost fifteen minutes to disembark and pass through the terminal’s administration showing his ID, but then he was out and into the sunshine, finding his friends waiting for him apart from the throng, standing on the other side of a harbor-front road that passed under a towering fortress wall in crumbling sunbaked limestone. Rowan had his arms crossed, looking fit, watching him cross the road. They used to wrestle together in the Academy, Rowan a weight class below, but neither of them wrestled in college—Rowan still kept in great shape, not holding quite as much muscle as he did when he was eighteen and they would eat themselves sick trying to get bulk. And Paisley next to him, in full head-to-toe view now, her beauty hitching his breath. Tall and lean, honey-caramel hair that hung in thick sheets down to her waist; he’d never seen her so tanned. She wore a white cotton dress with a high split in the skirt that showed the tan went up her long thighs; white canvas sneakers, a skinny leather belt and those big sunglasses showed a mature elegance you hardly saw in the college girls he knew.

It’d been a long time on the ferry from Sicily, and before that a hassle of a train ride south to the point of the boot. The whole while wondering if he should meet them or not, knowing he’d let down Rowan, knowing his past with Paisley . . . but now a dozen feet apart his heart swelled in anticipation of getting his arms around them and embracing them. He’d never wanted to hug and be hugged bigger than this before.

He tossed his bag down to slide on the sidewalk, the distance closed, and put out his arms saying, “Holy fuck, guys, am I happy to see you two . . .”

***

PAISLEY

Grady was looking good—it’d been over thirteen months since she’d last seen him. Grady was taller than Rowan by an inch or two and took up more space. Both of them were muscular, but Grady filled out his T-shirt; his large chest clearly defined under the gray cotton, arms stretching the sleeves. And she couldn’t help giggling seeing these two big guys practically colliding together, her heart swelling knowing how happy Rowan must be. They embraced hard, beat on each other’s backs loud enough to make hollow thuds, growling and laughing, saying dude to each other.

Rowan let him go, saying, “Man, so good to see you. So glad you’re here.”

Like that, any bad blood (or hurt blood) completely washed away and they were just friends again. Now Grady’s attention turned her way—her first real boyfriend looking her up and down, cocky smile to one side. He was a handsome rogue who took a lot of hearts. When she wasn’t dating Grady, her friends all drooled over him. Six-two, high cheekbones, soulful blue-gray eyes, and pouting lips above a wide dimpled chin; it was impossible not to fall for his inherent charm. And she could feel it now. A residual bothersome feeling over his inability to support Rowan when Rowan’s dad went through surgery in the fall being hosed away by his twinkling eyes, cocked head and pursed, expectant lips. Waiting to see how mad Paisley was at him, smile quivering, trying his best to convince her everything was okay. And, fuck, it was—Grady meant no harm.

He sensed he’d disarmed her, said, “Paisley, god, look at you—I can’t tell you how great it is to see friendly faces.”

She surrendered, put out her arms saying, “It is, Grady, I’m so happy you made it . . .”

Grady embraced her, holding her against him and gently squeezing, a grumbling sound in his chest that told her he wasn’t kidding, he really was looking for companionship right now. She went loose so he could hold her, patted her hands on his broad back and eyed Rowan whose eyes practically glowed with happiness that she’d let it go and was ready to receive Grady and let go her simmering animosity.

She shook her head, and Rowan smiled. She reached out to cup his cheek and thumbed his lower lip, and he held her wrist, looking in her eyes and thanking her in his silent Rowan way.