The Price of Staying

My mother gets to me before the silence breaks.

“Lucia is overwrought.” Her fingers close around the microphone. “It has been a long day.”

I keep hold of it.

“Valeria isn't here. You knew that when you put me in her dress.”

Somewhere behind her, a spoon drops against a plate.

I have imagined confronting my mother in a hundred private arguments. None of them included a man at the next table carefully hiding a shrimp under his napkin.

“This is a family matter,” she says.

“You invited an audience.”

Roman takes the microphone when I hand it to him. He gives instructions about cars and coats. No accusations, no theatrical threats. The guests leave because he tells them to, and because every one of them wants to make the first phone call.

My mother stays.

“You've cost your sister her protection.”

“She was so protected she had to run.”

Her face changes. For a moment I see the exhausted woman who used to fall asleep at our kitchen table after Dad's hospital appointments.

Then she says, “Your father would be ashamed.”

“He used to ask who fixed the problem before he asked who caused it.”

I hear my own voice shake. I stop talking.

Roman stands beside the door. He doesn't join in. I'm grateful enough for that to resent it.

My mother asks if I'm coming home.

“No.”

“With him, then?”

“Somewhere you aren't.”

She looks from me to Roman, taking in the dress, his open collar, the empty ring finger. I know what version of this she will tell. For once, I let her leave with it.

*

Tomas brings my bag from the bridal car. My phone is inside, along with my wallet and the flat shoes I insisted on packing.

I change in the restroom. There is no spare clothing, so I take off the veil, unpin the bodice, and turn the dress's train into an ugly bundle over my arm.

When I come out, Roman is holding a cardboard box.

“Cake?” he asks.

“You canceled the wedding and kept the cake?”

“It was paid for.”

Against all reason, I laugh. Once. It hurts my throat.

He offers a car to a hotel. I call Bea first. She has been our yard supervisor for eleven years and my friend for ten of them.

“You can have the couch,” she says. “My brother's on it until tomorrow, but he's shorter than you. He can have the chair.”

“I can get a room tonight.”

“With what money?”

“I have money, Bea.”

“You have emergency money. This is an emergency. Fine. I hear it.” A pause. “Send me the address.”

I book a room on my own phone. Roman watches me cancel the hotel his assistant has already suggested.

“You don't trust me with the address?” he asks.

“I don't trust your address book.”

That earns a small, unwilling smile.

Outside, he carries the cake while I lift the dress clear of the wet pavement. The afternoon rain has left the harbor smelling of salt and diesel.

“Why didn't you recognize me sooner?” I ask.

“I met your sister for fifteen minutes six months ago. Your mother kept answering for her. The veil helped.”

“You looked suspicious before you lifted it.”

“Valeria wouldn't look me in the eye. You looked ready to hit me.”

“I was considering several people.”

He opens the car door. “I noticed.”

*

The next morning, I arrive at Greco Marine at seven in yesterday's dress and the flat shoes from my bag.

Bea meets me by the parts cage. She has brought a duffel of clothes from her house and a coffee with too much sugar. I take both, then change into jeans and work boots in the workshop restroom.

There is a spare toothbrush in the bag. Bea has wrapped it in a washcloth so the bristles won't touch her boots. I stand holding it for longer than I need to.

When I come out, she studies my face and offers no comment. She takes the bag from me and puts it in her truck.

“Your mother called.”

“Which version?”

“You seduced the groom, stole the wedding, and may be unstable.”

“That was quick.”

“She had help.”

We look across the yard. Enzo is standing beside the office with two men I recognize from Ashford Freight. One of their trucks is parked across our service entrance. The men have been charging us for protection since Roman's father was alive.

Protection mostly looks like waiting for them to move.

I walk past my uncle and put my key in the office door.

It doesn't turn.

“Take the weekend off,” Enzo says.

“We have the Merrin coming in on the morning tide.”

“No, we don't.”

I turn. “What did you tell the captain?”

“That we couldn't accommodate the vessel.”

“We can. I moved the tug off the cradle yesterday.”

He folds his hands in front of him. “You're no longer authorized to make those decisions.”

Bea says my name. Softly. A warning.

I take out my phone and call the captain myself. He answers on the third ring. Yes, he has turned back. No, he hasn't found another yard. He has a ferry inspection Monday morning and a damaged rudder that needs the weekend.

“I'll call you in ten minutes,” I tell him.

Enzo reaches for the phone. Bea steps between us.

“Touch her,” she says, “and find someone else who can put that ferry on the blocks.”

A black car pulls through the main gate. Roman gets out alone.

For one ridiculous second, I'm aware of the coffee stain on my shirt.

Then he looks at the truck across our entrance, and I remember whose name is painted on it.

“You knew about those,” I say.

“Yes.”

Not a denial. Somehow that makes me angrier.

He speaks to one of the men. The man starts an explanation. Roman points toward the road. The truck moves.

Enzo welcomes him as if we've all arranged to meet for breakfast.

Roman doesn't shake his hand.

“I came for the venture's operating figures.” He looks at me. “Your uncle says you're a receptionist.”

“Sometimes I answer the phone.”

“Who prepared the dry-dock schedule?”

“I did.”

“The one that cuts the Merrin's planned autumn overhaul from nine days to six?”

“Six if you stop parking across my gate.”

His face gives away nothing. “Show me.”

*

Bea lets us into the workshop break room. I don't need my locked computer. The current schedule is on the wall beside the time clock.

Roman reads it while I explain the tides, the available crews, the way we can order parts once for two vessels instead of paying for two emergency deliveries.

He asks useful questions. Annoyingly useful. When he challenges the capacity at berth three, I take him outside and show him the soundings.

Enzo follows until Roman tells him to wait at the office.

The ferry captain calls back. I put him on speaker. Roman listens while Bea and I agree on arrival, crew hours, and a deposit. I make no promise about Monday's inspection. We can repair a rudder. We cannot certify someone else's vessel by wishing.

When I hang up, Roman is looking at me differently.

“Your sister owns the controlling shares?”

“Yes. Dad left her fifty-one percent. My mother has twenty-nine. Enzo has twenty.”

“And you?”