The sloop swung gently at anchor, its decks wet and gleaming white in the morning sun. On board, a young man hoisted a large sailbag up through the forehatch and climbed out after it.

“I’ll bring her alongside,” Charles told Vivienne as he stepped smartly into the motor launch that would take him out to the Elizabeth. “You wait on the fuel dock with the bags.”

“Yes, sir, Captain, sir!” answered Vivienne jauntily and was rewarded with a smile and a wink. Charles was always more relaxed on the water.

She headed toward the fuel pumps with a light heart. For days the secret had been floating just under the surface of her mind, popping up from time to time and filling her with joy. What exciting news! How lucky she was! How Charles must love her!

Across the water, Charles clambered up onto the yacht and with a nod to the young man who was now hanking on the foresail, he started the engine. Vivienne could hear the whine of the electronic starter and then the deep steady “chunka-chunka-chunka” as the diesel engine thrummed to life. The young man leaned out over the bow to let go the mooring wand, which was attached by a heavy line to the deep-water mooring. “Clear!” he called, and Charles spun the wheel, turning the bow toward the dock.

Vivienne looked around at the other boats tied up along the other side of the dock. Several of them were very beautiful. Do you share my secret? she wondered, this secret that will help me and protect me in ways most people couldn’t possibly imagine? She felt a sudden, brief twinge of guilt as she pictured Mr. Kaplan in his hospital bed. Well, Charles was right: it would obviously be impossible for them to do it for everyone. Too expensive. Too experimental. Too . . . exclusive. Maybe someday that would change, he’d told her, but for now it had to be restricted to a group of insiders. And now she was one of them.

She turned back to the sloop, then scanned the enclosed bay. A little knot of trepidation formed in her stomach as she began to regret not having used the Scopolamine ear patches Charles had ordered for her seasickness. It looked pretty calm out there, but you could never tell.

As Charles brought the trim boat neatly alongside, Vivienne managed to catch the line he threw and sighed with relief. It was so embarrassing when she missed it. The docking line was promptly taken from her by one of several dock boys who’d come running up as the Elizabeth approached, and soon the boat was secured to pylons along the dock, a fuel hose hooked up to the diesel intake. Only then did Charles introduce her to the young man in white Levi’s and faded denim shirt who was now coiling line on the stern.

“Chris, this is my fiancée Vivienne Laker. Chris is one of our juniors in Mergers and Acquisitions. Gonna give us a hand today.”

Chris grinned and held out a slightly grimy hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Laker,” he said politely.

“Please,” she said, “call me Vivienne.”

Chris looked at Charles for approval. “Yes, of course,” said Charles grandly. “All friends here. Get these bags aboard, would you, Chris?”

Chris had been up since five that morning, cleaning the galley and scrubbing the decks and stowing the provisions Charles had ordered him to purchase. If this was the way to get ahead in the grand old firm of Spencer-Moore, Chris anticipated a rapid rise. An avid sailor, he’d been crewing on his family’s and friends’ families’ boats since he was fourteen. His father’s sloop was, in fact, ten feet longer than the Elizabeth, though he’d never dream of mentioning it.

“Here, let me help,” Vivienne offered. She’d never sailed before she’d met Charles, and still felt rather helpless on board. “I’m not much of a sailor,” she explained, “but I’m an ace at stowing gear and pouring coffee!”

“No need,” said Chris pleasantly as he lifted the duffels over the lifelines. “I can handle it.”

Vivienne climbed aboard while Charles signed the fuel chit, and soon they were motoring toward the breakwater. Beyond it, the horizon looked uneven against the sky.

“A little chop out there today,” Chris commented. “Should be some good wind.”

Oh, great, thought Vivienne, wondering if Charles had any Dramamine on board. It was hopeless to think about the patches now; she should have put them on the night before, but she hated the dizziness they produced.

Now they were past the first channel markers and Charles headed the boat into the wind while Chris raised the sails. Charles killed the engine, and the sudden silence, broken only by the flap of the sails luffing in the freshening breeze, was dramatic.

“I thought we’d head over to Cuddy Island, maybe dock at Oscar’s for a late lunch. Tide’s against us, but it’s diminishing, and it’ll be well in our favor coming back.”

“Sounds good,” said Chris. He studied the wind vane on top of the mainmast. “We’ve got a nice reaching wind.”

Sounds bumpy, thought Vivienne nervously, as the boat, heeled well over, headed into the chop on port tack.

“Why don’t you take her?” Charles offered generously. Chris agreed with alacrity. Casually yet carefully the two men changed places in the sloping cockpit, Chris settling himself happily behind the large highly varnished wooden wheel. Charles joined Vivienne, who was perched on the high side of the cockpit, holding to the end of the winched mainsheet. Her hair blew around her face in a flurry of honey-colored strands as she turned to smile at him.

“God, I love this!” Charles sighed happily, settling beside her and leaning back against the lifelines. The water rushed along the hull with a hiss, and sunlight sparkled off the stainless-steel fittings.

“It’s wonderful!” Vivienne agreed, mustering her enthusiasm. The chop had worsened, and although she felt all right so far, she knew it was nearly a three-hour sail to Cuddy Island. If only she’d used those patches! She was determined to enjoy sailing, for Charles’s sake. But her tender stomach always made it a nervous business. And after the first half-hour, if she wasn’t sick, she was bored.

The two men fell silent, enjoying the feel of the boat moving through the water, the sound of the wind in the sails, the damply pungent smell of the sea. Vivienne focused on the horizon. You’re fine, she told herself. You’ll be just fine.

She tried to distract herself by concentrating on the secret gift. She wished she could tell someone, Angie perhaps. But Charles had insisted that she tell no one. Still, it was exciting to know that she shared a secret with an ex-president, a world-famous opera singer, and many other notables as yet unknown to her. People like May-Ann? she thought, but pushed the thought away. May-Ann was not the sort of person with whom one would want to have anything in common.

“We’re gonna have to tack around Green Ledge Light in a minute,” Chris called.

“Right!” Charles shifted back aft of the large genoa winch and checked that the winch handle was ready in its pocket. “You call it,” he told Chris. “Viv, you wanna tail?”

“Sure,” she said. Charles extended his hand, and she slid down from her perch and stood leaning against the slope of cockpit. Slowly she moved past him and positioned herself to take the slack from the winch.

“Ready about!” said Chris. Holding the boat on course with a sneakered foot, he leaned across to the downwind genoa winch, and holding the sheet firmly against the winch with a flattened palm, undid the figure-eight knot which secured the sheet to the cleat. Then he took the weighted sheet firmly into his left hand; his bicep bulged as he pulled against the weight of the straining genoa foresail. Centering his body behind the wheel again, he began to turn the bow up through the wind.

“Lee-o!”

As the bow swung over into the wind, he let go the genoa sheet. It whipped off the winch and released the foresail, which crashed and flapped its way across the turning bow until Charles, pulling rapidly hand over hand, hauled it in; the boat was now heeled over on the starboard tack.

Charles took two turns around the starboard winch and inserted the winch handle.

“Ready, Viv?”

Vivienne gulped and nodded. Moving around the boat had not been a great idea, she reflected. Charles began to grind in the sheet, and she dutifully pulled on the slack as it came off the winch.

Chris leaned out around the main and inspected the lie of the sail. “Looks good,” he said.

Charles unlocked the winch handle and put it back in its sleeve. “Finish it off,” he told Vivienne with a smile. “You remember that figure eight we practiced last time?”

Vivienne nodded and pulled her eyes off the undulating horizon. “Hold your hand flat against the winch,” he directed. “You don’t want to lose one of those lovely fingers . . . That’s it, nice and firm so it doesn’t run away from you.”

She held the weighted, coiled sheet against the winch and began to lead the slack end to the cleat on the deck. She took a turn around the cleat - no, that wasn’t right, where was the eight? She unwound it and tried again. The chop was worse, and she could feel the boat moving around in the swells beneath her. Concentrate, she thought.

She looked up at the horizon just for a moment to clear her head, and unconsciously loosened her hand against the winch. The sheet whizzed around, burning her palm, and she jumped back and dropped the sheet. In seconds the sheet had whipped off the winch and the large foresail went flying forward off the bow, flailing and snapping, and dropped into the water.

“Shit!” Charles lunged across the cockpit and grabbed and cleated the lazy sheet.

“Take her!” Chris shouted, and pushing past a stricken Vivienne, he charged up forward as Charles jumped for the wheel and headed the boat into the wind to slacken the strain on the flailing sail.

“I’m sorry . . .” Vivienne began, but Charles, concentrating on the boat’s heading, simply waved at her to sit down somewhere. Chris, leaning out over the bow, was frantically pulling in the wet genoa and securing it with sail ties. When the large sail was safely on board, he re-led the escaped genoa sheet aft, wound it round the winch, and handed it to Charles. Then he went forward again to release the sail ties, and came aft yet again to winch the sail into position. It seemed like hours until Charles turned back on course, but in fact it was only six or seven minutes. Chris’s clothing was wet clear through.

“There are sweaters in the aft locker,” Charles told him. “Don’t be macho; go put one on.”

Chris grinned gratefully and disappeared below.

Vivienne started to apologize again, then thought better of it. The bobbing of the boat in the swell during the sail capture had made her feel slightly light-headed.

Chris reappeared wearing a thick white woolen sweater, and balancing against the heel of the boat, he seated himself on the upwind side of the cockpit and leaned back to peer around the foresail, “Lobster pot at twelve o’clock,” he announced, and Charles adjusted their course to skirt it. Vivienne watched Chris enviously. He looks very much at home, she thought. Lucky him.

They sliced through the chop for several minutes, passing an impressive Victorian lighthouse painted green and white. Fishermen in small boats with outboard motors bobbed up and down near the rocks around its base. Just watching them made Vivienne feel sick.

“Ready about,” said Charles. “This tack should get us around Green Ledge and put us on course for Cuddy.”

“Right,” said Chris, Together they brought the boat onto its new tack; Charles did his own tailing this time, for which Vivienne was grateful,

“I could use some coffee,” Charles said. “Anyone else?”

“Coffee sounds great,” said Chris. He rose and started forward.

“I’ll do it,” Vivienne heard herself say. Shakily, she stood up and walked the few steps to the cabin hatchway, determined to make some positive contribution to the day’s sailing. Pushing back the sliding hatch cover, she began to climb down into the galley. She got about halfway. The swaying of the boat was far worse in the airless cabin, and a deep wave of nausea flooded over her. Her hands began to tingle. She couldn’t go on, and she couldn’t go back. She held the handrails tightly as she swayed and gulped.

“I stowed the coffee in the sliding cupboard behind the sink,” Chris called. “Find it?”

When Vivienne didn’t answer, Chris went forward. “It’s on the right, next to the sugar . . .” Then he saw her and turned to Charles. “I think Vivienne’s ill,” he told Charles. “Want me to take the wheel?”

“She’s just seasick,” Charles said. “She’ll be all right.”

Chris looked at him in amazement. He’d heard the man was cold but to his own fiancée?

Charles must have caught the censure in Chris’s expression because at once he relinquished the wheel. “You’ll feel better up here, Viv,” he called impatiently as he headed for the hatchway.

“I think you’ll have to help her,” said Chris at his elbow, his kind brown eyes radiating concern and sympathy. He set down a yellow bucket with a rope tied to it and went back to the wheel.

Viv turned to Charles, her face pale and sweaty. Suddenly she put a hand to her mouth. Charles grabbed for the bucket and held her steady on the steps as she retched. “I’m sorry,” she moaned. “I should have put on the damn patches . . .”

Suddenly Charles’s irritation turned to pity. Poor kid, he thought. She’s not cut out for this. He helped her up the steps and into the cockpit. Vivienne held tightly to the bucket as he got her settled. She began to shiver, and he put his arms around her.

“It’s OK,” he told her. “We’ll go back.”

Viv looked up in alarm. “No!” she said quickly. “I’ll be OK in a minute.”

Charles wiped her face with a handkerchief, but she pushed his hand away and leaned into the bucket again. She’ll hate herself if we turn back, he thought. Chris looked at him questioningly.

“You sure, Viv?” Charles asked softly. “I really don’t mind. I’ve been to Cuddy a hundred times.”

She shook her head vehemently.

“Hold your course,” he told Chris.

He held her in his arms all the way to Cuddy Island, feeling love and guilt and regret all mixed together. In the lee of the bluffs which formed Cuddy Bay, the water smoothed out, and Vivienne began to recover, but Charles left her only briefly, to help Chris thread the narrow channel to Oscar’s. Will she ever make a sailor? he wondered sadly. Will she be able to share with me what I love so much? Then he thought: Why should I feel guilty about all this? Is it my fault Scopolamine makes her dizzy?

Oscar’s was a popular destination with the sailing crowd, and the atmosphere was casual and convivial. Charles waved to several acquaintances, and both he and Chris ate heartily. At their urging, Vivienne managed to swallow a little salad and some bread, but the clams, a house specialty, were beyond her.

Chris gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t feel bad,” he said. “You’re not the first to use the bucket. And it really was rough out there.”

“Better take some Dramamine,” Charles told her over coffee. “Take it now. We’ll walk around a little, give it a chance to work before we head back.”

Vivienne downed the two little pills without argument; a repeat of the morning was unthinkable.

The island was only lightly inhabited, with public “nature paths” through large undeveloped areas. They chose the popular Cliff Walk, which took them through rising terrain of grass and thicket up to and along Cuddy Bluffs. The view was glorious.

At one point the dirt road forked and a steep narrow path descended to the beach below. Charles took Vivienne’s arm to help her down, but Chris held back.

“You go ahead,” he told them tactfully. “I’m going to walk out to the old Coast Guard station. See you back on board.”

It was much warmer down on the beach, and Vivienne pulled off her jacket as Charles seated himself beside her on the sand.

Vivienne had been uncharacteristically quiet all afternoon. She too had been feeling guilty and sad. She was also, despite the Dramamine, worried about the return trip. As they gazed out at the sea in silence, she began to cry softly.

“What’s wrong now?” Charles asked irritably. His earlier feelings of guilt had turned to resentment. Most people he knew considered it a privilege to sail with him. Look at Chris. Why couldn’t Vivienne just sit back and enjoy the ride? Elizabeth had been a superb sailor.

As if reading his thoughts, Vivienne looked up sharply through her tears. “I hate sailing,” she said forcefully. “I will always hate sailing. I hate all that crap about the romance of the sea and I hate having to use the damn patches or take pills all the time, and throwing up in a bucket if I don’t, and I hate all those boring hours it takes to get anywhere and all those boring hours it takes to get back!” She took a deep breath. “And I hate your boat being named after your goddamn mother!” She began to sob again, her body racked with despair.

Charles was stunned and hurt. If she really hated sailing that much, she should have said so. And why bring his mother into it?

“I named the boat after Mother because she loved to sail,” he told her. “She was very fond of this boat.”

“You mean it wasn’t too small for her? The hull wasn’t too blue? The sails weren’t too white? Did she make you wear a yachting blazer and a cap?”

“You’ve always hated my mother,” he said accusingly.

“Yes,” Vivienne agreed. “Haven’t you?”

Suddenly horrified at what she’d said, Vivienne put her arms around him and hugged him, and he could feel her tears through his shirt.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “It’s not your fault or your mother’s. It’s just, I tried so hard to like it, for your sake, but I really do hate it all, and having her name on the boat was like the last straw or something . . .”

Charles stroked her hair as he gazed at the boats bobbing gently in the bay. “It’s all right,” he told her. “I understand. Not everyone likes to sail. It’s all right. Really.”

But they both knew it wasn’t all right, really.

He thought her volunteer work trivial; she found his business deals dull. They both felt his mother’s baleful influence, even from the grave. And now there was one more thing that divided them.