Chapter One --

 

As I stood on the edge of forever, the railing of the Beauty of the Seas was the only thing keeping me from plunging into the deep, dark ocean. There was nothing now to stop me from letting go of the ache, the anger, the agony of what my heart had gone through. I was on a ship bound for Bermuda, filled with people, and yet I had never felt lonelier than I did at this moment. I felt myself teeter on the edge of despair, and I wasn’t sure I could climb back to safety. The dark night seemed to swallow me up, making me feel even smaller than before. Soon I would cease to exist as Mariem Dufours.

I had been a widow for exactly two years, four months, three days, and nine hours. On that January day in 2010, my whole life had gone belly up. When I got the call from the Miami-Dade Police, telling me my husband had been lost in a boating accident, I thought I would never be able to take another breath on my own without remembering all that came before that one moment in time. The past remained in every cell of my being, indelibly written on the invisible skin of my spirit. Henri was the center of my universe and everything, good or bad, revolved around him. When he died, the woman I was died with him.

“You’re not planning to leap overboard, are you?” I jumped at the sudden interruption. A black silhouette stepped out of the shadows. “I’d hate to have to follow you into the water, especially at this time of night.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s not worth it, no matter what you might think.” The stranger stepped closer to me, almost as if he was trying to anticipate my next move. Even now, I still couldn’t see his face. But I heard concern in his voice.

“I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Right.” That was said with some skepticism.

“It’s true. I’m getting married in two weeks.”

“You sure looked like you were considering doing a swan dive off the back of the ship,” said the deep voice.

“Not a swan dive,” I said forlornly. “I was planning on scattering my late husband’s ashes, to say goodbye.”

“Prove it,” the man demanded.

“I have Henri’s urn right here,” I announced with a little bit of irritation creeping into my voice. “Would you like to see it?”

“As a matter of fact, I would.” A moment later, fingers grasped my wrist, pulling me towards the hallway door, back inside the ship. I was dragged into the light, where I finally saw my would-be rescuer.

“Well?” He was shy of six feet by more than a few inches, with a head of dark hair turning silver. His mahogany eyes were narrow, rimmed with dark lashes. “Let’s see this so-called urn of yours.”

“Here.” I held out the sphere that held Henri’s ashes.

“What’s that?” He seemed reluctant to take it from me.

“My late husband’s urn,” I told him. He seemed confused, so I explained. “Biodegradable. It’s made of sand, with a binder that dissolves in water, so the ashes are released.”

“I’m so sorry.” He shook his head with disbelief. “I saw you there and I thought you were distraught.”

“And you decided to play Sir Galahad?” I demanded, suddenly feeling sullied by the accusation I was contemplating suicide.

“It’s my job,” the stranger confessed. “Ryan. Bob Ryan. Security for Ocean Magic Cruise Lines.”

I looked down at the badge he flashed at me. It looked official enough.

“Fine. You were just doing your job,” I acknowledged.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I felt his hand on my elbow, steering me towards the lounge down the passageway.

“Are you in the habit of buying supposedly suicidal widows liquor?” I snapped. I was mad that I was still holding what remained of Henri in my hands. So much for saying goodbye and finding closure. “I can’t have a drink. I have to scatter Henri’s ashes.”

“Tell you what. Let’s go back out there. I’ll stand quietly at your side while you do what you have to do. You shouldn’t have to be alone when you’re doing something this important.” He seemed sincere enough. What harm could it do?

“I wanted to do it alone,” I told him. “I wanted to say a private goodbye.”

“Fine. How about I stand right here and just keep an eye out for you? I won’t interfere,” he promised. “Scout’s honor. When you’re done, I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll say a toast to the late Henri.”

“Okay,” I agreed, feeling that catch in my throat as the sadness began to well up in my throat. Maybe it would be better to have someone there for me when I finally let go.

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” Bob held open the door for me and I stepped out on the deck. The sea breeze kissed my cheek as a tear rolled down and wrapped around my chin like a gentle embrace. It was as if the heavens heard my plea and sent consolation on the wind. I took a deep breath, my hands clutching the sandy sphere that contained Henri’s remains. I stood by the rail once more, framing what I wanted to say to the ghost of a man to whom I had been married for nearly twenty years.

“Henri,” I began, “we’ve had our share of differences over the years, our struggles, our pain....”

A ghostly silence enfolded me as I lingered at the railing. Below me, the waves splashed against the side of the cruise ship rhythmically as the bow cut through the ocean in the black night. There were no stars above, only thick, heavy clouds. As I tried to once again compose myself for the task that lay before me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a presence lurking in the darkness. A feeling of foreboding filled me with apprehension. Was it my late husband rising up in a final show of temper, lashing out one last time before heading to the bottom of the Atlantic, to his final resting place on the ocean floor? Was it a furtive movement of the human kind or a slight atmospheric disturbance of the ethereal kind? I shook it off, telling myself it was my imagination. Maybe it was just the man from Ocean Magic, making sure I didn’t jump.

“Henri,” I began again. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt strong, determined hands wrap around me like the tentacles of an octopus, lifting me up. My feet left the deck, and were now dangling in mid-air. As swiftly as I traveled through the darkness, my mind sought to process the information. I was in danger. What was happening to me? My left shoe hit the rail. Someone was tossing me overboard.

“Help!” I screamed. I had no choice. I dropped Henri, ashes and all, into the sea. No loving words. No forgiveness of sins. No final farewell. Just a big splash and he was gone. I was too busy fighting for my life.

As I felt myself being propelled forward toward the sea, I did the only thing I could think to do. I grabbed the bottom of the railing for dear life as determined hands shoved me this way and that, trying to pry my desperate hands from their grip on the side of the ship. Suspended upside down, I felt the blood rush to my head. One minute, I was doing battle with an unknown, unseen foe, and the next, my assailant stopped. The hands that had fastened themselves around my wrists ceased pushing me towards the deep, dark depths of the Atlantic. I took advantage of the lull to cling to every inch of metal railing I could find. There were sounds of a scuffle a few feet away as I managed to right myself, locking my arms around the strength of the cold steel form. My legs dangled dangerously from my precarious perch. I thought about pulling myself back up and over the rail, but I was too terrified to try. And then, just as suddenly, hands were grabbing me again. I tried to fight back. I tried to evade those hard, pressing fingers.

“It’s me, Ryan! For God’s sake, stop fighting me!” a male voice yelled. “I’m trying to save you!”

I gave a small sob as I realized Bob was pulling me back onto the ship. As soon as my feet touched the deck, I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Take a deep breath,” he encouraged me. “You’re safe now.”

“Who was that? Why did he do that?” I was stunned by the attack. “Where did he go?”

“All good questions. I’m going to work on answers. But let’s start with the most important. Someone just tried to kill you and he’s still on the ship. We need to get to the security office. Maybe he showed up on surveillance cameras.”

Bob led me through the warren of interconnected staff hallways and offices until we got to a large, windowless room with a long bank of monitors. A couple of women and men sat watching the activities from the live feeds throughout the ship.

“By the way, I never had a chance to ask you your name,” he told me, as he settled into an empty seat. He patted a chair, inviting me to sit.

“Mariem Dufours,” I answered.

“What cabin are you in?”

“619B.”

“We’re moving you. I want you in a cabin where we can keep an eye out for you. We’ll kill two birds with one stone, keeping an eye on 619B, to see if anyone shows up.”

“Should I go pack my things?” I wondered.

“The steward will do that. Montcrieff, bring up the footage on 28HVK about ten minutes ago,” Bob directed a young woman. She punched in some numbers and letters, tapped on a few buttons, and suddenly I could see myself talking in the hallway to Bob. There was no audio, but I could tell we were having our first conversation. Bob directed her to go forward. He studied the five people who used the passageway. I saw two couples and a single woman. One of the couples was elderly, the other middle-aged. The single woman looked like she was in her twenties, slightly tipsy.

“Show me the adjoining passageways, same time frame,” he commanded. He went through each view three times before moving onto the next. Half an hour later, I still had no idea who my assailant was, but Bob seemed energized. “Pull up all the ID’s for those folks on 28HVK, 28HWK, and 29IVK. I’ll be back for them in about an hour. In the meantime, get me Fortuna and Thompson.”

Moments later, Bob huddled with a man and a woman in an adjacent cubicle as I waited. I watched the middle-aged woman nod a lot as he spoke. The glass walls kept me from hearing their conversation, but I noticed the younger man seemed very intense. When Bob was done, he hopped up, crossed the distance in a few long strides, and held out a hand to me.

“Let’s go have that drink.” He took my elbow, steering me back through the “employees only” passageways and out into the main public space. We took the elevator up two floors and went into an intimate lounge. A cabaret singer dressed in a black cocktail dress was belting out “La Vie en Rose”, accompanied by a pianist and bass player. Bob led me to a small table hidden behind a large potted palm. As we sank into a pair of soft club chairs, the cocktail waitress sauntered over and gave Bob a sultry smile. I suspected that Bob had used this private nook with some regularity, perhaps to keep an eye on ship passengers who warranted watching.

We ordered drinks and they arrived minutes later with a clear glass bowl of spicy peanuts. I was about to take a sip from my sombrero when Bob held up his glass.

“Here’s to the late, great Henri Dufours. May he rest in peace.” As our glasses clinked, I felt a sudden stab of guilt hit me in the gut.

“Nous sommes relié toujours,” I said without thinking. My companion looked at me expectantly, so I translated. “We are always connected.”

A shadow crossed Bob’s face, almost imperceptible. I suddenly wanted to know what he was thinking, but I hesitated to ask. Was it because he was a stranger or because he had been kind enough to pay attention to me? The hungry often need food, and a starving soul is especially ravenous, seeking a gentle word or a sympathetic glance wherever it may be found.

“Tell me about your husband. What was Henri like?”

“Henri?” I stalled, trying to think of a way to avoid the subject without seeming like a heartless woman. Bob must have sensed my reluctance, even though I hadn’t said a word.

“How long were you married?”

“Almost twenty years.”

“Not all of them happy?” he queried me. There was something about Bob’s eyes I found particularly compelling. Was it because he was so physically attractive or because, underneath the smart, carefully crafted image, there was a man who had seen some of the darker side of life and understood life isn’t always about easy choices?

“Have you ever been married?” I asked him.

“Twice. Divorced twice, too.”

“So you know marriage isn’t always easy,” I decided.

“There’s an understatement. My first wife left me for her law partner. My second marriage lasted all of three months. She turned out to be hired by a criminal organization that wanted to get close to me. Can’t really count that as a marriage, though. We knew what they were up to, so I was just going through the motions. I used to be a Treasury agent.”

“Oh,” I nodded, relieved to be off the subject of Henri.

“First marriage?”

“Yes.” I reached for peanuts, hoping that by filling my mouth, I could avoid answering awkward questions.

“Not made in heaven, I take it.” Bob was sitting back in his chair, keeping it casual, but it felt like he was interested in my answers.

“We were two very different people.”

“Did you change over time or were you always mismatched as a couple?” he wanted to know. That was a question I had often asked myself. All of our family members and friends talked about how good we looked together at the wedding. That was the first, and for many, the only time they met Henri Dufours. Our life as a couple was composed of orchestrated public appearances and private separations that maintained the fiction of happy-ever-after. The truth was I married a stranger, and even after nearly twenty years of marriage, I still didn’t understand him. Henri could be very cold. We often went for a whole week without having a meaningful conversation. Sometimes the only interaction between us was in the bedroom. Henri was never willing to give up his own pleasure, even to punish me for my imaginary sins. He took what he wanted, even when I was unwilling to give it.

Early in our relationship, I tried to get him to open up, to tell me what was wrong, why he was so miserable. He brushed me off abruptly, uninterested in sharing his feelings with me. A very angry confrontation one weekend resulted in Henri storming out of the house as I sat crumpled on the floor, red-faced from frustration. He didn’t come home for three weeks. Every call I made to his office was rebuffed by his administrative assistant. He returned at midnight on a Thursday, appearing in the doorway of our bedroom. Without a word to me, he got undressed and crawled into bed beside me, as if the last three weeks had never happened. In frustration, I sought counseling, but Henri refused to join me for sessions with the therapist. After six months of little progress in changing the dynamics of our communications, I threw in the towel. As the years slipped away, I stopped trying to change my husband. We silently agreed to live together as we were, warts and all.

“Always,” I admitted. “We had a complicated relationship.”

“Define complicated.” Bob pressed me for details.

“I never knew what Henri was thinking or feeling. I was forever guessing. He kept me in the dark about everything.”

“Why didn’t you divorce him?” Bob’s determined eyes focused on my face, closing in on every wince, every sigh, every frown. It felt like he had trained a powerful spotlight on me, revealing everything, concealing nothing, and as I sat there, I suddenly realized he was far too interested in the answer.