by Pam Jenoff
Inside, we collapse to the floor, soaked and exhausted. “Are you okay?” I ask. He does not reply but clings to me tightly, still gasping for breath. We lie wrapped around each other for several minutes. I look down at him, flooded with relief. He pulls me to him, bringing my lips to his. Then, seeming to find strength, he rises and carries me to the bed. I peel off his shirt. He falls onto the bed, drawing me on top of him.
This time there is no question of turning back. I remove my own wet clothes, breaking from him only long enough to lift my shirt over my head. Revived, he rises, pushing me back against the bed.
“The condoms . . . ” I remember as his lips trail my neck.
He pulls away and I fear the moment will be lost again. But he sits up and reaches for his bag, now on the floor. Then he presses against me again, the intensity of our movements fueled by the rocking of the sea.
Later we lay silent, limbs still entangled. The wind has dropped to a whistle and the boat moves more gently as the storm recedes. “How are you?” he asks, his voice softer than I have heard before.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “But I’m not the one who fell.”
“I wasn’t talking about that. I mean, what you said earlier about not getting involved because of Jared . . . ”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, cutting him off. For the first time in over a decade, sex was not about running from memories or erasing or avoiding them. I do not want to think about Jared now.
“Good.” He smiles. “Because I’ve been wanting to do that since Monaco.”
“Really? But last night, when you stayed up on the deck, I thought . . . ”
“I like to sleep on deck sometimes. And I didn’t want to presume that just because we were alone here together, that things would pick up where they left off. I wanted it to be right.”
“Like now?”
“Like now,” he repeats, then kisses me.
A few seconds later I pull away. “Seriously, though, you took a huge spill. Are you hurt?”
He sits up slowly. “A wave caught me off guard. I’m usually pretty good on my sea legs. But I never saw it coming . . . ” I can tell he is shaken by the experience. I put my arm around his shoulder and draw him tight. There is something in the way he clings to me, vulnerable as a boy, that reminds me of Jared. I stiffen.
“What is it?” he asks warily, sensing the change in my demeanor.
“N-nothing,” I manage, not wanting to ruin the moment.
But he pulls away, recalling our earlier conversation, my reticence to become involved. Then he stands up. “I’ll be right back.”
I sprawl across the narrow bed, still tingling. My mind reels. A day ago, I would have thought of this only as a fling. But my feelings when I thought Ari was in danger belie something more.
I sit up as he reappears. “The worst of it has passed,” he reports. “We’ve sustained some damage, though, and we need to get to a port for repairs.”
“Isn’t that going to slow us down from finding Nicole?”
“It is, but we have no other choice. Hopefully the boat can be fixed quickly. If not, we’ll leave it and find another.”
I hate the idea of losing more time. “So what now?”
“I’ve set the GPS for Argostoli. That’s on Kefalonia, the island just north of Zakynthos. I’m fairly certain we can have the work we need done at the port. We’ll get there sometime in the middle of the night. We should get some rest while we can.”
He stretches out beside me on the bed and I expect him to close his eyes, but he does not, instead turning to me. “Jordan is such an interesting name. Why were you named that?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I had a great-grandmother named Jenny and I assume that my parents wanted to use the J to honor her memory. But I’m not certain how they got to Jordan. They’ve never been to Israel or the Middle East.”
“In Hebrew, it means to descend or flow down, like the river. It suits you.” I pause, considering the irony. I wish that I flowed and was easygoing. “And my name, Aaron, means mountain. They go rather well together, then, don’t they, your name and mine?”
“I think that’s what we just did,” I joke. “Flow down from the mountain.” He doesn’t respond, but rolls away from me. “What is it? What’s on your mind?”
“My wife.” I am unprepared for his response. “Sorry, I know that’s the wrong thing to say right now. It’s just hard for me. There have been others, of course, since Aviva. But this . . . ”
“Seems like a betrayal?” I finish for him. He nods. I understand what he is feeling, recall it from the first time I was with someone else after college. Even though it was nearly a year after Jared was gone, it felt like putting something between us, a break in the bond that time was already stretching thin, and I hated it.
But Ari said he had been with other people. So why was this bothering him so? Because he has feelings for me, I realize, as much as I do for him. I shiver, then draw the blanket tighter.
I feel Ari’s breath grow long and even behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I can see that he is sleeping soundly, exhausted from his earlier ordeal. I turn and wrap my arms around him as my eyes grow heavy.
Sometime later I awaken. I’m on the boat, I remember, as waves of pleasure nibble at my body. I lie with my eyes closed, trying to summon the sexy dream I must have been having. Hands, I realize with a start, running down my body, probing. It isn’t a dream. Ari is inside me and I am half on top of him as if drawn by a force outside myself.
Did he start it? Did I? The questions fade as heat rises within me. He moves slowly, unlike any man I’ve ever known, allowing me to feel every inch against me, bringing me close, then stopping. When at last I can take it no longer, he grows stronger, more deliberate, taking me over the edge, and I explode, crying out in a stupor from my half sleep.
“Well, that was different,” he remarks after I have pulled away.
“I’ll say.” As my desire ebbs, the confusion returns. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he replies and I can tell from his voice that he is sincere. “One minute I was asleep and the next . . . ”
A vague recollection shoots through my mind of reaching for him, rousing him from sleep. “It may have been me,” I admit. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay. Though I think being asleep prevented us from being as cautious as we would have.”
Panic grips me as I remember the night that Jared and I had forgotten to be careful, the price paid afterward.
“You should know I’ve been tested,” he adds awkwardly. “Recently, as part of a physical.”
But my heart pounds, anxiety unabated. I do the math quickly, decide that the risk of pregnancy now is low. Forcing myself to breathe, I listen to the rhythmic sound of water lapping gently against the hull. Beneath it comes another noise, wood scraping. “Are we docked?”
“Yes. I had to get up and navigate us into port. I tried not to wake you. We’ll see about fixing the boat at first light.”
Neither of us speaks for several minutes. “Did you think, before you knew about Nicole, that you might reunite with Jared?” he asks abruptly.
I bite my lip. It feels strange, lying here with the man I’ve just slept with, talking about an ex-boyfriend. “I don’t know.” But the question reverberates in my mind. For so many years, I thought Jared was dead. There were clearly times in the past week, since learning he might be alive, that I had allowed myself to dream of a reunion, seeing if we still felt the same, contemplating a life together. But that is out of the question now.
I could turn around. Just give up. Jared is alive, and he’s married. Why am I still searching for him? Because even knowing all that I have learned, there are still so many questions: Why did he leave me and why didn’t he come back?
“He’s married,” I say finally.
“And if he wasn’t?”
Ari is asking whether I would still be here with him if Jared were single. “Nothing would change,�
� I reply quickly, taking his hand.
But inside, my stomach flips. It is not a question that I’ve allowed myself to consider: If Jared was not married to Nicole, would I have become involved with Ari? Or would I have stopped this before it started, plunging headlong forward with my quest to find Jared? I want to believe that I still would have chosen Ari—we are so much more alike than Jared and I, and despite our quarrels he seems to understand me better than anyone has. But my image of Jared is so laden with memories, ten years of nostalgia that until last week had been rose-colored, untainted with the flaws and imperfections that time together would have brought. It is impossible to undo those trappings, to fairly compare the man I have dreamed of for a decade with the one who lies beside me.
“Anyhow,” I say. “It’s a moot point. Jared is with Nicole. And I’m here with you, where I want to be.” And if your wife were alive, I want to add, you wouldn’t be here with me. But that would be unfair to say. I cannot compete with a ghost.
He does not speak further but rolls slightly away, still holding my hand. Why did he have to bring these questions up now, when we are so happy and content? That need to dig beneath the surface, scratch away the shiny exterior, and search for imperfections, is one I recognize in myself. It comes from a deeply rooted belief that we are undeserving of good, that the gift given to us must be somehow secretly flawed.
“I’m just looking for answers,” I add, as though there is still a question pending. “So I can put things to rest and move on with my life.”
“A reckoning.” He reaches down and squeezes my hand. “Is that why you never married?”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. There’s never, I realize, been anyone remotely in contention for the job. “I’m just a loner, I guess.”
“We’re all loners until the right person comes along. But it’s hard, moving on after losing someone.” He rolls over, stretching. His hand comes to my neck and begins to knead the muscles there, and I close my eyes, melting under his touch. He presses my arms to my sides like a swaddled infant, in a way I didn’t know until this very moment I needed to be held.
He begins to breathe evenly again and I lie awake in the darkness as the sea rocks gently beneath us. My thoughts turn to Jared. It is hard to believe that tomorrow I might find him, that we might have our reunion at long last.
Restless, I slip from beneath Ari’s warm, heavy arm and sit up. I stand up and climb to the deck of the boat. The unfamiliar harbor is silent except for the sound of muffled voices from another boat. In the distance a few lights twinkle on the shoreline.
I consider his question about marriage, why I never wed. Will I wind up alone? The question has always been an uncomfortable one. The single woman—forty-something, no kids, and a couple of cats—is a Foreign Service cliché, kind of like Mo, only less successful and without Katie and Kyle, the gorgeous twins she adopted from Vietnam two decades ago. Despite the advances that women have made in the profession, it’s still not as easy for a female diplomat to find a partner who is willing to forego his own career to follow her around the world as it is for her male counterparts.
Not that I’ve never been the type of woman who felt she needed a husband. There are worse things than winding up alone, such as being stuck in an unhappy marriage like some of my coworkers, staying with the status quo because of children or because getting out was simply too hard.
Tired now, I make my way down once more to the cabin, which is still a mess from the earlier storm. I go to the kitchen, clean up the jar of olive oil that had cracked in the sink and straighten the dishes quietly so as not to wake Ari. Then I tiptoe back to the stateroom where the air is thick with sleep.
I walk to my bag in the corner, rummaging for my toothbrush. A red light flashes from the side pocket. My phone. I pull it out.
I press the button and the phone comes out of power save mode, the screen glowing in the darkness. A message from Lincoln, responding to our earlier string. Found Nicole Short, the message reads. So she was using Jared’s last name after all. Last reported residence is somewhere near a small fishing village on the southwestern coast of Zakynthos called Keri. No exact address but you should be able to find her there.
I study the message, my heart pounding. Zakynthos again. But Ari had said Nicole could be found in Zante town in the east, a different part of the island entirely.
Why, I wonder, had Mo’s file said nothing about Greece? Was it because the address somehow was only linked to Nicole? I don’t think Mo would have given me all that information but held back that one piece if she had known about it. More likely Lincoln had access to information that Mo did not.
I start toward the bed to wake Ari and tell him what I’ve found. But there’s more, I notice, looking at Lincoln’s message again. I scroll down: Ran profiles with photo. Actual name Aaron Borenstein. He’s Mosaad. No intelligence on his present mission.
I take a step backward, nearly tripping over a shoe that lies in the middle of the floor. Across the room, Ari moves, stirred by the noise. I freeze, thinking that he will awake, but he snorts and rolls over. I reread the message, recoiling. Ari lied to me about who he is. What is he really doing here? Is he after Jared?
Mosaad. The word ricochets in my head. Though the possibility had crossed my mind when I first met Ari, I am still surprised to learn that it is true. Suddenly it all makes sense—his caginess about his clients, the sources of his information, and his resources.
I sink to the floor, disbelieving. Ari has been lying to me the whole time. Nausea rises in me as I remember what just happened between us. Was that part of the act, too?
I start across the room, seized with the urge to confront him with the information and demand the truth. But even if I could get him to talk, what’s the point? He’s just going to deny my allegations unless I show him proof, and I can’t do that without exposing Lincoln and the fact that he has helped me. No, there’s nothing to be gained from confronting Ari.
I walk to Ari’s bag, which still lies open, contents strewn across the floor. I reach for his wallet, looking for . . . what, exactly? It’s not as if a covert agent will carry a Mosaad business card. Still, I thumb through it, searching for something that will confirm the information Lincoln conveyed.
Suddenly there is a rustling noise from the bed. Ari rolls over once more and his eyes open, seeming to stare straight at me.
Startled, I drop the wallet back into the bag. My mind races, trying to come up with an explanation as to what I was doing. Then his eyes close again. He is still asleep, I realize, flooded with relief. But I do not dare continue looking.
What to do now? I can’t continue on with him as though nothing is wrong. I need to get as far away from him as possible, get to Nicole ahead of him. I am flooded with doubt. Can I find her on my own? I have the new information on Nicole’s whereabouts that Lincoln provided, the name of the village. Press forward, a voice inside me, not quite my own, seems to say. Suddenly I am leaving the embassy again, setting out in the taxi on my quest. Alone.
Which is the way you like it, the voice reminds. I’ve never relied upon anyone else before. I can do this myself.
I tiptoe across the cabin, still clutching the piece of paper with the address. As I pass the bed, the sight of Ari sleeping makes me stop. Anger and longing collide. I wish I could step back in time an hour ago to the moment when I was lying in his arms, allowing myself to hope. But I cannot. I have played the fool, again.
My doubts rise again, stronger. I don’t know if I can find Nicole, or whether I will encounter Santini’s men on my own. But I am back to that place, that fundamental truth that the only person who is sticking around, the one person who can be trusted, is me. So I will keep going.
To get to the one place I always needed to go. To find Jared.
I pick up my bag and take a long last look back at Ari, then climb to the deck. The harbor lights seem to shine more brightly now, beckoning me, urging me forward in my quest. I step over the edge of the
boat onto the dock. Then I walk from the yacht, leaving my heart behind on the ground.
chapter FOURTEEN
I STEP FROM THE rear of the battered car, closing the door. Before me, a cluster of rectangular buildings, blindingly white in the morning sunshine, wind their way up the hillside. Men unload the early catch from the few dozen boats that bobble in the calm blue waters of the harbor below. The air is thick with the smell of salt and dead fish.
I crept from the yacht in Argostoli before dawn while Ari still slept, making my way down the dock to the larger marina where tourists were embarking upon ferries for various islands. There I boarded a midsized boat headed for Zakynthos and as we set out on the water, I hovered along the rail, observing the other travelers revel in a carefree manner so unfamiliar to me. When was the last time I had been on vacation like that? I could not remember.
A few feet away a young couple, newlyweds perhaps, nuzzled each other, oblivious to the other passengers. Watching them, I could not help but think of Ari, the passion we shared just a few hours earlier. It had all been a lie. How could I have been so wrong about him? I leaned on the railing, dropping my head to my hands. First Sebastian and now Ari. Even Jared, in his own way, had deceived me. For years I wanted to believe that he was the one man who would never do that. But what was the difference, really? He had lied about his death and disappeared. No, he was just like the others, maybe worse.
At least with Sebastian, I discovered the truth before things went too far. But with Ari . . . I pushed the memories of the previous night from my mind, distracting myself by studying the other passengers once more. I noticed a forty-something man, dressed in golf shorts and a collared shirt that screamed American. He was standing alone, looking in my direction across the bow of the ship. My skin prickled. Another government agent, sent to persuade me to come back in? But the man turned away and a second later was joined by a brunette woman several years younger. Enough, I thought as they strolled away. Paranoia would not help on top of everything else. Anyway, the Director had tried once; I felt certain that he would respect my decision and not bother me again.
