Miss, That Costs Extra

Chapter 4: The Weather Window

The sea trip was my mother's idea.

She had circled a boat excursion on the itinerary and written, "If the weather holds, go out past the headland." The boat had been the one part of the plan I hadn't booked in advance. The forecast called for a clear morning, and Mara said a local captain might have room if we asked early.

We walked down to the harbor just after nine. The boats rocked against their ropes, tapping gently against the dock. A man in a red knit cap stood beside a small blue launch, checking a coil of line.

Mara spoke with him for a few minutes. I watched their hands move as they discussed the tide and the open water. When she came back, her expression was practical.

"There's room for two."

"Great."

"The captain can take us out for ninety minutes. It will cost extra."

I paused. "How much?"

"Forty-five euros each for the boat. My time is included in the tour."

"Then let's do it."

Mara looked at the sky. "We need to decide now. The wind is expected to pick up around noon."

"Let's go."

She spoke with the captain again, then held out her hand for the money. I paid my share. She paid hers, and we stepped aboard.

The boat was small enough that the horizon felt close. I sat at the front with my hands tight around the rail. Mara settled on the bench behind me, one arm resting along the side. The captain eased us away from the dock.

Porto Vela grew smaller. Pale buildings gathered along the shore, each one shining in the morning sun. The water shifted from turquoise to a deeper, darker blue beyond the harbor mouth.

I thought about my mother on the other side of the world, reading her travel magazine and marking the trip with her careful stars. I imagined her in this same boat. I imagined her laughing at the gulls, asking the captain questions, saying she could feel the wind in her bones.

The memory came so clearly that my throat tightened.

Mara moved to the seat beside me. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to go back?"

"No."

She nodded. She didn't ask me to explain.

The boat cut across a calm stretch of water. At the headland, the captain slowed and pointed out a small inlet with a narrow strip of sand. It was impossible to reach on foot. Mara translated his explanation.

"My mother would have loved that beach," I said.

Mara kept her gaze on the shore. "What did she love about beaches?"

"Being somewhere she couldn't make a list."

"That's a good reason."

"She still made lists about the beach. Things to pack, books to read, snacks." I swallowed. "She liked the idea of not having a plan."

Mara smiled faintly. "That's a familiar contradiction."

I turned toward her. "You seem like a planner."

"I am."

"Do you ever do anything without a schedule?"

"I'm doing it right now."

I looked at her, then at the boat, then at the water. "This is on the itinerary."

"You didn't book the boat."

"That doesn't mean it's spontaneous."

She leaned back. "Then I suppose I'll have to try harder."

The captain circled the inlet. For a few minutes, the only sound was the engine and the wind. I felt the grief in me, but not as a wave that would knock me over. More like a stone in a pocket. Heavy, present, carried.

When we returned to the harbor, the sky had clouded over. Mara checked her phone and called the next part of our route. The afternoon walk through the upper gardens had been canceled by the local guide association due to the wind.

"You've got an open afternoon now," she said. "The cancellation is not my fault."

"I didn't think it was."

"If you'd like me to help you rearrange your plans, that's included within our scheduled time. If you want me to stay with you this afternoon, that would be extra."

I considered it. "Could you recommend a place for lunch?"

"Yes. There's a small café two streets over. Their lentil soup is excellent."

"And could you walk me there?"

"That's included. It's on my way."

She guided me through the old quarter, then stopped in front of a green door. "This is it."

A chalkboard outside listed the soup and a few sandwiches. I looked at the menu, then at her.

"Would you like to join me?" I asked.

Mara looked at the time. "I'm off the clock."

"I know."

"I have plans."

"All right."

She waited a second, as if checking whether I wanted to say anything else. I didn't.

"Enjoy the soup," she said.

"You too."

Mara left me at the door. I went inside, ordered the soup, and sat alone at a table by the window.

It was good. The bread was warm. The rain started again while I was eating, tracing thin lines down the glass.

I tried to enjoy the fact that I had found the café myself. I tried to take pleasure in the small independence of ordering the right thing without help.

I did enjoy it.

I also missed Mara.