Portrait of a Girl Adrift
Portrait of a Girl Adrift
Portraits Trilogy
Book III
by
J. B. Chicoine
Also in the
Portraits Trilogy:
Book I
Portrait of a Girl Running
Book II
Portrait of a Protégé
strawhillpublishing@jbchicoine.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2016 by J. B. Chicoine
Cover art: watercolor painting—Portrait of a Girl Adrift—by
J. B. Chicoine
Cover and interior design and art by Straw Hill Design
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Other Novels by J. B. Chicoine
Author Biography
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my writing partner, Robynne Marie Plouff, for your constant support through the writing and editing of all my novels!
A special thanks to Craig A. Chicoine, not only for your patience and keen eye, but for believing in my stories, and for your big and contagious imagination.
And of course, I am always grateful to those who read through the story and offered feedback and suggestions: Ryan and Marie Skidmore. Additionally, thanks to Jim Booth for musical support.
I am ever so grateful to Kett Cummins who tirelessly answered my question about the pre-Katrina New Orleans of the early 1980s—I could not have written those scenes without you!
Although I love sailing, I have yet to undertake an adventure the scope of which I send Leila on in this story, Therefore, I am indebted to the helpful advice I received on both the Cruiser’s Forum and the WoodenBoat forum, but a special thanks to Jim and Ann Cate on s/v Insatiable II, somewhere between Oz and New Caledonia, for helping me not sound like a complete landlubber and offering their astute observations and insights. Also, thank you Carol Newman Cronin for your sailing expertise and suggestions.
Thanks to the folks at Save Our Cemeteries in New Orleans for needed details on the Lafayette Cemetery No. 1—a very cool, and not-so-scary-place to visit.
Thanks Ann Stafford for information on wildlife on Grand Cayman, Shelly Fairman for providing lots of Grand Cayman tidbits from back in the 1980s. Also, Capt. Cheryl Barr for helping me navigate the waters around Cuba.
I would also like to acknowledge s/v Infanta, the beautiful 47’ Rhodes Bermuda yawl that proved to be the inspiration for my imaginary s/v Adrift.
Most of all, thanks to my Todd who provides me with the time and space to create my imaginary worlds, and for welcoming into our life all my imaginary friends.
For Anastasia on her most noble adventure…
Prologue
If Leila had kept up with sailing after her late husband, Ian, taught her the basics—if he hadn’t drowned off the bow of this very boat and in the water she would soon be approaching—setting sail might not have been such a struggle this August afternoon.
A fresh breeze funneled into the cove as she braced herself. Careful of the boom, she settled onto the bench and leaned against two-year’s worth of mildew that stained the fiberglass. As she pushed away from the mooring, she eyed the mainsail draped over the boom and the jib in an accordion heap at the forestay. She had struggled with the sails for over an hour, trying to recall Ian’s instructions back when they used to laze around the lake on afternoons like this.
And yet the struggle was fitting. Letting her late husband go should be no easy task. She shouldn’t be allowed to move on without strain, without paying due homage to her soul mate and to their marriage, to the profound loss of a man who had shaped her, rescued her in her youth. Youth. At twenty-three, it shouldn’t have seemed like a bygone concept, but she felt aged. Grief had plundered her youth and left her sifting through shambles, though lately, the sifting seemed not as arduous, not when she thought about Jared, her new love interest. But today she refused to think about him; new love could not take root until she settled up with her first love—Ian.
Perspiration collected at her brow and neck. Leaving the tiller, she moved forward and hoisted the jib sail. Leaving it to flap in the breeze, she returned aft and tugged the main halyard, hand over hand until the mainsail topped the mast. The boom shifted starboard with a puff, pushing the boat forward and shoving Leila back onto the seat. In quick succession, she grabbed the tiller, dropped the centerboard, pulled the main sheet and then the jib sheet. All at once she was sailing, cutting through the water with unexpected speed, even if it was all of two knots. Recalling Ian’s instructions, she steered into the wind to slow her progress. As she focused on keeping everything under control, staving off full-blown panic, she advanced through the narrows and onto the open lake.
Without realizing it, she passed the crucial point, sailed right over the submerged trees and branches with their twisted fingers reaching and clawing below the water’s surface, waiting to entangle the unfortunate—that place where her husband had drowned. It passed too quick to offer up a prayer or to let a tear fall. Her heart raced, memories coming at her from every angle, like unpredictable winds.
With no obstacles in sight, she stayed her course not daring to relax under the illusion of control. At an unexpected moment, the winds could change, a reminder of that precarious balance between smooth sailing and disaster.
Chapter 1
Leila’s reflection in the terminal window overlaid the flurries swirling outside on the runway. She smoothed her hair, missing the comfort of long locks on her neck. Clutching her carry-on, she sat as a young family settled in the seats across from her. Their toddler squirmed from one lap to the other as they juggled baby paraphernalia. Leila shifted, drawing her feet away from their sprawl. As she fixed her attention upon the child, a little girl, their eyes met, and the toddler stuck her tongue out. It shouldn’t have bothered Leila, but the silly taunt roused such discomfort that Leila looked away with embarrassment verging on shame.
A voice hissed over the loudspeaker. Leila checked her watch. Ten minutes of waiting for her connecting flight to Mississippi had just turned into an hour. With a sigh, she drew the little girl’s attention. Leila plastered on a smile and risked another glance at the child who met her gaze with a yawn. Leila
responded with her own yawn, switching her attention to the windows—the reflections of bustling passengers—and then refocused on the gray outdoors.
February was as good a time for a wedding as any Saturday in June, even in a leap year and scheduled for the twenty-ninth. If it meant Leila would only need to commemorate the anniversary once every four years, all the better. Not that she objected to her friend and mentor Clarence’s union with her grandmother Angela, but it still felt awkward to view the two in a conjugal way.
When she finally boarded the plane, settled into her seat, and braced herself for takeoff, Leila’s mind buzzed with the events of the past few months and everything she would have to confront—to own up to—when she would arrive at the airport in Jackson. She had accepted Clarence’s offer to meet her flight and drive her to Natchez, but now she wished she hadn’t, now she would have to explain her situation twice; first to Clarence, and then to her grandmother—and then there was André, the younger of the father-and-son business partners that brokered her artwork.
Leila hadn’t seen André since early November, although he had invited her down to Boston for a holiday bash, a party where Leila would likely meet up again with Andre’s new girlfriend, Elana. Leila went to the movies instead. Just the same, she liked Elana right from the start, although it still amazed her that André had attached himself to a nice girl. And it was fine that Elana would likely accompany him to the wedding, but it did add an edge to Leila’s angst as she studied her ring finger, as unadorned now as it had been since she quit wearing her wedding band.
Leila convinced herself that Elana would be a passing phase. But now, three months later, Elana still came up in conversations with André. How far along had the couple’s relationship developed? They were surely sleeping together. Did they talk about the future? Had they discussed whether either of them wanted children? She could imagine Elana with babies—she had the natural warmth of a nurturer. But André—Leila couldn’t envision him with children, or perhaps that was how she preferred to imagine him. And why was she imagining him in that context at all? None of it was any of her business. What she needed at the moment was to prepare herself for meeting Clarence.
Leila saw Clarence only once in the past six months. They had every intention of getting together before that autumn, but Leila hadn’t made it a priority; that is, she had hoped he would have been more insistent, but he accepted her lame excuses without protest—until it came to Thanksgiving. He and her grandmother had made reservations at Il Panino in Boston.
“I will brook no refusal!” he had said. It could mean only one thing. An announcement.
Clarence hadn’t balked, he even sounded pleased when she invited her boyfriend, Jared, to join them for the dinner. But now it was Leila with mixed feelings as she recalled that evening.
She remembered the warmth of Jared’s hand as he grasped her cold fingers, the perfect remedy as they walked in the chill air of Boston’s North End. Jared had such a reassuring way about him, even in small things, like when they stepped off the T and up into the night lights. He walked with an air of a kid from the hood and she felt safe with him; it didn’t hurt that he used to box, although she wasn’t sure if he had been joking about that. At any rate, she sensed he could handle himself.
“Do you miss it, living in Boston?” she had asked.
“Not so much, but I do miss the food on the North End.”
“Well, then, you’ve probably eaten at Il Panino before.”
“Once or twice. Great food. Unpretentious. Intimate.”
“Sounds like something Clarence would pick.”
“Here we are,” he said, approaching the small window front of the restaurant. He opened the door and held it for Leila. The maître d’ greeted them as she spotted Clarence and Angela already seated. Clarence waved Leila and Jared over and stood as they made their way through the crowded room.
The last time she saw Clarence Myles was the night of her artistic debut at Chez Goulet when he had been the high bidder on the coveted Portrait of a Protégé. Although that evening had not been as awkward as anticipated, at times she still struggled with uncomfortable memories of her intense and conflicting feelings she’d had for him. Now, face to face with him in the restaurant, as he embraced Leila, her discomfort waned but then spiked as she gave her grandmother a dispassionate hug and a kiss on the cheek. Leila had hoped she would feel happier for them.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Clarence’s firm shake of Jared’s hand. She so wanted them to like each other. As Jared pulled Leila’s seat from the table, she detected Clarence’s subtle acknowledgement and approval. They were off to a fine start.
Clarence began, “I understand you’re going for your Realtor license, Jared.”
Jared shrugged. “It seems like a good ancillary business for my property management. I often know what’s going up for sale before it hits the market.”
“Sounds like the perfect niche. Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.”
Leila glanced at Angela’s ring finger, laden with a conspicuous diamond. She couldn’t help staring.
Angela twisted the ring and smiled bashfully at Clarence. Leila’s brow spiked with feigned surprise. She allowed him to clear his throat and waited for him to make a proper announcement.
“Yes—well, I’m certain you’ve already gathered that Angela and I are engaged—”
Leila refrained from asking, Engaged in what?
He continued, “We wanted to tell you in person.”
“Congratulations!” Jared said.
“Yes—” Leila chimed in. “Congratulations.” Her attention fell to her menu. She had prepared for this moment and rehearsed the words so many times that she felt convinced when she said, “I’m so happy for you both.” But in her heart, there was no way around it—it just felt weird.
“Thank you,” Angela responded, her head tilting as if to peer beneath Leila’s facade, into to her heart of hearts. “It may seem a little weird right now, but I do hope you will grow into it.”
It was unnerving—although not surprising given their like nature—how little time it had taken Angela to read Leila so accurately. There was no use denying her feelings, and so Leila responded, “I’m getting pretty good at growing accustomed to weird.”
“Have you set a date?” Jared asked, lightening the moment.
The waiter approached with a pad. “Drinks, anyone?”
Everyone but Jared—Leila’s designated driver—ordered a round of hard liquor.
Clarence responded to Jared. “Yes. February twenty-ninth.”
“I take it you’re not superstitious.”
“Not at all.”
“I rather like the idea,” Angela said. “At our age, the fewer anniversaries, the younger we’ll stay.” She reached for Leila’s hand. “We do hope you’ll come, dear.”
Leila looked up from her menu. She didn’t feel like attending, but if she declined she would regret it sometime down the road when all the ‘weirdness’ faded. She sucked in a breath and let it out. “Of course I will.”
“We do hope you’ll feel free to bring a date,” she smiled at Jared.
“Thanks,” Leila said, grabbing Jared’s knee as he cocked a brow. “I do have someone particular in mind.”
As much as Leila missed her intimate talks with Clarence, and even their frivolous chats or recipe exchanges, at least the shift in their relationship had not left her without a confidant. Jared fit with surprising ease. In fact, she hadn’t lost Clarence; she had gained a more available—and maybe more appropriate—best friend.
Having downed her drink and after ordering dinner, Leila snatched several glimpses of Clarence. Each time, he seemed on the verge of speaking but held back. Even through dinner, he paused after swallowing a mouthful of lobster-stuffed ravioli as if to say something, but then ate another bite.
They had not shared a heart-to-heart talk since that night at Chez Goulet. His words came back to her, the reassurance th
at their relationship was ‘only evolving, as it always will …’
She caught his eye and held his attention for a moment, a flood of silent words passing between them. Her eyes misted. “I am happy for you, Clarence,” she said softly.
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. Clarence deserved to be happy, finally, and so did Angela.
“So,” Leila spoke up, “Will Bonnie be attending?”
“We haven’t sent out the invitations yet, but it is my hope that she will be there.”
Jared’s brow lifted. “Bonnie?”
“My daughter,” Clarence answered, his tone heavy with drama. “It’s anyone’s guess if she’ll come.”
Jared cast Leila a curious glance. She would explain to him later the bizarre happenstance that connected Bonnie to Leila’s mother, Marilyn, and how the relationships between Marilyn, Bonnie, Clarence and Leila wove in and out and around each other, each a thread winding, twisting and knotted, too strange to make sense of it all. Was it destiny, some kind of synchronicity, or even divine providence? There were still too many unanswered questions to be certain. Even now, so many of the details of the relationship between the two women—Leila’s mother and Clarence’s daughter—remained vague.
Angela spoke up, “I will also be sending Joseph an invitation.”
It took a moment for Angela’s words to sink in—Joseph. Joe. Although Leila knew Angela was Joe’s mother, the connection seemed so abstract. And Leila’s relationship with Joe, as her biological father, still astonished her. It wasn’t so much that Joe was black, but that for eighteen years Leila didn’t know he was more than her dad’s best friend who helped raise her, the nurturing one.
Leila loved Joe like a father, but he had not been an active part of her life for the past twelve years. She hadn’t seen him since before her high school graduation. If not for his loose lifestyle, the drug scene mostly, she might have returned to Amsterdam with him. There had been an excitement to life on the road with her father, Marcus, and Joe’s blues band, the life she had grown up around, and there were aspects of it she enjoyed, but she chose to move to New Hampshire to be with Ian—to find stability—instead of touring Europe with Joe.