Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Sarah
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Sarah
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Sarah
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Chapter Forty-One
- Joey
- Sarah
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Joey
- Reading Group Guide
- Letter to Readers
- Discussion Questions
- Historical Note
- Acknowledgments
- Discover More
- About the Author
“So coming to Florida is killing two birds with one stone?” Joey left his arm dangling and hopped up on her own.
Leo squinted as the sun took its aim. “I guess. Leave your shoes and come on up.” She followed him around the Jet Skis docked in the back and then up a couple of stairs. Leo went to the captain’s wheel.
Joey sank down to a couch, stretched out her legs, and pointed her toes. The couch was covered in the softest cream leather and flanked by a table. “Wow, Leo. You’ve made it, huh? What you always dreamed of.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’ve made it, Jonesey. I have investors. It’s not just me in this game.”
“Funding aside, you’re buying a huge, luxurious yacht. I think if you look up making it in the dictionary, this would be it.”
“Actually, I already have one yacht. That one’s in Europe with my crew. So this will be my second.”
“Wow.” She digested it. “I’m really proud of you, Leo.” She meant it so thoroughly that she felt sad Leo couldn’t experience the soar in her chest, like it was happening to her, the fruition of his long-held dreams. “I really am.”
“Thanks.” In a minute’s span, Leo had pulled levers, twisted knobs, and checked the satnav. Now he crouched on the floor, unsnapping covers adhered to the boat’s sides.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“Sure.” He handed her a cover. “Fold this and stick it in the salon.”
Joey took care folding it and carried it into the serene, well-appointed space he’d motioned to. The salon. She could imagine celebrities in it, tech moguls, nibbling on olives and drinking from fizzy flutes, talking and complaining about nothing.
The carpet was tan, fresh, and luxurious. In her lawyer life, she’d glided atop carpet like this. Thick carpet cleaned each night by a troop of underpaid fairies. Perhaps the part she’d detested most about her old life was the way her peers had ignored the help. The men and women tasked with grunt jobs would enter offices to empty trash, to deliver mail, and would exit as ghosts, as if garbage cans refreshed themselves, as if mail flew in on the backs of storks.