It baffled me how he had the energy.
The crew was growing on me, and in small ways, it felt like they were starting to accept me, too. Emma would fill me in on the inside jokes when I didn’t understand them, and she and I spent a lot of my time below deck talking about her life in Austria and what it was like for me growing up in Colorado. We compared our favorite hikes, exchanged pictures of lakes and mountains and valleys, and told stories of our childhood dogs. She held her stomach with a longing smile as she told me about her mom’s delicious wienerschnitzel and tafelspitz, and I tried to explain why dipping pizza crust in honey was a life-changing culinary event and the only acceptable way to eat pizza in Colorado.
I could talk to Emma the same way I could talk to my sister or to Joel, like we had been friends for a lifetime already.
Wayland was much like me in that he didn’t hang out with the crew that often, but when he did, I loved to listen to him play his guitar softly and chime in on the conversation from time to time. Ace and Eric were usually found drinking with Joel, swapping charter stories or competing in arm wrestling matches or card games.
Even Ivy and Celeste had won me over. They were two peas in a pod, gossiping and making me laugh with their own horror stories from working charters. Celeste once had a man demand a twelve-course meal for him and his family, only to have all of them drink so much they passed out and didn’t even make it to dinner at all. Ivy chimed in with her own experience of being cornered in a stateroom while changing the sheets, the main charter guest begging her to let him touch and photograph her feet.
They were different from me, but after a couple weeks of me working just as much as they were, they seemed to relax around me and open up a bit more. Ivy was still foaming at the mouth for the opportunity to give me a makeover, and Celeste was fascinated by my photographs. She always asked to see the most recent ones I’d edited. When I showed her the one of the young couple embracing on the sea wall in Nice, she covered her mouth with her fingertips, eyes wide and glossy when they found me. “I’m not sure why, but this photo makes my stomach ache.”
Nailed it.
Still, even though I felt comfortable in my new routine and found friendship within the crew, I longed for the days on my own. The days when Theo didn’t require my services, when I could walk off the yacht, or Joel could take me on the dinghy to shore — those were what I lived for. I lost hours of daylight wandering foreign streets — listening, watching, feeling. I captured life as it happened around me, telling stories that perhaps would never have been shared otherwise.
We slowly made our way down the coast of France, hopping out to islands and then back to shore until we started to creep into Italy. As much as I loved France, I found the Italian culture to be even more tantalizing. They were one-hundred percent, all the time, no matter what they were doing. They worked tirelessly, created elaborate meals that everyone in the family stopped to gather around, loved each other as if it were their life’s only purpose, and drank wine like this would be their last day on Earth. They were passionate friends, lovers, neighbors and hosts. Where most of the people I photographed in France ignored me or made some gesture to let me know they were not amused, the people of Italy were curious. They invited me closer, let me get personal with their work and their families, offered me wine and food, showed me inside their businesses and homes, and offered advice for where to go next.
As for Theo?
He might as well have been in another country.
After that morning in Nice, Theo seemed wrapped up in work. He entertained clients on the yacht most days, and when he wasn’t entertaining, he was tapping away on his laptop by the pool, speaking in hushed commands on the phone in the salon, or reading something on his tablet, his brows furrowed in concentration.
On the rare occasion he wasn’t working, he was trying to relax — I say trying because I could tell just by casting a glance in his direction from time to time that it was out of his wheelhouse to fully let go of work. Even when he stretched out on the top deck to sunbathe, his fingers would twitch, knee bouncing, head tossing from side to side with distant sighs like it was laying there doing nothing that was the real work.
He hadn’t said a word to me, not since that morning he took me to breakfast.
And why would he? This billionaire on his summer vacation in the Mediterranean? I was just a girl with a camera taking a free ride on his yacht. So what, he’d talked to me a few times. So what, he’d taken me to breakfast in France.
He was just being polite.
We’d been on the yacht for two weeks the day we dropped anchor outside of Vernazza, Italy. I went ashore and spent the morning and afternoon photographing the medieval fishing village, capturing the brightly colored houses and the beautiful water lapping at the coast. It was a little more touristy than I preferred, though, and by the time I made my way back to the yacht, I was ready for a quiet night in the cabin with Joel.
When I walked into our room, my camera around my neck and backpack slung over
