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"W hat time is it?" asked Lane, her voice catching.

Brian started as if he'd been lost in thought, then checked his watch, "Twelve-thirty, island time," he said, giving her a thin smile.

She looked away, tired of everyone's euphemism for things being late. In the real world, buses, taxis and subways were never forty-five minutes late.

She stared off across the vast harbour in the direction from which the ferry should have come. She imagined herself racing through a crowded airport, weaving through swarms of travelers, only to find a crisp airport employee barring the gate, while out on the tarmac, a plane backed away. The plane that was supposed take her home.

She sighed and sat back, the wind snatching and hurling dust and salt all around her. It was noisy and the heat was oppressive, but at least here on the ferry dock she didn't have to deal with what happened. There was nothing but the steel bars of the Port Authority on one side of her and the sea on the other. And there were just eight people on this slab of concrete.

Two couples stood some distance away. The ease with which they shared each other's company amazed her and she stared at them from under her visor. She caught fragments of their conversation and guessed they were from Quebec. She still remembered some of the French she'd taken in high school, but made no effort to understand them. They had been on some other boat, had taken a different cruise, had inhabited some other universe this past week.

She looked past them to the far side of the pier where Dillon and Desiree had retreated as soon as the shuttle dropped the four of them off this morning. The short drive from the sheltered harbour where their catamaran had docked had been silent, but for the ramblings of their island chauffeur. Now Dillon and Desiree were hunkered down in a sliver of shade, arms wrapped around each other. Lane thought of the sweat that must be pooling where their skins pressed together and dug her nails into her palms.

***

Brian had persuaded her to take this trip, even though he knew how hard it would be. Lane knew Brian's mother was a strong and competent woman who could handle anything. Maybe that was why Lane had such a hard time letting her. They were her kids after all, her responsibility. It was her job to look after them.

But Brian had been insistent, "You know it will be good for us Lane, we could use a holiday after all this."

She knew what he meant. Their lives hadn't been the same since Evan was born. Or at least since the day they met with a team of doctors in that drab hospital room. When phrases like 'rare disorder' and 'experimental treatment' had dangled like spiders in the greyness around them. After that, her life had become a grim parade through endless sterile hallways, her every step trying to crush the paralyzing fear that had taken over her life. And at the end of the day, there was Tabitha, demanding attention too, unable to accept that her world had changed so drastically.

But there had been some improvement over the last few months. The treatments were helping; Evan was better, not well, but better. So Lane had looked out the window onto their slushy little street that morning and let herself be convinced that getting away was a good idea.

After two weeks of preparation and listening to her mother-in-law's cool and controlling voice, Lane had found herself at the airport, her insides suddenly empty of all that responsibility. She was shocked at the relief that gushed through her the moment she stepped onto the plane, and almost welcomed the leaden guilt that soon replaced it.

But once she arrived at the ferry dock, the West Indian sun reached out to her, allowing forgotten but welcome sensations to return. Bare skin exposed to wind and sun, the pounding of surf, the taste of salt. She scanned the boats in the harbour, imagining them sliding over the ocean, sails straining in the wind. Most of them were monohulls, but there were three or four catamarans too, their double hulls sleek and low in the water. They looked impossibly small alongside ocean-going yachts and sailboats, but the travel brochure she had tucked in her carry-on promised ample cabin space for four guests and two crew.

It was no great surprise that none of Brian and Lane's friends were able to make the trip, had in fact been a little taken aback by their invitation. Their reactions made Lane realize how little they now had in common. But instead of being discouraged, she and Brian had persuaded themselves that it would be a great adventure to hop aboard a sailboat in a foreign country, not knowing who would be sharing it with them. For one week they would be free from the grim looks, the pervasive sympathy; they could be anything they wanted.

There had only been one other couple on the dock that afternoon and Lane had studied them through her sunglasses. A beautiful woman in breezy white capris and camisole, the man beside her just as perfect, tanned and lean, a loose white shirt partly unbuttoned. Please don't make me spend the week with them, thought Lane, as she looked down at her dough-coloured legs, her neglected toenails and the floral sundress she'd ferreted out of the back of her closet. It had looked so festive in her chilly bedroom, but in the unadulterated sun it looked hopelessly out of date.

"Island Cruises," called a man from a van, his blazing teeth lighting up a tea-black face, and Lane sighed as all four of them reached for their bags. At least Brian was good at small talk, all she had to do was hover on the fringe of things, ready to extend a hand when introduced. It didn't take him long to find out that the other couple was from Arizona and that the man was a financial planner and his wife was a cosmetician. Dillon and Desiree. Perfect names for a perfect couple, thought Lane, marvelling at how cool the woman's hand felt when she shook it. Hers felt clammy, even though she'd wiped it on her dress a dozen times.

***

Despite her misgivings, Lane had grown to like that beautiful woman and they filled endless hours with their talk. Desiree was eager to hear about Evan and Tabitha and Lane talked for days before she realized she had learned almost nothing about Desiree. Finally, Desiree admitted her own disappointment at not having children, of being forced to accept the fact the Dillon didn't want any, convinced that children would cramp their lifestyle.

Dillon was different from Brian's other friends, Lane could see that. He was easy-going enough, but more aloof somehow; it was hard to get past his dark eyes and boyish smile. But Brian got along with everyone and it wasn't long after they set out that Lane heard them trading stories over drinks.

"Aren't they great?" she asked Brian after their second day. "They're okay," he'd said, and Lane was surprised. She was the one who was usually careful about people, not Brian. She should have paid more attention, should have seen that the other two were just a little too carefree, a little too easy. There had been clues after all.

"Relax Lane, you're on vacation," Dillon had teased her early in the week, tugging at her cover-up. She had been wearing it constantly, explaining that she was sensitive to the sun. Like Brian, Dillon wore nothing more than board shorts and sunglasses. And Lane tried not to stare at Desiree stretched out on the deck, her chocolate body threatening to melt into the hot white fibreglass.

But as each sun-drenched hour slipped into another, Lane's thoughts became as random as sea spray. She soon forgot about her own pale skin and varicose veins, her chewed fingernails, the extra weight after the kids. There was nothing to look at but sky and sea. Nothing that marred the horizon. On the fourth day, she rummaged through her suitcase for her old bikini, the one she'd thrown in at the last minute. And the sun felt warm on her stomach, on her back. And his eyes - the perfect man's eyes - felt warm too.

The drinks helped her relax too. Especially late in the afternoon, when her thoughts turned to home and she pictured herself at the kitchen counter, preparing supper, Tabitha demanding help with her homework and Evan underfoot, as always. But then the crew would appear and press a glass into her hand, a 'Painkiller', sweet rum mixed with pineapple and coconut, and her thoughts would drift elsewhere. They never mingled, those two dark men from Honduras, and seldom spoke. Instead, they encouraged their guests, with shy smiles and gestures, to enjoy the sailing, the sun, the drinks. So Lane drank eagerly from her sweaty glass and it was refilled before the ice cubes had time to dissolve.

***

Now they were back on that ferry dock and the sun that had been so welcome a week ago was slamming down without forgiveness. Only a two-foot overhang provided any relief and Lane crouched there, pulling her feet in under her, her visor low over her eyes. The wall of the Port Authority building was solid against her back, but beneath her the earth pitched and tossed, like it had ever since she stepped off the boat this morning.

A half-full garbage can stood two feet away, offering up its sickly sweet smell to the afternoon, a reminder of meals consumed by those who had the forethought to eat.

She adjusted the straps of her sundress, repelled by how greasy and unclean her skin felt. She'd showered this morning in that tiny cell, trying not to bump her elbows, but salt was everywhere and her skin was peeling in places that Brian had missed when he lathered on her sunscreen. The polish on her toenails was cracking too, flaking off. It wasn't even her colour, a garish orange that Desiree had called 'Caribbean Sunset', laughing, as she helped Lane apply it.

Lane looked up as the air at the ferry dock filled with the spirited notes of a harmonica. One of the women from Quebec was playing while a hulking man stood behind her with his hands crammed deep in the pockets of her shorts. Lane had read that the Quebecois had more sex than other Canadians and wondered if it was true. The big man was singing in a rich baritone and the other couple was singing along with enough enthusiasm to make up for their lack of talent. Soon all four of them were swaying in time and passing around the few bottles of Carib that they hadn't already drained.

The music stopped for a moment and everyone leaned out over the pier, watching as a small ferry sped towards them and then veered to starboard in the direction of the marina. As it did, the festivities died down, even the Quebecois were subdued for a moment, laughing uneasily, but after some backslapping, they worked themselves up to another song: You Are My Sunshine.

A fitting song, thought Lane. It was sunshine that had brought them here after all. An excuse to flee the dark Ontario winter and their dirty little street. But that little street was home and at home she could withdraw into the comfort of knowing what was expected of her. Chores filled her days, anxiety crowded out unbidden thoughts.

Lane put her head down on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. Her head had been aching since the sun had screamed through the hatch and woken her this morning. She'd lain there feeling disoriented, looking slowly around their cramped cabin, catching her breath at the pale blue sheets tangled at the foot of the bed. Then she dragged herself to a standing position, feeling as if she were leaving her body far below her, still stuck to the sheets. When she peered through the hatch, the sun branded her forehead.

Brian had been on the bow, rocking a little on the trampoline that spanned the gap between the hulls, staring into bluish-white nothingness. He turned, as if he felt her watching, and gave her the tiniest shrug. And even though the sea was calm, she fell back on the bed as if a great wave had rocked the boat.

She lay there gulping air, shivering, as the night before came back in ugly, sobering splashes. She remembered the four of them having dinner and Brian's arm relaxed on the cushions behind Desiree. He'd been telling them that his scar, the one that ran all the way from his armpit to the top of his shoulder, was an old sports injury. Lane had learned to laugh about it, but she had cautioned him then, at that long ago family reunion, that what seemed like a harmless game of baseball might be too much, that he wasn't as young as he used to be. He'd scoffed of course, but his face had warped with pain when he fired that last pitch.

How many times had she fallen asleep with that arm under her neck she wondered now. Yet sitting at the table last night, she'd been unable to move, unable to protest, as Desiree's long manicured fingernail traced that scar.

Then a hand had reached out towards her under the table and hovered for a moment before landing softly, like a butterfly, on her knee. It got heavier and its warmth began to travel up her thigh. Hours later she was soaked in sweat, a perfect body moving above her, blocking out the moon.

***

A shadow fell on the concrete pier in front of her and Lane stared down at Brian's tanned feet, bits of sand and salt caught in the blond curly hair on his toes. The crescent-shaped birthmark that marked his ankle was less obvious now that the rest of his skin had darkened too. He cleared his throat, "I didn't sleep with her, Lane," he said quietly, before turning back to the edge of the dock, "Here comes the ferry," he added, a little louder.

But Lane hardly heard, was only dimly aware of people reaching for their bags, rummaging in pockets for moist crumpled tickets. She sat dazed on the dock and for a moment it stopped swaying, just for a moment, and then it began to heave, more violently than before. She pulled herself up and leaned over the garbage can, retching, emptying what little there was in her stomach into the can.

Then she felt Brian's hand on the back of her neck. She pulled her fingers off the sticky rim and turned towards him, her head down, before collapsing on the concrete, a sour wind careening through her stomach. Then she started to shiver, numb with cold in the suffocating heat.

"You coming?" called a black man from the steps to the ferry.

Lane made a move to get up but Brian pushed her gently down, "No thanks, we'll get the next one."

The man shrugged as if to let Brian know there was no telling when the next ferry might come.

Lane tried to protest, but Brian's hands were solid on her shoulders. And as they rested there, their energy seeped into her by degrees, bringing warmth and sensation back into her limbs.

She looked up in time to see Desiree place her fine slender hand into the huge black one that was held out to her, "Watch your step, lady, no swimming at the pier," the man laughed. Then Dillon followed her aboard, her glittery white handbag hanging awkwardly over his shoulder.

And soon they were gone, leaving Brian and Lane with the dock to themselves, the smell of diesel fuel thick in the air, the notes of the harmonica no longer discernible above the roar of the engines.