The Raft Read Free

bobbed on the wakes of passing
craft. Five years and so much to say. Neither one spoke.
    “Married?” Maggie finally broke the
silence.
    “I said don't start.” Rachael refused to make
eye contact, looking out at the passing ships.
    “It's just... to a man ?”
    “Maggie...” Rachael said, finally turning to
face Maggie.
    “I know. Don't start.” Maggie focused on her
navigation, falling in behind a fast-moving speedboat, staying
within the V of its wake. “How old is your girl?” Maggie asked.
    “Three,” Rachael replied.
    “Children, huh?”
    “It happens.”
    “So I've read,” Maggie smirked.
    “Don't-”
    “I know. I know.”
    They both looked to port to watch a sailing
dinghy, its sheets billowing in the breeze as it cut a speedy
course perpendicular to their own.
    Then, without warning, Rachael blurted out,
“I called her Margaret.”
    The revelation stunned Maggie. She sat in
silence, her mouth slightly ajar.
    Rachael backpedaled, realizing she'd put her
foot in it. She stammered, “Maggie, I- I can explain...”
    But the tears were already coming. Any chance
of Maggie keeping her composure had taken flight with that last
bombshell. She couldn't hold back. She sniffled and steered and
tried to pick a path through the busy bay. Back towards her
sailboat. But the tears kept coming.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 2
     
    “You must think I'm a monster... after all
this time... coming out here and saying all these things...”
Rachael sounded sincere.
    She hadn't just come out to the Raft to ruin
Maggie's life. Really, she hadn't. But when the story of the dead
Rafter had come across the wire, Rachael had reacted badly. She'd
been sure it was Maggie. Positive. Even after reading the physical
description of the deceased, Rachael hadn't been able to shake the
sinking feeling in her stomach. She had to hear Maggie's voice,
make sure she was okay.
    “Forget about it,” Maggie said as she cranked
her dinghy back up to its storage position. It had brought them
across the crowded bay, out into the relative peace of the open
Puget Sound, where Maggie's sailing yacht waited. Up a short ladder
and Rachael found herself standing in the cockpit of the
40-foot-long craft, her luggage at her feet. Despite her heavy
jacket, she shivered.
    Rachael had found Maggie's old number in the
margin of her 2008 notebook, diligently filed away with a gaggle of
identical, dog-eared, blue exam books from throughout the years.
The number was right where Maggie had written it the night they'd
met in that bar. Rachael had gone home with someone else, she
remembered, but called Maggie the next evening. She had no idea if
the number would still work - the last time she'd called it was
over five years prior - but it was all she had.
    The number had rung to Rachael's infinite
relief, and Maggie had answered.
    “Really, I'm sorry,” Rachael said.
    Rachael had lied and made up some tale about
chasing down a story, and here she was aboard Maggie's boat with no
clue of why she was there – that was a lie, too, she knew exactly
why she was there, but she almost refused to admit it to herself.
The task was so Herculean: she knew she had to get Maggie off the
Raft. Somehow.
    “It's okay,” Maggie dismissed, securing the
dinghy. The yacht was named the Soft Cell , Rachael could
only vaguely remember why. It was the name the ship had borne when
Maggie had purchased it and she was the unsentimental sort who'd
never bother to rename anything once it'd been named. The yacht had
been the dimensions of Maggie's home for the last five years. Since
she'd left dryland and joined the Raft.
    “Is it always this bumpy?” Rachael asked. She
was already starting to feel seasick. She'd never had the stomach
for boats.
    Maggie didn't answer. It was still drizzling,
but she removed her jacket as she worked. She tied ropes off to
cleats. Maggie hefted the dinghy's electric outboard off its mount
and began to spirit it away in a compact storage bin