The Yacht

Le Livre Noir was a wreck. The Florida red-eye had been infested with kicking toddlers, and the puddle jumper to St. Vincent treacherous. The ferry to Bequia was even worse, but she made it to the island.

In the letter, the lawyer stated Chloe had inherited a 78-foot yacht. Chloe formed an image of the yacht in her mind, pristine and slick with a big motor. She didn’t want to appear undeserving, so she’d bought a short white dress, a spray tan, and new highlights. The lawyer was irritated she didn’t speak French, but she understood the word yacht. They’d met at the Harbor Master’s office where she’d signed papers, and he’d presented a ring of keys. Now, after twenty-six sleepless hours, she was in a water taxi with two new suitcases, speeding through a turquoise lagoon toward her inheritance. Her entire life she’d had recurring dreams just like this, a colorful paradise in the sun. She noticed the surrounding boats were on the smaller side. Most were fancy, but a few rattled with pots and pans, strung with wet laundry. The taxi banked toward a smaller cove to the side. Chloe assumed her boat must be moored behind an abandoned galleon that dripped with ragged sails. She couldn’t wait to see it, but at this point, she didn’t mind if her yacht was not quite a ship. She hoped her stateroom had clean sheets, but after a hot shower, she’d be happy to sleep most anywhere. Anywhere, it turned out, except La Livre Noir.

“La Livre Noir. Ici barko.” The driver cut the engine beside the ghost ship.

“Where?” Her head swiveled.

“Elle est la.” He pulled close, thumping the hull. “Bateau? Windbag? Blowboat?”

“Ahh! You have arrived. Welcome!” A man in salty shorts looked over the edge.

“No.” Chloe recoiled from the peeling paint, the creaking wood. “No. No. A mistake.”

“Are you Chloe?”

She nodded.

“No mistake.”

The driver pointed to the net ladder.

“You’re kidding.”

“Extra charge if you don’t exit taxi.”

The confused girl stood on the listing deck in a ridiculously expensive white dress, soaked in sea spray, clutching gold high heels to her chest. This was the first time she’d set foot on anything bigger than waterskis. The stringy man, Dorian, rattled off necessary repairs in an island accent, explaining desalination, and harbor rules.

“This is a sailboat? I thought my uncle left me a yacht.”

“Yesss….it is both, technically.” Dorian looked alarmed. “How well did you know Niven, exactly?”

“I didn’t. He’s not even my uncle, some distant cousin or something. Does this thing have a crew?”

“Interesting. And your plans for Le Livre Noir?”

“Well, umm, I thought I might stay, but…”

Dorian stood back, scratching his bare stomach.

The truth was, Chloe had been gunning for a way out of Santa Fe. After she got the letter, she sold her Toyota for $6K, enough to get to Bequia. Not entirely naïve, she figured she’d support the yacht by renting it for charters and music videos.

“Maybe we reverse, yes? Cover basics.” Dorian explained that despite appearances, the vessel was seaworthy, as long as she stuck to the Windwards. Chloe kept quiet as she toured three staterooms, a few bunks and a salon. She understood nothing Dorian showed her, except that the boat was her worst decision yet, and her Uncle was an astounding pack rat.

Holding back tears, she blurted, “I’m exhausted.”

“Of course. I promised Niven I’d look out for you. Tomorrow, ok?”

Chloe hung her dress on a hook and looked for a place to sleep that wasn’t filthy, finally crashing on the banquette in the salon. The cushions stank of mildew and fish, but she slept like the dead.

“Chloe?! Hail up! Delivery!”

Wrapped in a sarong, she staggered up from below, blinking into the sun. Dorian was climbing over the rail with a black case strapped to his back, shouting, “Mail service.”

Her cello was the only thing she hadn’t sold, her best friend and nemesis, the reason she’d struggled as alternate for the Santa Fe Chamber Ensemble, underpaid, unable to pay her bills.

“Niven was musician too. Fiddle. Guitar. Ukulele.” Dorian smiled at the sarong and bedhead. “Ma cherie! You look like island girl. Better, ok?”

He patted her arm. “So you know about him, why he left his funny boat to you?”

“Last relation?”

“He lived for adventure.”

“Mom said he lived in a cave, not a boat.”

“Before the boat he lived in Moonhole with the artists, before you were born, houses carved into hillside.”

“Mom said he was a bum.”

“Your mother sounds –”

“Dead. Accident. No dad.”

“You’re alone?”

Chloe changed the subject. “So what was his thing for marauders? The junk downstairs looks really old.”

“Niven enjoyed local history. His fascination with pirates came first, the old ones who hid in caves. A hobby. But later, an obsession with what they left behind.”

“Are you talking bones, or booty?”

Dorian laughed. “He spent years exploring islands, always off with his shovel and coffee cans.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wonderful man, but became… eccentric.” He smiled and disappeared over the side. “He left you this for a reason. Stay.”

Chloe had to go. She knew nothing of boats, but was certain she’d get a better price for this tub if it wasn’t crusted in bird droppings. Using Niven’s clothes for rags, she scrubbed the deck. The next day, she hauled cushions into the sun. Down below, she sorted rusted parts. The old lanterns, swords, and a birdcage she kept. By day three, she’d cleared the salon. Without the junk, the area seemed larger, comfortable. Stained glass from the casement windows threw prisms around the room, while a chandelier sparkled and rocked with the boat. It was pretty, but just another scene from one of her dreams.

The next day, Dorian whistled at the piles and boxes. “You’ve been busy.” He agreed most was junk. “I’ll send the salvage guy over this afternoon.”

At sunset, Chloe tuned her cello and began to practice, accompanied by creaking shutters and the slap of tangled rigging. After twenty minutes of Paganini, she heard voices.

“Oh no.” She raised her head through the hatch. “Too loud?”

“Heavens no. Come.”

She emerged to applause from nearby boats.

“Take a bow. Best entertainment in years. I’m Charles. And Nadia.”

The couple in the dingy looked friendly. “This place is a literal shipwreck, but do you want to come up?”

“We have a proposition.” Charles talked as he climbed aboard. “We’re getting hitched at the Yacht House. Would you play for our wedding? We’ll pay.”

Shocked, Chloe was silent. She’d struggled so hard to get a gig in New Mexico, anything.

“Please? It would mean so much.”

“Sure. I guess. When?”

“Three days.”

The couple produced two bottles of wine. “We brought bribes, just in case.”

Chloe got glasses and lit a lantern. Soon, another dingy arrived, two brothers around Chloe’s age, with a girlfriend named Angela. They brought assorted cheeses, baguettes, rum, weed, and fruit.

“We’ve wondered about the name of your boat?” asked the brothers.

“I don’t even know what it means.”

“It means The Black Book,” volunteered Nadia.

Angela inhaled the weed and asked, “Like The Pearl? Or maybe a love of reading?”

“Books are stacked to the ceiling down below, and tons of maps. I’m excavating, but there’s so much stuff.”

“Oooo… can we see?”

Charles and Nadia were enchanted by the swords and birdcage, while the brothers examined the equipment.

Angela peeked in the staterooms. “It’s so romantic! Do you know how many people would kill to sleep on a pirate ship?”

“Except it’s falling apart.”

The brothers piped up, “You got new navigation. A decent radio. But your galley is a mess, and that head – whooo-weee!”

“Dorian swears the boat is operable.” Chloe took a sip of exceptional wine. “Except for the shredded sails.”

“You’ve got yourself a fail-boat, but you can fix her.”

Chloe snorted. “That requires money.”

“Play cello at the hotel.” Nadia smiled. “My friend owns it. Done. And more weddings at Yacht House.”

“Sounds lovely, but I can’t earn enough playing cello.”

One brother leaned against the mast. “Yeah, a pretty penny. Minus sails, you’re looking at about $20,000.”

“That’s $20,000 I haven’t got.”

“Too bad. Even if she never moves, this would make a killer B&B. You could tell pirate stories and serenade guests to sleep with your cello. You’d make a mint.”

The next day, Chloe smiled as she gathered the empty wine bottles with labels from Argentina, France, Africa. She couldn’t shake the idea of a pirate B&B, a much better plan than chartering yachts for music videos. She could host wine and cheese parties, give concerts, have candlelight swordfights, upholster everything in red velvet. Maybe get a parrot for the cage, and wear a feathered hat with big black boots. The staterooms could be luxurious. Chloe shook her head. The B&B was a great idea, for someone else. No need to make another terrible decision. Her only hope was a quick turnaround.

Dorian passed by on his paddle board, shouting, “I hear your cello got a job at Yacht House.”

“One wedding.”

“I heard you’re gigging at the hotel too. So you’re staying?”

“Not unless the wedding pays $20K.”

“Le Livre Noir is your legacy. You’ll get your wish.”

Chloe couldn’t live on wishes, and had to be practical. She tackled Uncle Niven’s desk, unlocking drawers and shuffling through moldy contents. When clearing cobwebs from the footwell, she noticed a mismatched slat of wood under the middle drawer. She gave it a hard poke with the end of her scrub brush, and a false bottom fell to the floor, along with a thin black journal and a heavy silver locket.

She sighed, “More of Uncle Niven’s hidden treasure.”

Chloe opened the heart shaped necklace, and saw a picture of her mother as a young woman, with a handsome man that looked like Uncle Niven. On the other side, was a picture of an infant. Engraved on the back of the locket was a date, Chloe’s birthday.

Chloe sat on the floor, staring at the pictures. “He’s a bum.” Her dead mother’s voice echoed through the boat, a ghost.

Clutching the necklace, Chloe opened the dusty book to see a color photo of the pirate ship in full glory, sails high, Le Livre Noir in gold letters across the bow. On the deck was Niven, kissing her mother, holding a toddler. Her mother had only one child.

“That’s me,” whispered Chloe.

It was clear Niven was neither uncle nor cousin. Why had her mother lied? Chloe turned the page. A wedding picture at the Yacht House, snapshots of bonfires with friends, photos of the family on windy beaches. A baby, a mother, a father. They looked happy.

Paper-clipped to the back cover were early pictures of Chloe with a dollhouse, then later, hugging the cello beside a christmas tree. Descriptions of islands grew more detailed, with less about her mother. The rest was longitude, latitude, complex coordinates, excerpts from maps, detailed landmarks. It was scribbled nonsense, but beside each entry was a dollar value. Dorian said Niven spent years exploring the islands, that he was eccentric. It sounded like Niven was searching for treasure, not that he was burying it.

Chloe began adding the amounts: $3,473, $12,432, $7,5499, $15,859, the list went on. If she could locate even half, it would exceed the $20,000 required to restore the yacht into a home, the very home where her life began.

She put the locket around her neck and carried the journal to the deck. She stared at the water and breathed in the island, realizing her dreams had really been memories. Dorian called Le Livre Noir her legacy. He knew. In the morning he would take her to the first island in the black book. She would take a shovel, and she would dig deep.