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14

Haven

Tuesday

E nzo was late.

Not five minutes, not ten or fifteen, but twenty-six minutes late. I sat in the sand waiting for him, growing less patient—and more discouraged—by the minute. I’d give it four more minutes before I returned to the villa, which now was empty. Mal had taken a shuttle back to Naples around lunchtime. She hadn’t been able to book a flight home yet—flights out of the area were sold out, and many were on a standby list in front of her—but in the event a seat opened up, she needed to be near the airport.

At least she’d gotten her old job back. Her former boss had been more than understanding when they spoke over the phone.

Before she left, I told her about my visit to Enzo’s dive shop and his agreeing to help me. She’d had mixed feelings. Not because Enzo was a stranger but because she didn’t like the idea of an unmanned boat when we were underwater, which meant one less person to handle an emergency. But Mal had known me long enough to know that I would do what I wanted. And if she couldn’t stop me, the very best she could do was advise me.

“Have you tested your mask for leaks?” she’d asked.

Yes.

“And your regulator?”

Yes.

“Your dive watch is charged?”

Yes. All of it, I’d assured her, was good to go. I’d been in the water since I was four years old, I reminded her. She’d given me a defeated look before grabbing me by the shoulders, telling me she loved me, and kissing me square on the forehead.

“Then go find what your dad left behind,” she said. “And give Conrad the middle finger while you’re at it.”

Sitting in the sand waiting on Enzo, I wondered if I’d get the chance to do either. But then, I spotted him or, more accurately, his boat. It was blue and white, Positano Underwater Adventures printed on its side. I was surprised by its good condition; given the state of his shop, I’d expected the boat to be somewhat ramshackle.

He stood at the helm, waving at me. Exhaling in frustration—I’d nearly begun to pack up my things—I stood, brushed myself off, and walked down the dock.

“ Mi dispiace ,” he said over and over. “So sorry, Ms. Ambrose, so very sorry. My mother, she needed help with her Jet Ski. The battery was dead, and she was quite distraught.”

I wanted to be mad, but this, if true, was somewhat endearing. I’d have done the same for my dad. “It’s okay,” I said. “And please, call me Haven.” I tossed my gear bag over the boat’s aluminum railing and onto the padded bench.

“New boat?” I asked, admiring the flooring, void of dents and scuffs, and the underwater sonar screen tucked in the center console.

“Brand-new boat.” He held out his hand to help me on. He wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes. Just a pair of aviators and black swim trunks which, I couldn’t help but notice, fit him quite snugly. “The shop is worn-down, I’ll admit, but this—” he waved his hand around “—this is what matters.”

Enzo slowly backed away from the dock, then leaned forward, turning up the dial on the speakers. A rhythmic beat kicked on—some sort of Italian house music. I leaned my head back against the boat’s railing, marveling at the fact that yesterday, I’d been pulled from Project Relic, but here I was now, with an outrageously good-looking Italian man, making straightaway for Li Galli. I smiled, the sunshine overhead turning my cheeks warm. I was pleased with my resourcefulness and thoroughly enjoying the views, too.

To our right, the cliffs outside the village were riddled with eerily dark grottos and ancient stone structures. As Enzo drove, I pulled my gear bag toward me and withdrew a few items. I hadn’t brought my camera equipment today, having decided that this would be an acclimation dive. This water was cold, low sixties. Even with a wet suit, it wouldn’t be comfortable.

I needed to acclimate to the visibility, too. I’d been spoiled in the Keys, with its diamond-blue water. Some days, visibility was so good we could see a hundred feet or more. But the water alongside Enzo’s boat was dark blue, almost black. I couldn’t even see fish, much less the ocean floor. Once in the water, I’d have a better sense of the lens filters my camera would need.

I caught Enzo watching me. He turned down the music and slowed the boat, quieting the motors. “So, Haven, here is the little I know about you. You are a researcher. You have nice gear.” He eyed the mask I’d just pulled from my bag. “And you want to dive Li Galli.”

My heart began to race. It always did before I entered the water—adrenaline, eagerness—but now, I had even more to navigate.

“That’s right,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I’m involved in a project to photograph underwater wrecks.” This wasn’t a lie—I was still technically involved in Project Relic, even if that meant I was handing over a number of files to Conrad. “Ideally,” I added, “before Mount Vesuvius erupts again.”

“Unlikely to happen in our lifetime,” he said.

“Many scientists would vehemently disagree.”

“Fair,” he replied. Maneuvering us closer to the islets, he motioned to where the yacht had gone down. “Does your project include the newest wreck?” he asked. “The yacht?”

“No,” I said. “I’m interested in the older wrecks. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century.”

“I can’t imagine there’s much left of anything.”

“You’d be surprised,” I said. In fact, there were an untold number of wrecks throughout the world that were well-preserved despite their age. Especially those partially buried in silt or sand. It was not uncommon for archaeologists to retrieve entire rudders, chains, stoneware jugs. Sometimes, enormous wooden hulls remained intact, even the words engraved on them. Photographs of such things were precisely what Project Relic aimed to compile and render into four-dimensional images. “Every site is different,” I told Enzo, who’d begun to rub sunscreen on his lower abdomen. I cleared my throat. “We’ll see what this one has to offer.”

He nodded, and a pensive expression came over his face. “You have heard of la Maledizione Amalfitana ?” he asked. “The Amalfi Curse?”

Despite the warm air, a chill came over me. “Of course,” I said. “Impossible to research the wrecks in this area and not stumble across a few references.” I cocked my head. “What do you think about it?”

“I don’t believe in any such thing,” he said. “I consider myself more of a realist.” Then, quickly, “I hope that does not offend you.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I feel the same.”

He pointed to my gear bag. “Will you be taking photos underwater today?”

I shook my head. “Today, I just need to get in the water—get a feel for the temps and visibility and make sure my gear is good. But next time, yes, I’ll bring my camera.”

“Next time,” he repeated, grinning. “So my being late has not scared you away entirely.”

“Not entirely, no.” I began to pull on my wet suit, then smiled back at him. “Besides, if your mother is the reason you were late, I suppose I can excuse it.”

He pointed back toward land. “See that hilltop, and the villa at the crest of it? She lives there, with a close friend of hers.”

I nodded, spotting it easily. “Beautiful,” I said. “How long has she lived there?”

“Just a couple of months. She used to live outside Venice, where we—” He stopped himself, cleared his throat. “Where I grew up. The villa has been uninhabited and will take years of renovation.” He shook his head. “Much of it to fall on me, I fear.”

He hadn’t said anything about his father, or any other family for that matter, but I didn’t dare pry. “I’m sure it will be lovely, someday.” I glanced once more at the house. “The views must be spectacular, too.”

“She claims on a clear day she can see Palermo from the terrace. I do not believe her.” He smirked. “I was there yesterday. Plenty clear, and I could not see Palermo for shit.”

We were approaching the islets, and Enzo turned to the screen on his console, which displayed a sonar map.

“Where in Li Galli would you like to go?” he asked. “The depth is a bit shallow for us in some places, but we can anchor elsewhere and drift-dive our way in.”

I withdrew my phone, returning to my father’s photos. I navigated to the one with the abovewater GPS coordinates, then pointed to the sonar screen. “Can I give you some coordinates?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Even better.” He plugged in the longitude and latitude, steering the boat toward the easternmost islet.

As we approached Li Galli, I spotted a few boats, including, to my dismay, yet another coast guard vessel. Even though the rescue and recovery had been completed, I figured there was still much ahead for them, not the least of which was determining the cause of the yacht’s sinking. I wondered if they had found the voyage data recorder yet, the boat’s black box.

Enzo brought the boat to a stop, killing the engine and turning off the music. His sonar said we were at a depth of eleven meters. He dropped anchor, then put up the red-and-white Diver Down flag, meant to inform passing mariners that a diver was underwater. I kept my eye on the coast guard vessels, wondering if they would approach and ask us to leave. But after a couple of minutes, it was clear they weren’t interested in us.

We bobbed along for a bit in silence. I suspected Enzo might have been quietly paying his respects to the victims, but all I could think of was my father.

He hadn’t died here, but still, this dive site had been his last. He’d breathed in this same air, gazed out at these same tiny islets, and immersed himself in these same cold, dark waters. I felt a wave of fresh determination, a desire to fulfill what he couldn’t, but the reality of the task at hand wasn’t lost on me: I might be within meters of the loot he’d spotted, but this was the ocean. Things moved and shifted and swayed and collapsed. The sea promised nothing. It was possible my father had only spotted the gems because the silt had shifted; the gems could have very well been obscured mere hours later.

Suddenly, my phone dinged—Conrad.

Hiya, kid , he’d texted. Gage said you two talked. Hell of a change in plans, isn’t it? But we need to keep you out of harm’s way. Your dad would want that.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered to myself. I suddenly hated his pet name for me, kid .

His comment about my dad’s wishes didn’t sit well, either. Would my dad indeed have wanted me off the project? Or would he have trusted me to handle the tumultuous waters? I couldn’t decide.

Enzo turned to me. “Did you say something?”

“Sorry, nothing,” I said, as another text buzzed.

We need to go over the site plan , Conrad said. Lunch tomorrow, after I land?

I hammered away at my phone’s keyboard. Busy , I said. Then I silenced my phone and threw it down on the seat next to me.

Wet suits on, we donned the rest of our gear. It wasn’t the most glamorous of getups, especially once the fins were on. We made our way toward the swim platform at the back of the boat.

“ Andiamo ,” I said. “Ready?”

“After you,” he replied, his voice nasally, thanks to the dive mask. I couldn’t help but laugh at the youthful look of exhilaration in his eyes. After years of working with subdued divers of the academic sort, Enzo’s energy and playfulness were refreshing.

I stepped off the platform. A moment later, I shrieked, cold water instantly flooding the foam pores of the wet suit. It would take a few minutes for my body heat to warm the innermost layer of water within the suit, but even then, wet suits didn’t keep you warm , they just made cold water feel slightly less miserable. Slightly.

After Enzo had jumped in beside me, we exchanged the Okay sign and began to descend. Instantly, I was disappointed: I’d expected a few meters of good visibility at the very least, but the plankton and floating sediment were so dense I could hardly make out Enzo’s form. I scrubbed the outside of my mask with my finger. I’d forgotten to spray it with antifogger before jumping in, but I realized now it hardly mattered.

I stayed close to Enzo, so close I could nearly touch him with my arm extended. The cold, murky water was unnerving. Still, I gave Enzo the Thumbs-down signal, indicating I wanted to keep descending. We were only a few meters deep, and because plankton liked to hover at the ocean’s surface, it was possible the water would be clearer once we went deeper. Unfortunately, deeper also meant colder, so we’d be trading one inconvenience for another.

We descended quickly, and I felt Enzo’s hand reach for mine. We might have merely clasped hands, but instead, I intertwined my fingers in his.

The visibility improved somewhat, and soon I could make out the hazy seafloor. I pressed the inflator button on my kit to vent air into my vest, slowing my descent. Enzo did the same, and we hovered, weightless, in the dark water.

He pointed to something behind me, and I turned. Just a few meters away lay a pile of wooden boards. I began to swim for it, knowing Enzo would follow me, but upon closer inspection, I frowned. It looked like fragments of a wooden pallet, maybe made of oak. I got closer, squinting at the markings on one of the boards, which appeared to be spray paint. This was recent, then—probably something washed out to sea.

For a few minutes, we traversed a zigzag route underwater, my dive watch tracking our movements. At one point, Enzo did a couple of somersaults next to me, his eyes wide in delight. I couldn’t resist, and I did one, too, relishing the little flip in my belly. I hadn’t done an underwater somersault in years. And certainly never on a research dive while under the watchful eye of colleagues.

We explored a few other debris piles but found nothing interesting or even very old. Knowing we were right below the coordinates of my father’s abovewater photo, I couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of disappointment.

I reminded myself that this dive was about acclimation, nothing more. Besides, according to my watch, we’d only covered an area the size of a tennis court.

I began to tremble, the chill of the water no longer tolerable. I would need to ask Enzo about a thicker wet suit for future dives. We swam back to our starting point, and I gave Enzo the Thumbs-up signal to ascend. Together, once again holding hands, we made our way up, doing a brief safety stop before breaching the surface. My dive watch showed we’d been under for only twenty-two minutes, and the water temperature had gone as low as the midfifties. I’d used a lot of air, too, on account of my nerves and trying to retain body heat.

If these conditions held up, the search for my father’s discovery could be brutal, indeed.

Back on the boat, Enzo and I removed our wet suits. With goose bumps and chattering teeth, I wasn’t disappointed when he stepped up behind me with a dry towel and draped it around my shoulders, letting his hands linger a moment. Nor was I disappointed when he retrieved a thermos of hot caffè amaretto from the center console.

“Not a popular drink with most summer tourists,” he said, handing me the thermos. “But then again, most of them aren’t diving to the bottom of the Tyrrhenian Sea.”

I took a long drink, and my teeth ceased their chattering in an instant. “Thank you,” I said, leaning my head back, letting the sun warm my forehead. I still had goosebumps. “That was…cold. Like, fucking cold .”

He laughed. “Good for your circulation,” he said, taking a drink himself.

“Do you have a thicker wet suit at the shop?”

“Of course.” He ran the back of his hand over his lips. “When do you want to go back out?”

“When would work for you?” I asked, somewhat sheepishly. I hated to overstep; Enzo had been incredibly generous so far.

“Tomorrow morning? Tomorrow afternoon? I don’t get into the water enough. Any excuse I can find…”

“Either would be great,” I said. “Either or both. I’d feel guilty asking, but given your somersaults, it’s clear you were having a good time down there.”

“Of course,” he said. “I don’t take anything too seriously, Haven. I worked too hard for my business, my freedom. I want to enjoy it.”

Using his towel as a cover, he slipped off his wet swim trunks, replacing them with a dry pair. He turned the music back on and took a seat next to me. “Did you bring a change of clothes? There’s a small cabin, and bathroom, below.”

With so much on my mind, I’d completely neglected to bring something to change into. “I forgot,” I said. “I’ll warm up on my walk to my villa, though. More than four hundred stairs. I counted.” I handed the thermos back to him, our fingers brushing.

He paused a moment, his cheeks flushing. “Could I take you to dinner later?”

Given my streak of bad dates with fellow scuba divers, I nearly said no . But nothing about Enzo reminded me of my previous dates, what with their seriousness and preoccupation with academia. On the contrary, Enzo was doing somersaults and whipping out thermoses of spiked coffee.

“Yes,” I said, eyeing his lips as he took another long drink. “I’d love that.”

“ Bene .” By the expression on his face, I thought him pleasantly surprised I’d accepted. “Seafood? Pizza? Mascarpone gelato?”

“All of the above.” I checked my watch; it wasn’t even five thirty. “I’ll just clean up, then meet you wherever you’d like.”

“Excellent.” He passed me the thermos once more, then reached for his phone and sighed loudly.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My mother, again. She broke her key inside one of the exterior locks.” He made for the console and turned on the engines. “Don’t tell her I said this, but sometimes she frustrates me to no end. The Jet Ski battery she asked me to fix earlier? I could find nothing wrong with it. It started right up.” He turned to face me. “The villa, though, it’s something else. Any interest in seeing it before dinner?”

I widened my eyes. “Your mother won’t mind a visitor?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, not one bit. She loves showing it off. It has a belvedere terrace unlike anything you’ll find in town. We can hop on my scooter, swing by your place to change, then head that way. Maybe have an aperitif while we’re there?”

It sounded divine. And when else might such an opportunity present itself? “I’d love to see it,” I said.

With a nod, Enzo flipped the music back on and put the boat into gear. Already, the hot amaretto had left me feeling light, giddy.

But as he drove us back to shore, I gazed upward at his mother’s villa, high on its hilltop, overlooking the ocean. I was sure I spotted someone standing on the terrace, looking toward Li Galli. Another chill came over me, and I wrapped my towel more tightly around my shoulders, forcing my gaze away.