At Sea


 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1: 2014
 Chapter 2: 2008
 Chapter 3: 2014
 Chapter 4: 2008
 Chapter 5: 2014
 Chapter 6: 2008
 Chapter 7: 2014
 Chapter 8: 2008
 Chapter 9: 2014
 Chapter 10: 2008
 Chapter 11: 2014
 Chapter 12: 2008
 Chapter 13: 2014
 Chapter 14: 2009
 Chapter 15: 2014
 Chapter 16: 2009
 Chapter 17: 2014
 Chapter 18: 2009
 Chapter 19: 2011
 Chapter 20: 2014
 Acknowledgments
 Reader’s Guide
 About the Author
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Start of Content
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Copyright
 
 
 
 
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 “A haunting, genre-defying novel.”
 —Mary Beth Keane, New York Times bestselling author of Ask Again, Yes
 At Sea
 A Novel
 Emma Fedor
 
 
 
 
 
 For Mom and Dad
 
 
 2014
 Cara keeps her books in her car. Not all of them, just the ones she doesn’t want her husband to find: an epic sci-fi novel about an underwater civilization; an Australian scientist’s account on the future of marine exploration; a collection of Japanese folktales involving the ningyo, a human, fishlike creature. Her favorite, a memoir by a record-setting female free diver, slides out from under the passenger seat as she slams on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a mother with a stroller. Cara closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and pushes the book back out of sight before continuing on down Basin Road.
 She knows it’s only a matter of time before Graham discovers it, this oddball collection of aquatic literature she’s acquired over the years, but she’s ready with an explanation. It’s research, she will say. For my paintings.
 When she gets out of the car, the water is at midtide, the currents still making up their minds which way to pull. Green seaweed clings to the sides of dock posts like wet hair. Barnacles fizz and gasp at exposure to the open air. In a few hours the water will rise to its peak, eclipsing the lingering smell of ocean rot. The winds have not picked up yet. A light breeze starts to awaken flags on ships, docks, and grassy seaside lawns.
 Cara sees Tashtego, Dean’s box-headed yellow Lab, before she sees Dean. His boat is in its usual spot, rhythmically bumping up against the water-swollen green posts of the Menemsha fishing docks. A larger boat has just pulled into the next slip over, drawing clusters of early-season tourists with hopeful delusions of seeing giant, iridescent blue-bodied tuna unloaded from below the ship’s decks. They’re disappointed when the catch turns out to be nothing more than a few icy crates of fluke.
 Cara scratches behind Tashtego’s ears and pulls herself aboard the Incredible Hull, cooing and baby-talking with the dog as a means of announcing her presence. The salt and oil of Tashtego’s hair makes her hands smell. The deck is covered in a soup of fish scales, rusty water, and earwigs. Dean emerges from the cabin, wiping his hands with a blackened rag. He nods at Cara and offers a tight-lipped smile.
 “Looks like Bette and Claude just brought in a nice haul of flounder,” she says.
 Dean squints, eyes ice-blue and sharp, over at the docks and adjusts his ball cap. The deep creases across his forehead and stubble on his cheeks betray the years he has spent out on the water as a boat captain. He is strong and lean, but walks with a limp.
 “Good for them,” he says. “Only been out a few days. Bitin’ must have been good.”
 Cara smiles, but lets the topic drop there. “I got your message,” she says. “Everything okay?”
 She burrows her fingers deep into the back pockets of her jeans and rocks forward on her toes, pushing her hips up in a casual stretch. She avoids eye contact, working hard not to disclose any sign of hope or expectation. He probably just wants to offer her first dibs at a fresh catch, she thinks. Or maybe he’s found something that might be of use to her at the gallery.
 “C’mon,” says Dean. “Let’s go