Free The Dreamer by May Nicole Abbey Page A

approach of land, isn’t it? What is the problem, Captain? Don’t you like shore?”
    “You’re mistaken Rachel, as usual.”
    “I’m pretty sure I’m right, Captain. You should have seen the look on your face when I said it. You looked startled and a little afraid. I think I’m right, yet I don’t know what you should be apprehensive about. I should think you’d be relieved to be finished after a long journey, to finally return home and be able to rest. You certainly don’t act like the ship is your favorite place. So why should you be unhappy to find it come to an end.”
    He looked out to sea, ignoring me now. But I wasn’t fooled. His ears were perked, his posture defensive.
    I thought about it. “It can’t be because you’ll miss your crew. You aren’t exactly on the best terms with them. And Finley is definitely a permanent fixture in your life, so it can’t be that. You’ve no family on the other side of the ocean. And you’re home here. You are clearly English. If you’ll allow me, a psychological evaluation would — ”
    He suddenly turned. “Would you stop talking like that,” he demanded.
    I blinked in surprise.
    “There you go again. You’re unintelligible. You speak as though you’re not even human, like you’re just studying us from afar. You changed for a while, and I thought … I hoped ….” He stopped momentarily and then shook his head. “But here you are once more, worse than ever.”
    I opened my mouth but the words came with difficulty. “I-I was merely … that is, I was simply trying to understand ….” I shook my head.
    The captain’s eyes widened, and I knew he regretted his outburst. His hands rose as though he were attempting to ward off an unpredictable beast. “Forget I said it, Rachel,” he begged. “Speak however you wish. For heaven’s sake, just don’t cry.”
    I laughed. “Captain, I wasn’t going to cry.”
    He lowered his hands and leaned back. “Of course not. I don’t know why I said it.”
    “Why do you say it like that?”
    “Like what?”
    “Like it’s humorous.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “I don’t see why. Women do cry. Particularly in this century.”
    “Yes, but not you .”
    There was silence, and I turned and looked out at the sea. My notes flapped in the wind, but they were safe in my grip and did not escape me. Without looking at him, I said casually, “You say that a lot, that I’m strange and different from other women. Would you prefer if I was more like the women you know?”
    “Heavens no!”
    I laughed. “You sound so alarmed. Why not? You just told me I was unintelligible.”
    “Yes, well, I don’t understand most women.” He shook his head as he looked out at the ocean. “I ran into a beehive once when I was a boy. The bees flew about my face, sharp and stinging and too quick to swat away. That’s what women are like. Especially when they talk. Little and fragile and terribly dangerous. I just don’t know how to defend myself against anything so small and hateful.”
    I was silent. He didn’t look at me, his face turned away. I couldn’t even see his profile. His posture was relaxed, but I could tell it was deliberate. “Do you feel this way about me?” I asked quietly.
    He frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. “It’s true you speak quickly, like other women, and I very seldom understand you, either. But you’re different. Your tone, your expression is … almost masculine.”
    “Masculine!”
    “Yes. You aren’t offended or shocked by our seafaring ways. In fact, sometimes you hardly seem aware of us at all. I suspect you view us more as useful instruments than actual men.”
    “And this pleases you?” I asked in horror.
    “I don’t mind. In fact, I probably prefer it. As your eyes never stop darting from one thing to another, and you always seem to run out of breath before finishing a sentence ….” He stopped and said nothing more.
    I looked out at the horizon, too. However, I could not quite