Unforgettable by Caroline B. Cooney

Author:Caroline B. Cooney [Cooney, Caroline B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-4262-7
Publisher: Open Road Media Teen & Tween
Published: 2013-09-27T02:18:00+00:00

Chapter 8

SUSAN’S MOUTH ACHED. SHE felt like a beauty queen who had been smiling for days. But she had finally gotten most of the tape off her mouth. What a relief to be able to suck in lots of air at one time! Not have that horrible sense that if she coughed or panicked, she might suffocate.

It turned out there was such a thing as momentary amnesia, either from shock or physical trauma. Like Hope, she had been too stunned by events to pull her mind into gear.

Susan could not remember being brought here. She assumed they had chloroformed her, a possibility she knew only from old movies. Carrying her on board, they probably explained to people that she was a drunk guest. Probably everybody had laughed, knowing what drunken guests were like.

Susan was not laughing.

She did physical things, centering herself: it was like yoga, except she was removing blindfolds and tape instead of reaching meditative positions.

They were talking now, she and the woman she could not see.

They were both prisoners. And the rolling sensation she had never experienced was water; they were on board a boat.

Susan could find nothing in it: no facts, no understanding, no clues, and, most horribly of all, no hope.

“But what,” said Susan, “is going on?”

“We’re going to die,” said the woman on the bunk opposite.

Soft warm leather, like doeskin, the color of alpine reindeer, lined the limousine. She stroked it, and then held herself still, wondering if the chauffeur would really take them to the hotel.

Mr. Senneth became involved with his Powerbook, fingers barely lifting as they typed. Kaytha fondled an old-fashioned ivory hair comb she had taken from her purse.

The dark glass windows of the limousine removed them from the rest of the world as sunglasses separate one’s eyes from the crowd’s. The interior seemed timeless, placeless. And she herself, nameless. Faceless.

She was a person literally along for the ride, and then, unexpectedly, the ride ended. She realized that she had not thought she would ever see The Jayquith again.

Doormen sprang forward, opening doors with a flourish. It would be fun, momentarily, at least, to strut in such gaudy uniforms. The Senneths, however, did not enter The Jayquith.

Mr. Senneth took Hope’s elbow, elegantly, as if escorting her to her chair at a banquet. “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “We’re just going to the boat instead.”

“The boat?” she repeated.

“We’ll be more private on the boat.”

“Boat” conjured up some little dinghy; some unstable wooden thing banging up against an old sagging deck.

They walked across the plaza, past the wagon where someone else sold T-shirts, past the history guides and the hotdog vendors. Past the commuter boat, past the wedding-for-hire boat, past a trim little sailboat tied up so the owners could have dinner at one of the wharf restaurants, and up to a magnificent private motor yacht.

The Lady Hope. A truly serious yacht. So feminine. No wonder they called boats “she.” So graceful you wanted to take her dancing. Long curving lines and sleekly rising cabins.

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