The kitchen of Santori's was as raucous and spirited as the Italian family that owned the landmark restaurant in Boston's North End. Ava Santori didn't even hear the shout of her teenage cousin over the din until a hint of panic shuddered in the girl's voice.

"Ava! You have a long-distance call on three!"

Marone! Ava bit back the Italian curse and continued chopping. "Is it urgent, Mia? I'm a little swamped right now."

Surely Mia had inherited the good sense to know a packed dining room at twelve-thirty on a Friday meant take pity and take a message.

"Uh, well, yes, Ava. I'd say this is urgent."

She looked up, the knife suspended midchop.

Mia's green eyes were wide and insistent. "You need to take this call."

With a rueful glance at the remaining shallots, Ava dropped the knife. She dodged a sauté pan being passed by a sous-chef from stove to oven. Over the sizzle of a sudden flambé, she shouted, "Who is it?"

"It's" -- a stock pot clattered in the prep sink -- "Marco."

Every drop of blood drained from Ava's head, down through her body, down to her soul. Marco. Her brother. It had been five years since she'd heard his voice. She steadied herself by gripping the edge of the stainless steel counter.

"Go back to the front, hon. Get Nicky to cover the last few orders for me."

Ava wiped shaking hands on her chef's apron and left the chaos for the back office.

Marco. The missing piece of her life. Finally, the moment, the call. The forgiveness she'd fantasized about for so many years.

She stared at the flashing yellow light on line three with a mix of hope and fear. What could she say to her little brother? Marco, honey, I love you and I miss you and I'm so sorry...

An intense shudder shook her whole body, and she lifted the receiver, unable to wipe the smile that came from her heart.

"Marco." She savored the utter contentment of lingering over both syllables of his name. At last.

"Uh, no. This is Captain Donald Taylor with the United States Coast Guard."

The free fall of disappointment forced her to close her eyes.

"I'm trying to reach Marco Santori's closest relative," the caller continued. "Would that be you, ma'am?"

Closest relative? Mama wouldn't be back for hours, and her father was in New York, taping his TV show. She cleared her throat, her eyes still closed. "I'm Marco's sister, Ava Santori. What do you need?"

"Miss Santori, I have the unenviable task of calling to deliver some bad news."

Nicky barked an order in the kitchen and someone swore. Reaching across the tiny office, she shoved the door closed.

Please, Mary, Mother of God, not Marco. She fell into a seat, tears threatening, waiting for the words.

"You may have heard that a category five hurricane destroyed most of the island of Grenada a few days ago."

A hurricane. The Coast Guard. Where on earth was this going? She tried to think. "Yes. Yes. A storm that hit Grenada or Trinidad or some such island." A faint newsreel of destroyed shanties and flattened palm trees flashed in her mind.

"Your brother's ship was caught in that hurricane, ma'am."

"His ship?" What in God's name was Marco doing on a ship?

"The Paradisio, ma'am, one of Utopia Adventures' passenger sailing ships. Marco Santori was her second mate."

Marco, a sailor? It seemed preposterous. It must be a mistake. But then, five long years had gone by since a nineteen-year-old boy slipped out the back door of Santori's on a winter night amid his mother's tears and his father's angry diatribes. He could have done anything with his life.

"We've been conducting an extensive search and rescue operation for the past four days that will go on for three weeks or until we find the ship or debris," he continued in a somber tone. "But we haven't recovered any materials or men. As of this morning, we have officially classified your brother and the rest of the crew as presumed dead. I'm sorry, Miss Santori."

Presumed dead.

The sob started from deep inside her gut and swallowed her whole. Marco was gone. She would never, ever see his teasing brown eyes or hear him call her Avel Navel. Her baby brother, the risk taker, the thrill seeker, the bad-to-the-bone boy she adored had ended up on some boat in the Caribbean Sea, and her fear and cowardice had kept her from even knowing that he could sail. She wanted to scream.

"We've got about a hundred men on the search effort, ma'am. And Utopia's hired a cadre of private divers and aircraft..."

She didn't hear what else he said, regret filled her mouth and turned her stomach.

"How... how did you find us?"

"Utopia's personnel records, ma'am." He sounded surprised at the question. "Your family is listed as next of kin."

Could there be any more sickening words in the English language? Next of kin. It implied a closeness, a kinship. The right to mourn. Ava swallowed hard.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions, ma'am. And you probably need some time with your family. Let me give you my number and I'll be happy to provide you with a status of the search effort."

She reached for a pen with shaking hands.

"Oh, and ma'am, you might be getting some calls from the media. The announcement of the shipwreck was just formally released and it's going to be news. Be prepared."

She had to tell her mother. Dear God, she had to tell Dominic.

"And, well, this is not really my area, but it only seems fair to warn you," he continued. "I understand some attorneys are contacting the victims' families already. There will be settlements and the inevitable lawsuits. Sorry, ma'am. It seems harsh at a difficult time like this."

She barely heard him. She was still imagining what Dominic would say upon learning that his only son, banished by his own edict, was dead. Presumed dead.

"Excuse me, Mister -- Captain. But, are you sure? Is there any chance he's alive?"

His hesitation filled Ava with hope. But hope turned to dread as the silence dragged on.

"Is there?" She heard the imploring, insisting note in her voice.

"This storm killed about four hundred people on Grenada. At sea, a two-hundred-foot ship wouldn't stand much of a chance in waves the size of six-story buildings. We're looking for bodies, Miss Santori, not survivors. I'm so sorry. Really I am. You can call me or anyone in my office with questions and, like I said, we'll be informing you if we find anything at all."

"Wait a second." Her focus started to return and reason rose to the top. Hurricanes were on the Weather Channel for days before they hit anywhere. "What was a two-hundred-foot sailboat doing in a hurricane? Didn't they know it was coming? Why would they sail right into a storm?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, ma'am."

Copyright © 2003 by Roxanne St. Claire