Read The Last Will of Moira Leahy for Free Online Page A

go back? Maybe a storm’s coming.”
Poppy didn’t answer. His face looked funny, like it was coated in chalk. Moira watched, horrified, as he slumped against the side of the boat, then fell, headfirst, into the sea. The boat lurched on a splash.
“Poppy!” she screamed, as his body bobbed to the surface, his face framed in the sun-faded life preserver she’d teased him into wearing. His eyes were closed. He didn’t speak, didn’t move except with the waves. Moira’s mind felt suspended, too, as she drifted away from him.
She had to turn, or Poppy would be lost to fog and sea.
Her hands had just begun to follow her brain’s orders when a strong gust hit. The boom moved, the boat leaned, her hair flew into her eyes. She grabbed the jib sheet, uncleated it. It luffed, blaring in the wind, but the boat stabilized.
“Poppy! Wake up!” His shape grew smaller behind her as panic beat hard and painful in her chest.
She lunged for the tiller. This had never been her job, but she’d seen it done, knew the steps: Haul in the jib, cleat it tight, push the tiller, haul in on the mainsheet . The boat began to turn and tip slightly. She muttered steps—“turn into the current, adjust the mainsheet”—and tried to keep her eyes on the wind vane and Poppy both.
He lay far to the left of her. She couldn’t get to him in a straight line; she’d pull closer in one direction and move farther away in another as minutes lapsed. She battled frustration as she worked. Imagine the line between you, pull as close as you can this way, uncleat the jib . It seemed to take forever, and when she thought she was close, she braced herself to come about. Push the tiller away —she ducked under the boom— trim the main sheet, move the jib, cleat it . The boat turned for the last time.
Poppy floated in front of her now, and the boat moved forward, closer … closer. A wave covered her gloved fingers as she leaned, reached beyond the boat—
“Poppy!” She grabbed his life jacket, but it caught halfway down his arms, the straps unfastened. She made fists in his shirt and hair instead, and pulled his body against the boat. With a glance back at the wind vane, she maneuvered them enough to point the boat into the wind. The sails stalled. The jib flapped deafeningly as it lost air. The liberated lines jumped and pinged against the mast, and the boat stilled.
Moira hugged Poppy’s body and sobbed. His chest moved—he breathed—but his skin felt like ice and his lips were blue. She knew she had to get him out of the water, but his heavy body, covered in layers of soaked clothes, lifted only a little when she tucked her arms under his and pulled. The boat leaned when she tried again, straining as hard as she could, but he barely moved with her efforts. She stopped, panting, and the boat settled back into the sea.
“Help! Can anyone hear me?” she shouted. “Is anyone there?” Only the wind shrieked in response, and the boat pitched dangerously with the hard gust. Moira reached a hand toward the sail but wasn’t fast enough. The vessel tipped.
Her lungs seemed to deflate as she hit the frigid water. She gasped in shallow breaths, coughed, kicked. Somehow her hands found what they needed: her grandfather, the boat. Her fingers slid on the slimy underside of the craft as she tried to right it. Failed. She grabbed some floating line, managed to wrap it around Poppy and her own wrist to make a clumsy knot.
“Help! Please, someone, help us!” Her voice jangled like bones in their sockets as the sea slapped and sucked against the inside of the boat. She’d never felt more alone.
Time slurred until she heard a noise that was not the sea. Help . She could not holler or even raise her arm to wave. She tried to pinpoint the source and couldn’t. She no longer felt the cold; her body no longer shivered. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt heavy with the sting of salt as she drifted in the dark space behind her eyelids.
SHE WOKE IN an