“In my office, yes. Let me close the door.” A moment later, Selma was back. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s about Bree.” Remi explained Sam’s concern. “Personally, I don’t think it can be true, but Sam’s right. There are just too many things that can’t be explained away. If he’s wrong, I don’t want Bree to be hurt. But if he’s right . . .”
“I understand, Mrs. Fargo. She hasn’t acted unusual, but I’ll certainly keep an eye on her.”
Having informed Selma about Sam’s concerns lifted a weight from Remi’s shoulders and she was able to concentrate on preparations for the next leg of their journey. By the time Sam called to say he was heading back to the hotel with the proper permits in hand, she had the entire trip mapped out.
Sam walked into their hotel room about an hour later, handing her a bouquet of bright sunflowers. “Apparently it’s good luck to start a trip with yellow flowers.”
“Is it?”
“Today it is. It was that or purple iris. It’s all I could find for the girl who has everything including a husband who comes up with some not-too-brilliant plans every now and then.”
She took the flowers, laid them on the table, then put her arms around Sam. “You’re always brilliant.”
“Then I’m forgiven?”
She kissed him, then leaned back and studied his face. “Would this be the right time to mention that I passed on your concerns about Bree to Selma?”
“Are you saying I’m right?”
“I’m saying your concerns are valid enough to let her know—which is not the same as making everyone think we were dead.”
“So that makes me almost right?” His brown eyes sparkled.
“Don’t push it, Fargo.”
Remi hired a car to take them to the Port of Santos to meet with the captain and the crew of the Golfinho. They stepped out of the hotel at dawn, the sky a mixture of vermillion red brushed across bright turquoise.
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
The old adage popped into her head even though she’d double- and triple-checked the weather. Light showers were predicted for later the next evening, surely nothing to be concerned about.
Their vehicle was waiting out in front, their dark-haired driver, tall and reed-thin, leaned against the front fender—like most youth, absorbed in whatever was on his phone screen. He saw them approaching and hurriedly shoved his phone in his pocket. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo?”
“We are,” Remi said, figuring he was perhaps eighteen or nineteen. “You must be António Alves?”
His smile broadened. “Thank you for hiring me. You are my first big fare. I won’t disappoint you,” he said in a thick accent, carefully pronouncing each word.
Sam, tipping the bellman who had wheeled their gear out on a cart, looked up at that statement. “I was under the impression that you were an experienced driver.”
“A good driver, yes,” he said as he took the gear from the luggage cart and loaded it into his trunk. “I make this drive all the time, even if you are my first fare to Santos. My cousin, who is concierge, will vouch for me.”
Which explained the recommendation, Remi thought.
António opened the door for her. “Plea
se. Get in and buckle up for safety.”
Sam wasn’t convinced at the young man’s professed driving skills. “You’re sure about the drive to the coast?”
António nodded. “I used to work on my uncle’s fishing boat to earn money for school. Now that I am at university, it’s easier to work in town. But no classes today, so you’re in luck!”
Remi said, “Your cousin did mention that we would need you to stand by—overnight, even—to give us a ride back?”
“Yes. I practice my English on the way and I study while you dive. A win-win, right?”
Remi liked him and his enthusiasm. “Definitely.”