Going Under (Wildfire Lake 2)

Eight now, Jazz is still the most exuberant of the three, though Poppy has overcome her shyness and, at eleven years old, occasionally matches Jazz’s zest for life. Violet is fourteen, and I’m surprised to find there isn’t anything about the teenage years I don’t love.

After a year and a half of sailing together, Ben was hooked. We flew back to Santa Barbara where it all began for an extremely small wedding shared with only those nearest and dearest to our hearts. I am blessed and loved and grateful beyond measure—every single day.

I’ve also found a whole new love outside the field of mechanics—photography. It’s given me a fresh way to look at our travel, at our family, and even at myself. This hobby has brought me a lot of joy, not to mention a decent income, which I attribute to Chloe. If it weren’t for her business sense and previous experience with a huge online following, I would never have found this path.

The girls and I entertain two million followers with travel, food, and family photos. Violet, Poppy, and Jazz each post once during the week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Jazz favors photojournalism, telling stories through a carousel of photos. Poppy offers amazing local recipes with images of both the food and the local who shared the recipe. And Violet talks about the lives of teenagers in different cultures through photographs.

My posts are filled with shots of our family during excursions or chilling on the boat. I’ve been surprised that followers enjoy my tips on homeschooling and parenting, though to be fair, most of that content comes from Ben.

Through ads and sponsorships, the girls and I make more money than I did as a marine mechanic. After doling out weekly allowances, the rest of the money is split evenly between their college funds.

Now, Jazz swings her arms, jumps from the deck, tucks, and flips, hitting the water feet first. When she surfaces, grinning, her sisters hold up their fingers in a count, indicating a rating between one and ten, much like the Olympics.

“Seven?” Jazz says to Poppy, who’s always the most critical judge. “That was so totally at least a nine.”

She swims to the platform on the back of the cat and makes her way up to the deck, then it’s Poppy’s turn.

Before Ben took this temporary position, we’d been exploring the Adriatic Sea, stopping in Albania, Montenegro, and Croatia, then heading down the east coast of Italy. We started in Venice and continued to Santa Maria di Leuca, at the very tip of the heel of Italy’s landscape.

That’s where I discovered I was pregnant. A thrilling surprise. After just a few months with the girls, I knew I wanted a baby of my own too.

Ben said he didn’t want us out to sea, days from a good health-care system again, until after the baby was born. Settled between countries with such rich histories and stunning beauty, I am happy to stay put and dive deeper into the local cultures.

I crouch, groaning at the weight of my baby belly, and take a series of shots as Poppy flips into the water. The girls give a rating and continue with Violet’s turn.

My watch vibrates with an incoming message from Ben. Be home in twenty. Have a surprise for everyone.

“Is that Daddy?” Jazz asks.

“Yeah. He says he has a surprise for us.” I run a hand over Jazz’s hair and look at the other girls. “I’m going to start dinner.”

The girls know to stay where I can see them, and I’ve learned to keep track of them by sound as well as sight.

Dinner is an easy platter of fish tacos, a recipe I found online that everyone loves. I’m glad Ben got back to the boat before I started cooking the fish, because he boards with a small black case, lifts it over his head, and says, “Ultrasound.”

I laugh. The girls cheer. His sandy-blond hair has developed buttery streaks from his time in the sun. He’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and his skin is tan, his smile bright.

He greets me with a kiss and a dreamy look in his eye. “Let’s see what our boy is doing in there.”

Our boy. Hearing him say that never gets old. Neither do the ultrasounds when he’s able to borrow the portable unit from the clinic.

I lie on the outdoor sofa, and the girls crowd around to look at the screen as Ben scans. He points out the baby’s face, his hands, his toes, and all of us go quiet to listen to the heartbeat.

“I think he looks like a Nicolas.” As soon as the words are out of Violet’s mouth, I smile at Ben, then roll my eyes. This is a long-standing debate—what to name their baby brother.

“I like Odysseus,” Jazz says, obviously spending too much time searching for Greek names on the internet. They’ve all decided we should name the baby in the tradition of where he’s born, though they differ on whether that should be Greece or Italy. “We can call him Odie, like the dog in the Garfield cartoon.”

“We can’t name him after a dog,” Poppy says, appalled. “We should give him an Italian name, like Giovanni.”

The baby kicks and rolls, and its beautifully bizarre to feel the movement at the same time as I’m watching it on the screen. Then the baby’s arm moves, his fingers stretch until all five show on the screen, and he puts his hand flat against his face.

Ben barks a laugh. “Look at that, I don’t think he likes any of those names.”

That makes the girls laugh, and after Ben checks the baby’s measurements and we know he’s growing at a normal rate, Ben puts the machine away. The girls all want to show Ben how their backflips have progressed and move to the deck.

Ben stays seated beside me as I sit up. I slide onto his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. “Hey,” I say, smiling. “You know how much I love you?”

“No, tell me.”