The downside of living with an introverted, solitary, melancholy-millionaire is that he has a boat he doesn't board unless I go with him. A boat he never takes out, maintained with the detachment of someone who doesn't know how to relax and therefore gets little value from.
On the upside I have discovered the engine room on the boat is the perfect place to hide. No wonder they freak out and consider me drowned in the sea every time they can't find me. I leave messages for the kids. I don't for the adults. Ruth sometimes brings her sketchbooks down and spreads out on deck with her charcoal and headphones. Henry plays video games in the salon.
Not sure what the fuss is. If we still had a treehouse I'd be in that instead. The boat is as close to a treehouse as we will get here.
Because bears.
I had all of the upholstery and linens changed from their bland gold and tan to a lovely stormy dark blue. It's an indescribable North Atlantic blue, grey-navy, smoky rich. Cool dark tealish color. Cole's eyes.
It looks so much better. Sometimes I think this is my toy instead of his.
And that's fine.
Maybe one of these days I'll take her out but our cove is tiny and this would be the equivalent of parking Ben's F350 on a postage stamp for me.
(I can't park his truck, when I go somewhere I use a space at the end of a parking lot and walk for miles and when I get home I leave it idling in the center of the driveway and someone comes out and deals with it.
But I can deal with leading the custom upholstery people down to the boat and then collect them again to inspect the job and furnish their departure. I'm good with details and terrible with big pictures. I paid a fortune in extra fees because instead of bringing the boat to them, I had them brought to me. This boat is a waste of money.
As is his costly personal assistant who barely speaks to him.
On the upside I have a beautiful hiding place. Her name? Neamhchiontach. Just like me.
