After the Ocean

by Lauren E. Rico

Genres: Hispanic & Latino

Synopsis

How do you find your way back when you’ve left yourself behind?

A painful unsolved mystery resurfaces after decades of confusion, sending one woman and her daughters on a journey of redemption in this emotional story about intergenerational trauma, family, and the beauty of Puerto Rico for fans of Nina LaCour, Xochitl Gonzalez, Elizabeth Acevedo, Jodi Picoult, Celeste Ng, and Julia Alvarez.

Thirty years ago, musicians Emilia Oliveras and Paul Winstead were married in Puerto Rico. Forty-eight hours later, Paul vanished from their honeymoon cruise, leaving Emilia devastated—and the prime suspect in his disappearance. So, she ran for her life, leaving behind her love, her dreams, and her identity.

Today “Emily Oliver” is a divorced music teacher and mother of two daughters who know nothing about her past: Gracie, a talented attorney who excels in the courtroom but grapples with personal relationships, and Meg, a gifted concert pianist who wrestles with her ambition and purpose.

When a cryptic caller claims the unthinkable—that Paul is alive, Emily returns to Puerto Rico in search of the truth. What she doesn’t know is that her daughters aren’t far behind. Shocked to find their mother isn’t the woman they thought she was, Gracie and Meg wonder how much of their lives have been a lie.

As the paths of the three women intertwine, they are compelled to confront their pasts, reevaluate their relationships, and seek forgiveness. Together they embark on a quest to unravel the mystery of Paul’s disappearance and redefine their futures on their own terms, navigating a maze of family ties, secrets, and redemption.

“Lauren Rico's absorbing story touches upon social injustices and moral ambiguities, but at its heart, After the Ocean is a poignant reminder that healing cannot begin without truth and forgiveness." —Jamie Beck, Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author

“A vivid tale of love, power, family, secrets, and the power of music. I was completely swept away by the characters and their emotional journeys.” —Ellen Meister, author of Divorce Towers

Release date: December 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Sleep was not as restful as Emilia had hoped. Again and again, the bloated corpses of her ugly past floated up to the surface, proving that no matter how deep you bury a body, it can find its way out of the grave at any time. It went like this all day long, first burning with fever, then shivering with cold until she finally woke to find moonlight streaming through the sliding glass door on the opposite wall of the cabin.

How long had she been asleep?

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and, using the nightstand to brace herself, managed to get to her feet without crumpling to the floor. Suddenly the small space felt oppressively stuffy and stale. Desperate for some fresh air, she took small, careful steps across the carpeted floor until she reached the balcony door. She was grateful when it slid open with little effort and even more grateful when the warm, salty breeze rushed in around her. It brushed her skin and blew through her sweat-dampened hair.

“Oh, God, that’s good,” she murmured to herself as she stepped all the way out and put both hands on the rail, tipping back her head and inhaling deeply.

Emilia repeated the process until, at last, the fog started to clear from her mind. Bits and pieces of the day began to float back into her consciousness. The last time she could recall being awake was sometime in the late afternoon, when she had gotten up to use the bathroom and splash some water on her face. They’d still been docked in San Juan then.

They weren’t now, though. In fact, the ship appeared to be out to sea, moving at a good clip as it sliced across the waves. If it weren’t for the winking reflection of the moonlight on the water, there would be nothing but blackness as far as the eye could see.

Turning her back on the water, she pivoted a little too quickly and had to use the handrail to steady herself before continuing back into the cabin. “Paul?” Her voice sounded small and tentative in the silent space. When there was no reply, she tried again a little louder. “Paul? Are you here?”

Nothing.

Okay, she wasn’t going to panic. She’d learned the hard way that it was a useless emotion that only served to make a bad situation worse. Dangerous, even. Panicked people made knee-jerk reactions or worse, they made no decisions at all—too overwhelmed by a potent cocktail of terror, anxiety, and indecision to do anything but stand there in the middle of the road and watch the eighteen-wheeler bear down on them at ninety miles an hour. Panic turned even the fiercest creature from predator into prey. She would not panic.

She started to flip light switches, taking a good look around for any sign her husband had returned at some point while she was sleeping. But everything was exactly as it had been earlier—the half-drunk glass of water beside the bed, the open suitcase against the wall, his cello perched in the corner. And there was her watch, a custom timepiece made to look like the interior of a piano with real, tiny strings. It was a wedding gift from Paul, and she’d spent a good bit of yesterday marveling at its intricate beauty. Right now, though, it was nothing more than a means to an end—a way to assess just how concerned she should be by her husband’s absence.

It was 10:34 p.m.

She sucked in an involuntary breath and closed her eyes for a moment.

“Focus, Emilia, focus,” she willed herself.

If she was going to figure out what was going on, she’d have to stay calm and think clearly, despite the fact that she felt like utter crap. Right now she needed help—she needed to talk to someone. So she traded the nightgown for a wrinkled sundress, threw her tangled hair up into a passable bun, and left their cabin for the first time in more than twelve hours. She was grateful to find that the elevator was empty but the information desk was not. An older woman with a smart blunt cut in a silver-gray smiled as she approached.

“Good evening, miss! My name is Greta. How may I help you this evening?”

“Hello,” Emilia began quietly, not wanting anyone to overhear their conversation. “I’m hoping you can help me with something . . .”

“Of course!” Greta jumped in, quite eager to be of assistance.

“Right. Well, I think . . . my husband, he seems to be . . . missing. And I’m wondering if it’s possible he . . . was left behind . . . in San Juan somehow?”

If Greta was especially concerned or surprised by this question, there was no indication of it on her face. Based on her placating smile, you’d think she dealt with this specific issue at least ten times a day, every day.

“Alright then,” she said, turning to a boxy computer setup next to her on the counter. “May I please have your name and cabin?”

“Emilia Winstead, 1623. My husband is Paul. Paul Winstead.”

Greta nodded as she keyed the information in. After a few seconds, she looked up at her again, frowning.

“In 1623, I have a Mr. Paul Winstead and a Miss Emilia Oliveras. Is that you, Emilia Oliveras?”

“Yes . . . I mean no . . .” Emilia paused for a beat before starting again. “Oliveras is my maiden name. We were married two days ago, and there was no time to get an updated passport before we left.”

“Ah, okay. That makes sense then. So, Miss Oliveras—”

“Mrs. Winstead,” she corrected.

She didn’t know why this particular point was bothering her. Maybe because she’d waited so long to be rid of her name; to get a fresh start. And now she finally had, and it was as if it never happened.

Greta’s indifferent smile didn’t dim a single watt.

“Right. So, may I ask what makes you think he’s missing?”

Emilia wanted to be as clear as possible, which was difficult, considering how unclear her thoughts were. She just had to stick to the basic facts.

“My husband disembarked at Old San Juan this morning at ten thirty,” she began. “I stayed behind in bed because I wasn’t feeling well. At some point during the day, I started to run a fever, and I was in and out of sleep all day. It was only about a half hour ago that I finally felt well enough to get out of bed, and he still wasn’t back. There were no signs that he’d been back, either. So I . . . I think maybe he never got back on the boat.”

The older woman nodded through all this, then leaned forward across the counter.

“Well, the truth is that passengers do get left behind from time to time,” she said in a softer voice. “And when that happens, we are briefed so we can help with any arrangements that might need to be made in order to get that person on—or their companion off—at the next port.” Greta reached over and tapped her computer monitor. “Now, I have the most up-to-date information right here, and I can tell you there has been no such event reported today. So you needn’t worry; Mr. Winstead is somewhere on this ship.”

The woman seemed to be so confident that Emilia allowed herself to be relieved, but just for a few seconds. Because that’s all it took for her instincts to kick in. It didn’t make sense. If Paul really had returned from San Juan, then where had he been? What had he been doing all these hours? More importantly, where was he right now? Her concerns must have played out across her face, because Greta patted her forearm, which was resting on the counter.

“Please try not to worry. When couples travel, it’s very common for one or the other to stop for a quick drink, or to throw a few dollars on the blackjack table. Also keep in mind that people are quick to make friends on these trips! They start to chat, become engaged in a conversation, maybe have a cocktail and simply lose track of time. I assure you, the odds are much higher that Mr. Winstead is sitting in the sports lounge watching a game than that he’s back in San Juan. Now . . .”

The woman stepped back to scan something that was stashed underneath her work station. A moment later, she pulled up a glossy pamphlet, flipping it open before she grabbed a bright yellow highlighter and began marking it up. When she was done, she handed it to Emilia with a smile.

“There now, Miss Oliveras. This is a deck-by-deck diagram of the boat, so you can check some of the popular common areas like the lounges, the theatres, the pools, that sort of thing. Maybe even the late-night buffets? I’ve marked them all off for you. It’s just after eleven, and I’m going to suggest you give it another two hours. If you haven’t heard from him by then, you can just come back down here, and we will call for the security officer on duty.” The woman stood up straight once more and smiled brightly—clearly proud of herself. “And there we have a plan!” she declared, as if she’d just cured cancer and reversed global warming in one pretty package with a big red bow on top.

If she didn’t think it might split her head wide open, Emilia would have laughed. Was this lady actually suggesting she go off on a one-woman pub crawl/scavenger hunt?

Where’s Pauldo?

Thirty Years Ago

The Wagon Wheel lounge was the fourth of the cruise ship’s twenty-plus bars that Emilia had circled through in the half hour. The others had been smaller and easier to scan. Not this one. The music was loud, and the cigarette smoke was thick. A country-and-western band was set up on a small stage at the far end of the room, playing for a crowd of rowdy two-steppers.

She squinted, trying to distinguish one fake cowboy from the next in search of anyone who bore even a passing resemblance to Paul. Too old, too short, too bald . . . none of them came close. Of course, she knew this was a ridiculous exercise. Paul would never be here or at any other bar at this hour.

“Something to drink, miss?”

Emilia jumped a little when the question interrupted her thoughts, and she wondered how long she’d been hovering there with one hand on the lacquered wooden bar top and the other on the back of a stool.

“Hmm? Oh, no, thank you—” she replied with a faint, polite smile on her face and then started to move away. That was when the sawdust-covered plank floor tilted up, and she swayed unsteadily.

Before she could process what was happening, the man’s hand was wrapped firmly around her forearm, and he was guiding her around to the front of the stool, helping her to slide up onto it.

“Here, why don’t you just sit for a spell,” he offered in a soft southern accent, pushing the seat close enough so she could lean forward and rest her elbows on the cool surface.

“Oh, wow—I’m sorry about that,” she murmured, pulling at the single button on the collar of her dress in an attempt to get some air.

“Not to worry, not to worry!” the man assured her. “Here, let me get you a cold drink . . .”

Back on his side of the counter, he used a soda gun to shoot seltzer into a tall glass, then plopped a wedge of lemon and straw in before gently sliding it across to her. Emilia was about to decline when she realized just how hot and tired she was. When was the last time she’d had anything to drink? Or eat, for that matter? No wonder the earth seemed to be moving under her feet—her blood pressure was probably through the floor.

The bartender was dressed in a well-worn cowboy hat, western shirt, and a red bandana was tied around his neck. His lasso-shaped name tag identified him as Josh.

“Thank you, Josh.”

She bent a little awkwardly at the waist toward the fizzing, spitting, bubbling beverage until her lips found the end of the straw. It felt so good on her throat, she didn’t stop until there were sucking sounds coming from under the ice cubes.

“Here, let’s just get you a refill on that . . .” Josh said, and another drink appeared in the time it took her to blink. “Better?” he asked once she’d sucked that one down, too.

She nodded.

“Yes. Really, thank you so much. I think I must be a little dehydrated.”

The man nodded his agreement.

“Yes’m. You were looking pretty pale there for a second, but I’m liking the way your cheeks are getting a little color to ’em now you’ve had a little somethin’ to drink.”

She straightened up and glanced around the room. It was humming with activity, though most of it seemed to still be over on the dance floor. Periodically a cheer went up from the other end of the bar from Emilia, where another bartender—a woman in cowgirl attire—had attracted a small crowd with her ability to juggle cocktail shakers.

“Hey, you know, I’m feeling much better. And it looks as if your partner down there is raking in some tips—I don’t want to keep you from helping other customers, Josh,” she assured the man quietly.

He scoffed and waved a dismissive hand at her.

“You’re not keeping me at all! We split the tips at the end of the night. That way one of us can rotate out to restock the glassware and maybe refill some of the garnishes like olives and whatnot—which is exactly what I was just fixin’ to do.”

Emilia’s ears perked up.

“Hey, are you . . . are you from Texas?”

The bartender beamed proudly.

“I am at that! Galveston born and raised,” he informed her proudly. “What tipped you off? The accent?”

She smiled back and shook her head.

“No . . . I mean, yes—but it was the ‘fixin’ that caught my ear. My husband’s family is from Austin, and we’ve spent some time visiting there. So I recognize the accent and some of the expressions.”

“Well, I tell ya, miss . . .”

“Emilia. Emilia Oli—Sorry, Emilia Winstead. My name is Emilia Winstead.”

He chuckled and pointed at her as if he’d caught her with a hand in the cookie jar.

“Ahhh . . . so you’re a newlywed then!”

“Is it that obvious?”

He shrugged.

“You’re still getting used to the name now, aren’t ya? And it’s a nice one at that—Mrs. Emilia Winstead. Yeah, that’s gotta real nice ring to it.”

She smiled a genuine, natural smile for the first time in hours. Even now, feeling like crap and concerned about Paul, she couldn’t hold back the little jolt of excitement that shot through her whenever she heard her new name.

“We were married in Miami two days ago,” she explained. “Then we hopped right on this cruise.”

“Well, Mrs. Emilia Winstead, I’m Josh Beaufort, drink-slingin’ cowboy. My hearty congratulations to you and your new mister! And where is the lucky son-of-a-gun anyway?”

Emilia stopped short, the smile fading from her face. Was it possible she’d actually forgotten for a few seconds there?

“Ummm . . . well, as it turns out, I’m here looking for him,” she told the man in a considerably more subdued tone. “I . . . uh . . . I can’t seem to find him . . .” She pulled the map out of her bag and set it down on the bar top. “And, actually, I really should be moving on to the next lounge now . . .”

He nodded toward the glossy booklet with a puzzled expression.

“And what, you’re making your way through all the bars looking for him?”

Emilia nodded.

“I am.” She cleared her throat, then recounted the same story she’d told Greta not half an hour ago.

He considered her as he listened thoughtfully.

“Emilia, are you sure he did get back on the boat?” Josh asked when she’d finished.

“No, honestly, I’m not. Not at all,” she said, then sighed before adding: “But Greta insisted—”

He held up his hand to stop her.

“Okay, forget about that for now. I just wanna be sure I’m clear on what you’re saying. You’re telling me that your husband, man by the name a Paul Winstead, is missing.” He pointed down at the floor. “Maybe somewhere right on this here ship?”

Emilia nodded grimly. “Yes, I—I think so.”

He let out a heavy, incredulous sigh, then stood up straight and glanced down the bar, catching the eye of a cowgirl/ bartender.

“Hey there, Jan? You mind if I take a break?”

When she gave him a thumbs-up, the man came out to the stool and offered Emilia his arm.

“Come on along then, Mrs. Winstead.”

She blinked up at him, confused.

“But where are we going?”

“To get you some help. Now.”

Emilia shifted uncomfortably in an orange resin chair. She was grateful Josh had been able to escort her down here to one of the lower decks, where the security office was located amongst the crew facilities. She wasn’t sure she could have found her way on her own.

“Don’t you worry too much, Emilia. They’ll track down your husband for you,” he told her reassuringly.

She just smiled, unable to take her eyes from the unmarked door along the back wall. The officer on duty had walked through it about fifteen minutes ago, and she’d been watching the big industrial wall clock since then, counting each and every sweep of the seconds hand around its face.

“Emilia, would you maybe like to call someone from your family?”

Her head swiveled in Josh’s direction sharply.

“What? No . . . no, that’s not necessary. I don’t . . . my mother and I haven’t spoken in a long time.”

“Okay, how about Paul’s family then—your in-laws?”

“I can manage. Really, but thanks.” Her words came out with just a bit of an edge, and he noticed.

“Are they that bad?” the bartender asked knowingly.

She looked down at her lap.

“Let’s just say they’re not my biggest fans.”

The man scoffed incredulously.

“Darlin’, I don’t know how anybody on God’s green earth could not like you. Good Lord, woman, I’ve known you for less than an hour and I already like you more than I like my own family!”

She knew he was looking for a chuckle, but the best she could muster was another weak smile.

“It’s a long story, but the upshot is they’ve got a lot of money, a lot of power. And I come from a poor, rural community in Puerto Rico. I think they had higher hopes for their son.”

He frowned.

“Are you saying your husband’s family thinks you’re . . . what? Some kinda gold digger?” he asked, sounding as if this were the most asinine thing he’d ever heard in his entire life.

Emilia nodded sadly.

Before he could comment, they heard the sound of the door opening on squeaky hinges. She was up on her feet and standing at the counter before the young crewman Rolf was completely over the threshold.

“Ah, Miss Oliveras,” he said pleasantly, with just a hint of a North European accent.

“Mrs. Winstead,” Josh reminded him from next to her.

“Oh, yes! I’m so sorry . . . again,” the crewman said with a frown. He jotted something down on a pad of paper, then looked up apologetically.

“What were you able to find out?”

“Right. Ah, well, I have confirmed what you were told upstairs, that Mr. Paul Winstead did indeed return to the ship. That was at seven forty-five p.m. So he cut it close, but he did make it.”

“Okay, great. So where is he now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if he’s been on board for the last four hours, then where is he now? And please don’t tell me the casino or clubs or midnight buffet.”

Rolf looked a bit flustered. Clearly that was exactly what he’d been about to tell her.

“You see, locating his exact movements from the time he returned from San Juan may prove to be a bit difficult . . .”

“Why’s that, Rolf?” Josh asked. “Seems to me we’ve got cameras covering every corner of this ship. One of them musta picked up something.”

The officer nodded. “It’s true, there are many, many cameras. But we’ve had a terrible time with them since we left port in Miami yesterday. Several are simply not working, and of the ones that are, the tech people have been turning them on and off as they test circuits and such. But at least we know Mr. Winstead is here somewhere; it’s just a matter of time before he turns up.”

“Unless he went overboard,” Emilia blurted.

That particular fear had been there, bobbing around in the back of her mind like a buoy. Every time she tried to push it down under the surface, it popped up again, unwilling to stay submerged.

Rolf looked horrified at the suggestion, immediately shaking his head emphatically.

“What? Oh, no. No, no,” he stressed, his white-blond brows arched high into the real estate of his forehead as he spoke. “No, that’s very unlikely, miss. Someone would have seen something. And don’t forget there are crew members walking every deck at all hours of the day and night. We have all been trained for such an occurrence . . .” The man paused, his expression morphing to concern in an instant. “Oh, Miss Oliveras—I mean Mrs. Winstead. . . . Please, please do not cry . . .”

Was she crying?

Emilia’s hand touched her face, and she felt the damp evidence streaming down her cheeks. From next to her, Josh put a loose hand across the back of her shoulders in a side hug that was respectful enough for s. . .