Читать книгу Overexposed - Michael Blair - Страница 10

“She’s right,” Reeny said. “I’m beginning to regret getting you involved in this.”

“What do you mean?” I said with a sniffle. We were in Pendragon’s tiny galley. I had volunteered to chop onions, which had been a mistake in such a confined space. My eyes were watering and my nose was running. Very romantic.

“I thought you knew,” she said. “I recommended you for the job. Didn’t Will tell you?”

“Uh-uh,” I said, scraping the onions into a bowl.

“Thanks,” she said, as I handed her the bowl. She added the onions to a concoction of low-fat sour cream, melted butter, and chopped fresh dill, stirred briefly, then poured the mixture over a salmon filet in a Pyrex dish. She covered the dish with a tent of aluminum foil, then slid it into the tiny oven.

Living on a boat had its appeal, but even one as large as Pendragon also had its drawbacks, such as the cramped galley, with its tiny stove and half-sized fridge. I preferred the more traditional kitchen of my house. At least Reeny had jettisoned the huge collection of books, newspapers, magazines, and journals Hastings had accumulated. Not only did it make Pendragon a good deal more liveable, she probably floated a few inches higher as well. I thought about commenting on it, if only to make conversation, but decided it would be better to leave the subject of Chris Hastings alone for now. The evening was shaping up nicely, and I didn’t want his ghost ruining things, as it had the evening before.

We ate on deck again. She talked about her work, which she made sound considerably less romantic and exciting than the general public, among which I included myself, believed. I talked about my work, which I tried without success to make sound more romantic and exciting than it was. We laughed a lot. When dinner was over, we cleared the dishes to the galley, folded away the table, and sat side by side in deck chairs, polishing off the bottle of wine and listening to the dance music drifting across the water from the boating club clubhouse, perched on stilts on the other side of Coal Harbour. Reeny’s pale, long-fingered left hand rested on the arm of her chair, just an inch or two from my right hand. It was all I could do to restrain myself from reaching over and taking it.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but my hormones were raging. I wanted to clamber up the rigging and howl at the moon. I wanted to swing down from the yardarm, sweep Reeny up in my hairy, piratical arms, and have my lusty way with her. I wanted to make frenzied, passionate love with her until dawn.

“This is nice,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she replied.

Her deck chair complained softly as she shifted sideways, folding her legs under her and half facing me. She had used some of the bright blooms from Willson Quayle’s flowers to make a smaller arrangement for the table. It now stood on the engine compartment hatch cover with the empty wine bottle up-ended in the cooler. The soft rattle and creak of rigging and the gentle lap of water against Pendragon’s hull underscored the silence between us. I became conscious of Reeny’s steady scrutiny.

“What?”

“How would you feel about taking a little trip?”

“I guess it would depend on the destination,” I said. “And the company. Why?”

“I was thinking that when we wrap up the season I’d take Pendragon south for a month or so. Or maybe into the Queen Charlotte Islands. I can’t handle her myself, but two can handle her no problem. What do you think? How’d you like to be my crew?”

“When do we leave?” I said.

“I’m serious,” she said. “I talked to Bobbi. She says you need a vacation. You’re not seeing anyone at the moment, are you? Someone who’d get upset if you spent a month alone on a sailboat with another woman?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not seeing anyone at all. And I know you’re serious. But what I know about sailing wouldn’t fill a wineglass.” That was a slight exaggeration. I’d helped Reeny move Pendragon to her winter mooring on the Fraser River, but that had taken less than a day and had been mostly under power. However, I’d never personally sailed anything larger than a twenty-five-foot day-sailer, and only in perfect weather; taking something as big as Pendragon into the open ocean scared me more than a little. Still, it was a very tempting offer. So why was I hesitating? I wasn’t sure.

“I’d like nothing better than to sail away with you,” I said.

“But?”

“Well, for one thing, my daughter may be coming to live with me for a year.”

“Bring her along. We can get a copy of the curriculum and whatever books she’d need to keep up her schooling. I taught elementary school for a couple of years before getting into acting full time. It’ll be fun. And if you’re worried about paying your way, don’t. My idea, my shout.”

“No, that’s not what’s worrying me,” I said.

“What is it, then?” Her face brightened as realization hit her. “Oh, that.” Then her face clouded. “Or am I reading you wrong?”

“Um, no, I don’t think you are. I’m just not sure I’m reading you right.”

She smiled. “The sleeping arrangements can be whatever you like. There’s plenty of room. And no need to rush into things. Personally, though, I’d prefer it if you shared the master stateroom with me. I mean, if that’s all right with you.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” Her voice was flat.

“Okay,” I said. “Um, yup, sounds fine to me.”

She chuckled. “What about your daughter? Would she be all right with it? I mean, young girls can be pretty protective of their fathers.”

“Not to worry. I think you and Hilly will get along just fine. If not, well, I’ll just throw her overboard.”

“Or me.”

“Hell, no. Who’d sail Pendragon?”

She smiled and reached for my hand.

With impeccable timing, a pair of figures appeared on the dock by Pendragon’s gangway: a squat, bald-headed man and sharp-featured woman with enough teased, hennaed hair for the both of them. He wore a rumpled suit and she wore skin-tight jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. They exchanged looks, then climbed aboard and stepped onto the afterdeck. I stood up to confront them.

“It’s customary to ask permission before boarding someone’s boat,” I said.

“Izzat right?” the man said with an unfriendly smile. He was inches shorter than I was, but sturdy and hard-looking. Turning to the woman, he said, “Y’hear that, Jackie? We gotta ask permission before comin’ onto our own boat.”

“Imagine,” she said, stainless steel studs of her jacket glinting in lamplight.

“I think there’s been some mistake here,” I said. Reeny stood close to me, bare shoulder touching mine. I could feel the warmth through my shirt.

“Izzat right?” the man said again. “If there is, it ain’t us who’s makin’ it.”

“This boat belongs to Christopher Hastings,” Reeny said.

“Not anymore, it don’t,” the man said. “It belongs to me and the missus here. Ain’t that right, Jackie.”

“Uh-huh,” Jackie said. She folded her arms under her full bosom, leather creaking.

“So, why don’t you two lovebirds just haul ass and git offa our boat.”

The man started to push past me toward the pilot-house. I put my hand on his chest. It was as hard and unyielding as a tree trunk. He stopped, though, and stared at me. The woman’s face grew tight and expectant and she breathed through parted lips.

“Just a minute,” I said, relieved, and a bit surprised, that my voice didn’t quaver. “You don’t just walk onto someone’s boat and say it’s yours. Have you got a bill of sale?”

“Take yer hand offa me,” the man said. I dropped my hand. He reached into his suit coat and took out a folded document. “Read it and weep,” he said, thrusting it at me.

I took the document, unfolded the single legal-sized sheet of paper, and held it to the light. I read it quickly, then handed it to Reeny. Her face fell as she read it. It was a typewritten contract of sale between Christopher Hastings and one Carl Yeager, dated the last day of August and witnessed and stamped by a notary public named Roland Smithers, transferring ownership of Pendragon to Yeager for the sum of $1 and consideration.

The man, whom I presumed to be Carl Yeager, snatched the contract from Reeny’s hand, refolded it, and shoved it into his suit coat. “Now,” he growled, “you gonna git offa my boat or am I gonna hafta throw ya off?”

“Carl,” the woman said. “Maybe we could give these folks a little time to get their stuff together.”

“Jackie, they’re trespassin’,” Carl Yeager said.

“We’re not trespassing,” I said. “Miss Lindsey has lived on this boat for years. It’s her home.”

“You dint know the boat was sold, did you, honey?” Jackie said.

Reeny shook her head. “No,” she said. Her voice was thick and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Carl,” Jackie said. “We can wait a day or two, can’t we?”

“Well,” Yeager said uncertainly. Carl may have been the tough guy in the family, I thought, but Jackie wore the pants.

“I don’t need a day or two,” Reeny said, voice as hard and brittle as glass. “I can be packed in ten minutes. Then you’re welcome to her, dirty dishes, shipworms, and all. I won’t spend another minute on this boat.”

“Hey,” Yeager said. “I dint — ” But Reeny had fled below. Yeager looked at me. “Ah, what’re shipworms?” he asked.

It took Reeny a little longer than ten minutes to pack, but not much longer. Everything she took with her fit into two big suitcases, an overnight bag, a large backpack, and a green plastic garbage bag. There were also two cardboard liquor boxes of wine.

“You sure this is ev’rythin’?” Jackie Yeager asked as Reeny set the green plastic garbage bag onto the dock beside the rest.

“Yes,” Reeny said.

“’Cause soon as we can git ’er checked out, we’re plannin’ on takin’ her through the Panama Canal and into the Gulf. We got a charter company outa Galveston.”