by T M Bashford
I hit delete.
I call the IT department at my office and ask them to give me a new email address. “Cancel the old one, effective immediately.”
“Jamison, I’ve had Margaret confirm a flight out to the UK for the end of May. I’m going to the Ostar—to keep Christian company and also his family while he’s sailing in the race. He’s entering his Sparkman & Stephens 34.”
“Excellent, sir.” Jamison’s beaming smile reaches the corners of his crinkling eyes. “I’ll mark my diary.”
“You could take some time off, maybe visit your home country?”
Jamison sucks in a breath. He pulls himself even straighter. “Absolutely not, sir. I need to be here in your absence.”
“If you say so, Jamison.”
“Tell me about this race. Do they have to sail once around the UK?”
“Farther than that. They set off from the south of England and cross the Atlantic to Rhode Island—it’s an amateur event, not quite the America’s Cup, but it attracts some serious sailing sorts.”
“A bit of a jolly for you then, sir? Sounds excellent. Cup of tea?”
“Only if you have chocolate chip cookies.”
He winks and beckons me to follow him into the kitchen. As we pass through the house, I glance through Dad’s study doors, now permanently left open. I can’t work in his space, preferring the small desk in my bedroom, but looking into the room doesn’t make my gut twinge as much anymore. I miss him, but for the first time in my life, I sense he’d approve of what I’m doing—he’d approve of me.
On the way to the kitchen, I pick up an envelope lying on the hall table. It’s addressed to me and I rip it open as I follow Jamison. He turns at the sound of the tearing paper.
“I had intended to forward that to your PA,” he says. “We don’t accept mail at the home address. Margaret should deal with any correspondence for you in the first instance.”
I scan the letter, sent from a legal firm. “It’s someone else claiming to be my half-brother.” I crumple it. “If all those claims were true, I’d have a hundred siblings. Ever since Dad’s death, it seems everyone’s his son or daughter.”
Before I go to bed, I unwrap a small package Jamison had placed on my desk. Earlier, he cautiously mentioned receiving it: it’s from Miss Shae Love in California. What’s inside hurts as much as a gunshot through the chest—the engagement ring I’d left behind on Ariel.
Shae
“What’s your big proposition?” I ask Ryan and take a sip of the lime and soda he just bought me. He’s the boss at the club where I work, as well as a professional sailor at the Windward Yacht Club.
Ryan taps the cast on his broken leg, which is awkwardly stuck out to the side of him. “I’ve already got my yacht in England for the Ostar, but then this happened yesterday.”
“I heard about your accident. It wasn’t even due to sailing?”
“I’ll never volunteer to clean out the gutters again. My wife did warn me, but… well, the rest is history.”
“So, you want me to fetch your boat from Plymouth and sail her back?”
“Actually,” he takes a sip of his beer and casts his gaze over the yachts below us, “I’m asking you to skipper the race.”
“What? Why me?” I spill a little of my drink as I set it on the table.
“You bloody solo-sailed the Pacific in the middle of cyclone season twice. I think you can handle it. It’ll be brilliant publicity for the club to have one of our staff in the race. And I’ve seen you sail. You’re talented. You sail with your gut and not many people can do that. I want to give you this opportunity. Besides, it’ll be good publicity for my boat and for you—potential sponsors for your world trip will pay attention if you do well. It’s a win-win. Then you can sail her home from Rhode Island or bring her back by trailer—your choice. All expenses paid.”
My soul jumps at the opportunity. Not only am I longing to solo sail again, but this time I’d experience the Atlantic and it could give me the publicity I need to raise money for my goal of sailing non-stop around the world. Mounting my campaign is slow going and raising the funds is impossibly hard. My dream won’t happen if I don’t do something drastic or get lucky. Brett said his family could finance my trip, but there’s no way I would allow myself to be indebted to him. He might expect payment in ways I can’t think about.
I wonder why Ryan hasn’t asked a more experienced sailing instructor at the club. “You’re sure? What about Albert?”
“Apart from the fact that he has three kids and isn’t able to drop everything at a moment’s notice, my sponsor has approved you. They love the fact you’re young and a woman. The media will love you. Publicity is set. A shame to waste it.”
“When would I need to leave?”
“Five days. It’s short notice—”
“I’ll do it.” I put my hand out and we shake on it.
“George, it’s me, Shae.”
“Hey up, my little sirène. How are you? Keepin’ out of mischief?”
“I came by to see you before I left Samoa, but you weren’t home.”
“What a shame. I was… working. Probably a good thing or I’d have scolded you for running off and risking your life. But I suppose it all ended well.”
“I miss you, George. How’s Sassy Jam?” I call George every couple of weeks, and sometimes sense he sits by the phone, waiting to hear from me by the way it’s always snatched up.
“She’s grea’. I’m enjoying tinkering on her. Needs a mast, mind you.”
“Thanks for taking care of her for me. One day, I’ll buy a mast. But I called to let you know I’m doing the Ostar. I wondered if you’d want to follow the race blog. I’m sailing a friend’s boat named Gambit.”
“Fantastic. Did I ever tell you I did the Ostar twenty years ago? Which route are you taking?”
“The Rhumb line.”
“Ha. I took an easier option—Azores route. Wow, I’m jealous.” The line is silent for a moment. “How’s everything else?”
“My family returned to Townsville. Finn and Brody are building boats, and Mom’s going to yoga classes. Finn and Sienna split up, though. She didn’t warm to Townsville—too remote for her. Finn said she was a scaredy cat when they went sailing. He couldn’t imagine having a girlfriend who hated the ocean. She’s back in England.”
There’s a long, crackling silence before he asks, “And Brett? Do you know where he went?”
George has always scolded me for giving Brett a second chance, and I don’t want to argue with him, so I don’t mention Brett’s moved to LA. Besides, Brett’s not drinking and is managing to make a name for himself on campus for reasons other than drinking—football. He’s using his size to his advantage.
Through the window, I catch sight of Brett parking his car. He appears agitated and parks badly, his rear sticking into the street. “Sorry, I have to run, George. I’ll call again soon.”
“Sure thing, love. Enjoy the Ostar.” The line goes dead and I picture George in his cluttered cottage, surrounded by lumpy rugs, plaid armchairs, and plates of used tea bags. Outside his windows though, is the most idyllic view of the beach. I miss him.
“Shae! I got your message. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Brett bundles through the front door and collects me into a bear hug.
“Don’t even try to talk me out of it.” I pull free and walk toward the kitchen—Brett is an eating machine. “You know I’m mounting a world campaign. This is nothing by comparison.”
“I wasn’t expecting it. You have to give me time to prepare.”
“It’s not as if you’re coming.” I ignore the hurt expression on his face and open the fridge, pulling out ham and tomatoes to make him a sandwich.
“Why can’t I come? I could help—”
I stop slicing the tomatoes. “No, Brett. I’m doing this alone.”
Brett’s reaction sweeps to anger in two seconds flat. He shoves over the bar stool. I freeze mid-slice and Brett stares at the gro
und. The air is heavy with tension and the walls seem to close in. He bends to pick up the stool and turns to me, his expression full of remorse.
“Sorry.” His huge shoulders slump. “That was uncalled for.” He reaches across and covers my hand with his, obscuring the tomato, too. The tenderness in his eyes is intense and startles me. It’s been weeks of an easy friendship, and now this.
I slowly pull my hand from his grasp. “Are you visiting a psychiatrist yet, Brett? Like you promised.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes bore into me, suddenly grave. I look away and finish making his sandwich.
When will he get the message that I will never trust anyone with my heart ever again? And when will I learn he won’t ever change? It seems I resemble my mother more than I realized, staying around in the hope of fixing a man who simply can’t be fixed.
Drew
Gavin Myers stares gravely at me from across his desk. He was my father’s second-in-command and now acts as my mentor while I learn the ropes of Dad’s empire. Without Gavin, I’d be lost.
“I’m confused,” I say. “Why is this claim any more legitimate than all the others?” I peer at the legal letter he’s holding, fed up with the amount of greed in this world.
“Because this claimant has gained the court’s permission to have your father’s body exhumed in order to complete a paternity test.”
I stand, suddenly hot and needing to remove my suit jacket. “This is crazy. Can anyone decide to dig up my father?”
“Not at all. You have to go through the legal system the correct way. His claim was validated due to two things.” He shakes the letter. “His birth mother is Rebecca Cunningham, a woman widely known to be an acquaintance of your father after she married into the Abspoel family.”
“Wait. Abspoel? Brett’s mother? Is Brett claiming he’s my father’s son?”
“No, not Brett. Brett’s supposed half-brother, Lucas.”
“Brett doesn’t have a half-brother.”
Gavin holds up a finger and further consults the letter. “His claim is that he’s the son of Rebecca and your father. A fact less widely known is your father and Rebecca were in a relationship in their teens. Lucas is thirty-four and therefore, was born before your father met and married your mother. Ten years before Brett—or you—were born.”
“That would’ve made my father seventeen years old when Lucas was supposedly born.”
“Correct. Here’s where the more compelling evidence comes in. Lucas was put up for adoption. Rebecca and your father clearly decided not to bring him up, which, given their young ages—she was sixteen—wouldn’t have been uncommon. While his birth certificate does not name a father, his adoption papers were signed by both your father and Rebecca. This is the reason he was granted the order to exhume your father’s body.”
I begin to pace, wondering if it’d be nice to have a half-brother. “The paperwork is authentic?”
“I’ve yet to have everything checked out. But I decided you should know, in case—the media has a habit of digging up this sort of thing.”
“It’s fine. I don’t care if my father had another child. He’ll be family then. I don’t have a lot of that. If Lucas’s claim is legitimate, I’ll open my arms to him.”
Gavin asks me to take a seat. I do, loosening my tie.
“I’m afraid it’s not so simple, Drew. If his claim is legitimate, it means Lucas is entitled to inherit your father’s estate. He has as much of a right to it as you do. Everything you own, including the home you live in and your shares in the Vega Corporation—it could have huge consequences on the company. He could easily mount a takeover—”
“But he’s not in my father’s will.”
“Let me check into the legalities, but I’m not sure it matters. The adoption papers prove your father knew about Lucas. That gives Lucas rights. I’ll get to the bottom of this, and we will deal with it when we have hard facts to work with.”
I cast my mind back in time, hoping to dig up anything which might confirm my father had known Brett’s mother intimately. But it supposedly happened a decade before I was even born. Then she left Brett and his father when Brett was a baby. Did her decision have something to do with Lucas?
Shae
I spend the morning tinkering on Ryan’s boat, Gambit. More and more boats dock in Plymouth. Today’s the deadline for all entering boats to berth. At thirty-two feet, Gambit is one of the smaller boats in the race, but she’s got a new suite of sails. When I took her out yesterday, she was as fast as a racehorse.
Despite England’s reputation for gray days and drizzle, today the sky is a deep blue, flecked with wisps of clouds. The breeze is warm, with temperatures in the high sixties, making it possible for me to stick to my usual jean shorts and white tank top ensemble. The sound of raucous laughter floats across from the yacht club as more sailors gather to celebrate and await the start of the race in four days. It’s to be a busy time filled with safety checks, briefings, and receptions.
Having skipped breakfast, I walk to the club for one of their famous prawn baguettes. The prawns are tiny, as if someone zapped them with a miniaturizing gun, but the baguette is delicious. I settle at a table near the stretch of windows, taking in the views toward the Mount Batten Peninsula and across Plymouth Sound to Drake’s Island. I eavesdrop on people reminiscing around the last Ostar race, how someone once hit a shark, how someone else is doing it to raise money for charity, how this is a great spot to watch the yachts during the America’s Cup. Everyone’s a lot older than me—and mostly male. I’d read the skipper biographies and I’m the youngest by seven years, and one of two female competitors. I have to find Cassidy, the only other female.
I pan over the bar and lounge area, wondering if I can recognize her from her photo. My pulse spikes and races when I find myself looking into the eyes of someone else who’s at a high bar table and already staring at me—Drew Vega.
Our eyes hack into each other’s. I clutch the table, even though I’m sitting down. Something twists and shivers in the deepest part of me.
Drew is holding a pint of beer but doesn’t attempt to sip or place it on the bar. Next, a little girl of about seven years old, wearing a yellow dress and white cardigan, bowls into Drew. His body reacts to her and he lifts her onto his knee, but his gaze remains on me. Then he swings his attention toward the child as an older, wiry man wearing glasses and a collared T-shirt joins them. They greet each other and Drew scours the bar area to attract the attention of a barman. He flicks his attention to me again. I’m in the exact same position.
I stand sharply and the stool topples. My pulse thumps and crashes, and I bend to pick up the stool and dash out of a side entrance, not daring to glance behind me. What the hell is he doing here?
He’d better stay clear of me.
I run, blinking away tears, to hide on Gambit. He came to find me in Samoa, risking everything—including my brother’s life—then dumped me because I wouldn’t instantly say yes to his proposal. He can’t be trusted.
When I reach Gambit, an official requests a random safety inspection. I step aboard with him and hide below deck. I use my phone to summon an Uber in thirty minute’s time. The best thing I can do is hide in my hotel room for the night. It means missing the first of the receptions for the competitors, but I don’t care.
Despite my plan, while I’m waiting in the parking lot for a ridiculously late taxi, Drew walks down the stairs from the bar. He’s holding the same little girl’s hand, the older man following behind. When they reach the grass, Drew swings her onto his shoulders. She squeals and wriggles as he walks, and I realize they’re going to walk past me.
I could hide behind a car, run to the other end of the parking lot, but I can’t move. Drew spots me and halts. When his friend catches up, Drew says something to him and lifts the protesting child to the ground. She clutches his arms, jumping and objecting, but stops when the man reprimands her.
He’s coming over, and you’re standing here, frozen
. I steel myself and decide to walk to the other side of the lot.
“Shae!”
I quicken my pace. My pulse pelts around my body like a greyhound on a racetrack.
He grabs my elbow. “Surely, we can talk to each other?”
“What’s the point?” I spin toward him, surprised at how sharp my words sound.
“The point is we were once… close. We can at least be civil to each other when we bump into each other, can’t we?” His eyes flash and I wither inside.
“Why are you here anyway?”
“For the Ostar. My friend Christian is racing. I’m here with him and his family. I assume you’re racing?”
“Yes.” I fold my arms across my stomach and clutch each elbow, searching for my taxi.
“How’s Brett?” he asks, his tone thorny.
“Good. He’s studying law at UCLA. Football’s become a big part of his life.”
I can’t look at Drew and keep hunting for the taxi. But the silence becomes stretched, making me peek back at him. His gaze is lost in the horizon and he’s doing that thing where his jaw grinds from side to side.
It’s as if he remembers I’m there, his head jerks toward me. “Are you going to the reception tonight?” When I say no, he adds, “Not to avoid me, I hope?” He cracks a smile and when it reaches his steel blue eyes, my heart unfolds and flutters in my chest.
I want to scream and pummel myself for continuing to feel so much for him. I want him to hold me and kiss me and love me again, but that can never happen.
“I’m meeting Sienna tomorrow for breakfast,” he adds. “She’s working in Exeter. I guess Finn told you?”
“No, I… um, heard she and Finn went their separate ways, but I didn’t know what she was doing.” I’m behaving like a stammering fool and quickly redden. Thankfully, the taxi turns up. “Gotta go,” I say.
