“Sardines?”
“For the kitty. Look, she likes them.”
Suzanne was rubbing up against the metal railing of the boat waiting for the sardines to come back within reach. The man gently offered up the small fish and Suzanne sunk her teeth into one and dragged it onto the deck.
He turned back and smiled. “She and I are friends.”
“Are you sure she can eat raw fish?”
“Cats are true carnivores. They can eat any meat raw,” the man said softly as he wiped his fishy hands on his faded jacket and held out one to Nancy.
She hesitated at what her hand would smell like afterward but took his handshake all the same. Best to be neighborly.
“Madam, I am Shepard Wallace. You can call me Shep. I’m a liveaboard over on K dock. Ex-vet.” He spoke eloquently, almost regally, when not startled.
“I’m Nancy, and that is Suzanne,” she said pointing to her cat. “Where did you serve?”
“Oh no, ex-veterinarian. I’m a pacifist. I thought it might be a good idea to meet the new liveaboard and her feline. I’m a big fan of cats,” he offered with a sheepish grin.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Shep. I’m happy Suzanne lured you over. I’m beginning to think I’m as welcome as a case of syphilis around here.”
Shep chuckled. “This cranky old bunch needs a breath of fresh air. So be it that it came in the lovely form of you and your fluffy cat.”
Suzanne then leaned over to get an affectionate rub. Shep happily obliged as he continued, “Change is hard for some people. Give it some time. Ellis told me you were trying to get a poker game together.”
“Wow, word travels fast around here.”
“I blame the boredom. For all those sorts who claim they want to keep to themselves, they can’t help getting in everyone else’s business. Such is the human condition, I suppose,” Shep said with a wink. “Let me know what night and what I can bring.”
“Does this mean Suzanne should get used to a steady supply of fresh sardines?”
“As long as they’re running. Cats and boats go together. Be careful, though—old Jed Dawson has what we affectionately call a hellhound.”
Nancy raised her eyebrows and realized he must be referring to the frothy-mouthed bullmastiff on the other side of her dock. She looked across the way at Jed’s boat, which had the lights on. She could smell bacon frying. “Thanks for the tip.”
Shep began to amble off.
“Hey, Shep,” Nancy said as he turned back toward her. “Thank you for the sardines.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for the kindness.”
He nodded and gave her a wave.
She watched Shep shuffle slowly back to his houseboat on K dock. Nancy had not been aware of how stuck and stagnant she had felt when she was in the business of taking care of her family. The busyness just seemed to take over. She was always so busy. Busy with dirty dishes, playdate drop-offs, and family dinners. Then it was college planning, business building, and couples’ dinners. The dreams and passions of her husband and daughter had eclipsed her own by taking tiny bits of her attention each day until Nancy had no time left for her own aspirations. As a young mother, she had put her internal longings on hold, including even finishing her degree, and had convinced herself that watching her child grow up to be strong and independent was her dream. That seeing her husband thrive in business was also, in part, her dream. But there was a terrifying hollowness to her convictions. She had become invisible while cheering on everyone else. Even her capacity for self-reflection had diminished. She knew Roger’s favorite drink, she knew her daughter’s favorite dinner, and she knew what her granddaughter wanted for Christmas. But she had a hard time really knowing what she wanted. If she wasn’t ironing golf pants or cooking a favorite meal or helping to foster someone else’s goals, she didn’t know how to spend her time. Now there was a burning question that lingered in the recesses of her brain. What did she like? What did she want? Who was she without the familiar titles of Doting Mother and Supportive Spouse to define her?
It was a tough question. Who was she?
She chose one word at a time.
Captain. She was the captain of a boat that needed painting.
Woman. Not wife. Who had just stared down the dock master and won.
Liveaboard. The first female to be one in King Harbor, despite the bristling macho fellow sailors who didn’t accept her.
The words came faster as she listed off her very certain likes. Sailing, Chardonnay, Bob Seger, ahi tacos at Blue Water Grill, and a homemade pot of coq au vin. As she sat back creating her canvas of who she was, she added that she was also about to be the host of the hottest poker game in the marina. And right now, that was a damn good start.
* * *
“Hola?”
Nancy looked up to see Santiago, his smile sparkling under his familiar tam. Heat rose in her cheeks.
“Hola! Come aboard. I made coffee.” Nancy had readied a pot of Colombian roast and a plate of her muffins for his arrival. A lazy breeze kept the heat at bay and kept the pelicans aloft.
Santiago climbed aboard, and Suzanne instantly came running from the bow to meet him. He greeted Nancy with a kiss on both cheeks. Very European. Or Argentinian? Or Cuban? Nancy resolved to crack that mystery.
“Looks like you’ve got a fan,” Nancy said, as Suzanne brazenly rubbed up against Santiago’s hand. Suzanne was wildly purring. Nancy envied her little cat’s ability to let down her guard.
“She’s a sweet little thing.” Santiago petted her head and then reached for the steaming coffee cup Nancy offered him. “So, what happened with your engine last night?”
“I’m not quite sure. When I bought the boat, we had a full inspection on the Yanmar diesel, and it passed with flying colors. The first sail I went on by myself, I only used it in the channel, and it worked fine. But last night it sputtered twice, belched up some black smoke, and went dead.”
“This boat, in the hands of a lesser sailor in that fog last night, could have been a real disaster.”
Nancy didn’t know if that was a compliment or a scolding, as if she might be the subject of a cautionary tale. She decided not to say anything.
“You were very impressive.”
Compliment, indeed. “Thank you,” Nancy said.
“An engine that has just undergone an inspection usually should run problem-free for at least a year. It sounds like you either ran out of gas or lost your spark. Let me go below and take a look.”
She took his cup from him as he went down with his tool bag.
After about ten minutes, Santiago came back up to the cockpit with a little grease on his cheek. “Nancy, I hate to tell you this, but you’re completely out of gas.”
“Impossible. I filled it the day I bought the boat, and I’ve used the engine once.” Unless there was some type of leak, she couldn’t be out of gas. She was almost positive she’d checked the fuel gauge, but in her haste to get the girls settled on the boat, she might have overlooked it.
“It’s been known to happen to the best of sailors,” Santiago offered generously.
Nancy walked over to her gauge. It clearly read full. “Look, the gauge says I’m full.”
Santiago walked over to survey the gauge. He nodded that yes, indeed, it showed full. Then he raised his finger and lightly tapped the gauge. The needle slowly fell to below empty.
Nancy was crestfallen. “But I just filled it up. I know I did. I think I still have the receipt.”
Santiago sat there for a second, staring down and thinking. “Perhaps I should look to see if you have a gas leak. Or, is it possible that someone siphoned your gas?”
“Not that I know of.” A dark thought crossed Nancy’s mind, but then she immediately pushed it out.
“Well, let’s get her filled up and you should be fine.” Santiago took another sip of his coffee and set the cup down. “I’ll call Sandpiper Marine Fuel and get them over here. You’ll be good in no
time.” He dialed a number and sauntered to the other end of the boat.
Nancy sat there puzzling over the gas problem while her coffee went cold.
“They should be here in about fifteen minutes. And I must go,” Santiago said, then leaned over and gave her the same two cheek kisses before going on his way.
Butterflies.
* * *
Roger had called Chuck Roverson three times in fifteen minutes. He needed to know if Nancy had been booted from the marina, because Glenda Hibbert was in town and he could have this whole Coastal Commission vote locked up before late next week. He needed Nancy and soon.
“Pick up the goddamn phone, you derelict!” Roger yelled, as he heard Chuck Roverson’s cell go to voice mail.
He decided to go down to the marina to see the man in person. Besides, his Nest thermostat was on the fritz, so his house was ten degrees hotter than normal. One irritating issue at a time. He got in his Mercedes and cruised down the hill to Ocean Drive and took a left into the marina.
Roger parked by his dock to check on Bucephalus and make sure he had properly hidden the fuel cans and siphon hose he had given to Roverson the day before. Jesus, what a disaster. He’d thought for certain that Nancy, faced with all the unforeseen problems a boat could have, would have reconsidered living on the damn thing by now. But no, instead she’d come off as a hero. Stymied again. By his wife, no less! If he weren’t Roger Hadley, he’d think he was losing his edge. Damn her sailing skills. He covered up the fuel cans with an old tarp and stowed them behind a pylon.
He walked up to the dock master’s office but found it empty. He peeked in the windows but saw only a few empty beer cans and a basket with a muffin in it. That muffin looked suspiciously like one of Nancy’s legendary blueberry muffins. He knew a ploy when he saw one. She must be bribing Roverson with her delicious muffins. He would not be outmaneuvered by baked goods.
He grumbled as he walked back to Bucephalus. The boat gleamed in the midafternoon sun; a few gulls were resting on the pristine lifelines. Roger rousted the birds by yelling, “Vermin!” The fowl unhappily flew off.
He unlocked the salon and went down to grab the bourbon. As he snatched the bottle off the teak counter, he stopped momentarily, entranced by the memory of him and Claire Sanford wrapped in their naked, sweaty embrace in the galley. He took a big swig, and a smile curled his lip as he remembered the scent of her perfume on her neck, something spicy with ginger and cinnamon. That fond memory was followed quickly by the nightmare of Nancy’s appearance and the sight of her and Faye Woodhall looking down at them from the cockpit. His smile disappeared. Christ. What a fucking disaster. He grabbed a set of travel binoculars, climbed up to the cockpit, and walked to the bow of the boat.
From the top deck, he focused the binoculars to see Nancy’s crappy little vessel moored peacefully in slip number thirteen. Suddenly, the head of Santiago popped up from her salon. Roger saw the greasy boat mechanic take a sip of Nancy’s coffee and then kiss his wife’s cheeks before departing.
“Is that so …”
He lit a cigar, sipped his bourbon, and stewed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A PIRATE NEVER HAS A TELL
Chuck Roverson was a horrible poker player. If Chuck had a good hand, his tell was so obvious that even Suzanne the Cat knew it. Chuck would take a giant swig of his beer, slam his can down on the table, and grin like a fool. A bad hand would compel Chuck to unknowingly put his right finger in his ear and nervously wiggle it. Nancy had her work cut out for her. Luckily, she had Ruthie, her ace in the hole.
Poker night had commenced on Tuesday evening and had drawn a larger crowd than she expected. There were eight players who sat in the packed salon waiting to be dealt a hand of Texas Hold’em by her boat neighbor, Peter Ellis. To Ellis’s right sat the gentle giant Shep Wallace; next to him was Chuck, who was already two sheets to the wind, and then Captain Horny and Turk, the owner of Hot Rum. Rounding out the table was Ruthie, and to Nancy’s delight, her old crew on Bucephalus, Mac and Tony. She had extended the invite in hopes they hadn’t chosen sides between her and Roger. They accepted and even brought two bottles of exotic rum as boat-warming gifts.
Mac and Tony knew Turk, of course, but she was surprised that they were also friends with Shep and Captain Horny, as they had all grown up together in Manhattan Beach. They regaled the table with stories of beach volleyball, cheap grub at Bill’s Tacos on Pier Avenue, and chasing scantily clad roller skaters on their beach bikes known locally as strand cruisers.
“Shep and I used to work at Mac’s Liquor on Marine and Highland,” Captain Horny said.
“Still consider it the best job I ever had,” Shep said. “Frank Cleary’s volleyball crew played on the sand courts right at the bottom of Marine. They used to bet how long it would take a guy to run from the volleyball court, up to Mac’s, slap the exact amount for a twelve-pack of Budweiser on the counter, and run back down,” Shep recalled.
“Six minutes, eighteen seconds was the record,” Tony somehow remembered, as he grinned under his bushy moustache.
“Competition was fierce,” Captain Horny added.
Nancy felt she had definitely made some tentative inroads with the liveaboards. It didn’t hurt that Tony and Mac had spent the better part of the night highlighting Nancy’s sailing skills. The poker crew was welcoming their newest liveaboard.
Overall, the poker game was going well. Nancy’s jaw grew tight when she first announced the one-hundred-dollar buy-in, but she was surprised when none of the sailors even flinched as they forked over the cash. Nancy, famous in her social group for her hospitality when hosting anything from a Kentucky Derby party to a full-on clambake, found the boat slightly more challenging space-wise, but the rules of hosting a good party were always the same: good lighting, delicious snacks, and most importantly, ply your guests with large amounts of quality booze.
She had purchased white twinkle lights and put them around the rim of her canopy, and she had lashed one tiki torch to the stern of the boat, a sign that the poker game was on. In the background, jazz great Bill Evans’s mellow piano emanated from the boat stereo. Ruthie shuffled and Nancy refilled drinks as the crew knocked back painkillers made with Pusser’s rum, pineapple juice, cream of coconut, and a dash of nutmeg. Shep especially liked the concoction and apologized for asking for a third.
“Brings back my island days,” he said sheepishly as he politely handed his cup over.
“What island?” Ruthie asked.
“I lived in Tahiti for about ten years. Married one of their princesses,” Shep said with a quiet grace. “Just like Captain Cook. She was the light of my life, and I shall love and remember her until we meet up among the Polynesian gods.” He smiled.
Ruthie smiled warmly back at Shep, a clear sign of acceptance.
Nancy had two goals for this poker party. The first was to make friends with some of the liveaboards in the marina, all of whom were men. A batch of hot pastrami sliders seemed to be doing the job so far.
Before the game started, Nancy had had a brief chat with every one of them. As gruff as they’d all appeared at first, the guys were surprisingly open about their lives when she asked about the circumstances that had brought them here. All of which gave Nancy the impression that no one asked them about anything much anymore. A sailor’s life could be a lonely one. Each had a story that had landed them here, living on a boat, floating on water, loosely tethered to the docks of civilization instead of living on solid ground—divorce, failed businesses, bankruptcy, widowerhood, or a combination of those reasons. It seemed, at least for this crowd, that the reason for living on a boat was born of loss, a broken dream, or a failure. Nancy realized that was her truth as well. This brand of resigned sadness in her fellow boat dwellers might eventually come skulking in her direction too. It wasn’t doing much to tamp down her own deeply held anxiety.
“Shuffle up and deal, Turk,” Captain Horny said, his thick Southern Georgia accent becoming more pronounced
with every sip of his painkiller. His baseball cap had a Georgia Bulldog on it, and he had a gentle, disarming smile.
Not all who lived on boats were a sad sort, however. Peter Ellis was joking about a greenhorn who had just put a for-sale sign on his Hunter thirty-nine-foot.
Turk said, “He only lasted seven months. Who had seven months, Ellis?”
Ellis pulled out his phone and checked. Then he answered, “Dawson had six months, three weeks.”
The owner of said boat was what the guys called a short-timer. Every year, there were always a couple of guys in their late thirties or early forties who came down breathless and excited, new boat keys in hand, who couldn’t wait to toss convention aside and live like Jimmy Buffett, free and easy. Some newcomers even hauled a ukulele on board. But it never lasted long. Within six to nine months, the boats of the greenhorns were left to sit alone in their slips, their owners returning to their drab cubicles and cute girlfriends, back to climbing the pointless ladders of success, with no deeper understanding of life, their only trophy being able to say romantically, even wistfully, “Yeah, I lived on a boat once.” But that was the equivalent of singing karaoke in a dive bar and claiming you were once a rock star. Ellis explained that when the for-sale signs went up on the short-timers’ boats, every liveaboard would share a wry smile. Boat living wasn’t meant for everyone, and Nancy got the sense they thought the same of her. She knew the over/under on her making it here was three months. For a moment, she even considered betting.
Nancy’s second and more pressing short-term goal was to assist Chuck Roverson in winning the night’s loot so he could pay off his gambling debt, keep all of his protruding body parts, and void Roger’s control over him. At present, Chuck’s pile of cash was going down quicker than the Titanic. He had eighty-two bucks left, which wouldn’t be considered too bad, except he’d already had to buy in twice more at a hundred dollars a pop. Ellis and Captain Horny were both up, and Ruthie had been playing close to the vest. Turk was dealing and they put in for the blinds.
Beware the Mermaids Page 13
