by Hope Ramsay
“Yes,” she whispered, and then cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said in a stronger voice as she opened her eyes onto the rainy day. “Milo, for the first time in months I’ve found something worthwhile. I want to invest in this island, and not to build resorts. But to save it from the resorts.”
“You want to move there permanently?”
Wow. That was a heavy question. She’d never seen herself living in a place like this. But earlier today, as she sat in the boat watching the wind in the live oaks along the shoreline, she’d felt as if she was already part of this place.
“Yes?” she said, aware of the uncertain inflection she’d given the word. “I mean, for now. I mean, I’m excited about this. I can do some good. If you’ll let me.” She cringed.
Another one of Milo’s oppressive silences followed. “Jenna, if this is what you want, then you have to make peace with Harry and Patricia…Patsy.”
No truer words had ever been spoken. He was right, of course. Milo was always right. It was mildly infuriating and probably the reason Grandfather had put him in charge of her trust fund.
“I know.”
“Do you want them in your life?” Milo asked.
Her throat tightened with sudden, unexpected emotion. Yes, she did. A family would be so nice to have. All her life she’d wanted a family bigger than just herself and Mom. “I’d like to try,” she said.
He was silent again for a long time before he said gently, “Well, then, I suggest a couple of things. First, you should read the letters I’m going to send you. And feel free to share them with Harry and Patsy. I think they will help shed light on your father’s illness. And as for your equity capital venture, I’ll consider it, but to convince me, I need a business plan from you indicating just how much initial capital you will need and why. And I expect a plan worthy of a Harvard business school graduate.”
It was all gone. All of it. All of the sweat. All of the investment. Three generations of his family business, all of it sunk in six goddamn feet of bay water. He’d lost his boat and his petition with the county, and he was going to lose Jenna too. It was all tumbling down after he’d spent a few days living on optimism.
How could his luck have turned in the blink of an eye?
Easy. He’d overestimated his luck in the first place. And Daddy had taken care of the rest.
His father had taken the last-minute charter out, along with a cooler of Heineken, to the inland fishing ground south of the harbor. But the clients were unhappy when they didn’t find any fish. So Daddy, who’d had a few beers by then, had decided to take Reel Therapy north toward the inlet even as the wind built and the tide changed. Had he checked the gas tank before he left the marina? No. Had he checked the weather forecast? No.
And when they ran out of gas, he’d consumed just enough alcohol so that his judgment was impaired. He failed to get the anchor out fast enough, and the river currents did what they often did to the idiots who didn’t take that part of the bay seriously. They pushed Reel Therapy up onto the jetty, where the rocks tore the hull apart.
Thank God no one was seriously hurt. Although the Coast Guard was pretty damn quick to administer a Breathalyzer test to Daddy, which he failed. The incident report would include that important fact. The customers would probably sue. And Barrier Island Charters’s insurance company would probably not pay.
Gary down at Boat-Tow was ready to refloat Reel Therapy, for a price. He was pretty sure the hull was reparable. But what the hell was the use? Jude couldn’t afford it, even if he took out that loan he’d been talking about. He was dead in the water of his life.
It was getting near eight o’clock. They’d returned hours ago, and Jude had been so furious with his father that he’d walked away from him on the pier. God only knew where Daddy was now. Jude had been sitting right here at the Alibi’s scarred bar, drinking beers for the last hour and half.
Jonas Quick had been providing a steady stream of them, and Jude had forgotten just how many. Enough so that they were beginning to taste better. Not great, but better. He mostly hated the taste of beer. But at least the alcohol dulled the pain a little.
Which made him exactly like his father, didn’t it? Sitting here at the end-of-the-world bar feeling sorry for himself.
He couldn’t enjoy the irony. In fact, he hated himself. But he took another sip of the bitter brew and hung his head. What a fool he’d been to think that things were looking up in his life. What on earth made him think Barrier Island Charters had any hope of making it through another winter? What on earth made him think Daddy would stay sober for more than a week? What on earth made him think Jenna Bauman was the kind of woman for a man like him? And why the hell had he let her optimistic words about nonprofit associations and sailing ships get into his brain?
He stared down at the foam on his beer. He was toasted, wasn’t he? That’s why the room was spinning a little. Just then someone put a hand on his shoulder, and the spinning stopped. It was almost as if someone had anchored him to dry land.
He looked up, immediately disappointed that it was Micah. For an instant his heart had soared with the stupid idea that maybe Jenna had come looking for him. He was such an idiot. Harry had already told him that Jenna had gone back to the cottage. Apparently, she’d ended up using the disaster to chat with Patsy. But then she’d bailed and gone home. Yeah, he should have seen it coming. He shouldn’t be surprised.
Jenna was using him to spy on her aunt and uncle. To reconnect with a father she’d never known. He was a means to an end. Not anything more. Except maybe a gigolo. Hell, with her money, she could buy anyone she wanted.
But not him. He was not for sale. Much.
He gave his brother a hard stare, wishing him away, even though his hand clamped to Jude’s shoulder was the only thing keeping the room from spinning out of control.
Micah was going incognito today, having ditched his clerical collar for a plain white golf shirt and a pair of blue jeans. “I thought I might find you here,” Jude’s brother said, his gaze dropping to Jude’s beer.
Whoa, was that some kind of reprimand? Like Micah had expected Jude to become a chip off the old drunken block? “Don’t judge me,” he said out of oddly numb lips.
Micah said nothing in reply, which was annoying as hell. Instead he sat down on the adjacent barstool. “I heard about what happened. Is Daddy at home?”
Jude shrugged. “I don’t give a good goddamn where he is.” The words burned his throat as he said them. Probably because they were a lie.
“I don’t believe that,” Micah said, calling him on his idiocy.
“Okay, I do give a goddamn, but I wish to hell I didn’t.”
“Now you’re telling the truth,” Micah said, waving Jonas away.
Jude laid his forehead on the cool surface of the bar. His stomach seemed to be spinning just like the room.
“Come on,” Micah said in a gentle voice, as he ran a hand down Jude’s back.
The touch was comforting in its way, but Jude resisted. “Leave me alone.”
“No.” Micah removed his hand, but he didn’t go. He was like the proverbial rock in a hard place and just as stubborn.
Jude closed his eyes, the room spinning once again as a strange thought wormed itself into his brain. Once, a long time ago, when he’d been a kid who still thought there was a God, he’d prayed for Micah to come back home. Hell, he’d done more than pray. He’d made bargains with God. He’d promised to be good. He’d promised to look after Daddy. He’d promised to stay in school and earn good grades. Because he didn’t want to burden Micah when he came home.
All his good behavior hadn’t done the trick. It hadn’t brought his brother or his mother back. It hadn’t kept Daddy sober. How could someone believe in a God who didn’t listen?
Damn. He was going to be sick. He lurched up off the stool and ran all the way out to the sidewalk in the cold September rain and puked his guts out.
But he was not alone. Micah was right there beside
him. And when he’d hurled up all the booze he’d foolishly consumed, Micah turned him around, gave him a big warm hug, and then walked him slowly to his car parked right up the street.
The sun sneaking in through the thin drapes in the vicarage’s spare bedroom found Jude’s eyes. He jolted awake, disoriented as he sat up and glanced at the still-unpainted pink walls and the ridiculous girl’s white bed that he’d crashed in last night.
He blinked a couple of times as reality crashed into his head with the force of a swinging boom. He flopped back and curled up into a tight ball, eyes closed.
When that didn’t keep the light out, he buried his head under the pillow. But the morning sun was relentless.
He would never drink another beer. So help him…
He pulled in a deep breath, and the smell of coffee and bacon made his abused stomach clutch. If only he could go back to sleep and forget about his disastrous life.
But Micah had other plans. Jude’s older brother banged on the door and hollered, “Time to get up, sleepyhead.”
The words hurt. Physically, they pierced his bruised gray matter like pins and needles. Emotionally, they took him back to another time and place and wrenched his gut.
After Old Granny died, Micah had started banging on the bedroom door in the mornings. Every school day, he’d gotten Jude and Colton up in time for the bus. He’d made peanut butter sandwiches and put them in brown paper sacks. And he’d been there every night to help with homework. Until he left for college.
“You awake in there?” Micah rattled the door again. He wasn’t going to leave until Jude made some kind of response.
“Yeah.”
“Breakfast in ten. Be there or be square.”
More memories.
Especially the promise he made to Micah that day seventeen years ago, when his big brother had packed up his old Ford truck and gone away.
“Take care of yourself,” Micah had said.
“I will.”
“And Daddy. You need to take care of Daddy. You know how he can be.”
Jude had nodded. And he’d done what Micah had asked of him.
“Jude!” Micah called again. The urgency in his brother’s voice said it all. Micah wasn’t going to let him hide out in this room with its bright Pepto-Bismol walls.
He got out of bed and pulled on the clothes he’d been wearing yesterday. Once dressed, Jude ventured out into the hallway and headed toward the kitchen, where he found Micah banging around with pots and pans.
“I need to go home,” Jude said. “I need to check on Daddy. I should have—”
“Daddy’s fine. He’s with Colton.”
“He’s with Colton?”
“He’s fine. Colton’s taking him to the rehab center in Georgetown. The one you reserved for him.”
“He agreed?”
“Yes. Sit down,” Micah directed.
Jude sat.
“You should know that one of the requirements of becoming a full-fledged navy chaplain is making good coffee.” Micah put a steaming mug in front of Jude.
“I’m not sure I could drink or eat anything right now.”
“You got no choice,” Micah said, gesturing to the glass of water and the bottle of aspirin on the table. “Don’t be brave. The aspirin will help, trust me.” His tone was a little autocratic. As a child, Jude had never hated the fact that Micah was so good at issuing orders. Micah’s orders made the chaos go away.
Now he wanted to rebel, but it was hard to when Micah was just trying to make him feel better. A little bit of the concrete and steel wall around Jude’s heart crumbled.
After he’d taken the aspirin and drained the water, Jude ventured a sip of the coffee. It was good. He drank some more while Micah went back to puttering around the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Micah put two plates of eggs and bacon on the table. Micah took a seat and started eating without talking, which brought back more memories. No one ever talked at the dinner table when he’d been a boy. None of the St. Pierre men were real good communicators back then. Funny how Micah had turned into a minister. He was supposed to be a good communicator now. But he wasn’t saying a word.
Jude studied his eggs, his stomach roiling at the thought of eating anything.
“You need to eat,” Micah said.
“Not hungry.”
“Okay.” Micah leaned back in his chair, took a sip of coffee, and said, “Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
Jude had known that Micah wasn’t planning to remain silent forever. But he sure didn’t want a sermon from his brother.
“That’s from Matthew, by the way,” Micah said. “It was one of Old Granny’s favorites. Did you know that she’s the one who sent me to Reverend Ball?”
Jude looked up from his eggs. “No way. Old Granny would never have sent you to the white church.”
“She did. She told me that the Lord came to her and instructed her to do that. Have you any idea what a burden that was?”
No, not really, but he could imagine a young Micah walking into the Church at Heavenly Rest, where there was nothing but white folks. Why had Old Granny done that to Micah, when she’d done nothing but the opposite with Jude, teaching him the Gullah language from the time he was a little-bitty boy and taking him to the AME church, where they sang more than prayed? “I don’t understand,” Jude said.
“Neither did I until Reverend Ball repeated that verse to me right after I got that full scholarship to Clemson. I was ready to turn that offer down, but Reverend Ball convinced me not to. He and Old Granny both thought I had a calling. He told me that I should give my burdens to the Lord and that he would take care of them.”
Jude closed his eyes. They burned behind the lids. “I’m sorry,” he said for no reason at all.
“You got nothing to be sorry for. You’ve been doing the best you know how. But here’s the thing. I thought I put my burden on the Lord, but what I really did was put it on you. I made you promise something that you weren’t ready for. And I need to pay a penance for that.”
“No, you don’t. I mean, you had a full scholarship to Clemson. You didn’t have to give that up.”
“True, but I never came back home, did I?”
“No. And I hated you for it.”
“I didn’t come home because I couldn’t deal with Daddy. He made me so angry, and I was afraid I might not let the Lord take care of him, you know?”
Jude shook his head.
“Of course you don’t understand. Because you stayed. And you took care of him. And I’ve never seen a better example of God’s grace in my life. You humble me and inspire me, Jude. The Lord used you to ease my burden. But here’s the thing. I never wanted you to sacrifice yourself.”
Jude stared down at his uneaten eggs. Had he done that? No. “It wasn’t a sacrifice. Daddy needed help. And then there came a time when I had to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone. I fell down on that one yesterday.”
“But you stayed with it and did what had to be done even at your own expense.”
He looked up. “Are you going to lecture me the way Colton always does? He’s forever telling me to walk away from Daddy and go to work for someone else, like I want to leave the family business.”
Micah let go of a long breath. “I don’t think Colton’s been lecturing you. I think he’s just concerned is all. Jude, it’s time for you to stop thinking about everyone else and start thinking about your own self.”
“But—”
“Wait.” Micah cut off his argument and then pushed up from the table. A moment later he returned with a thick manila folder, which he pushed across the table.
“What’s this?” Jude asked as he picked up the folder and opened it to find several legal documents inside, including Reel Therapy’s title with the change-of-ownership section filled out in Daddy’s chicken-scratch handwriting. There were other documents as well, all of which amounted to the fact that Daddy had just given him ownership of Ba
rrier Island Charters.
It was everything Jude had been asking for, but it had probably come too late.
“When did he do this?”
“Colton went looking for Daddy after we heard about the accident. He found him at home, sitting at his table, sober, with all these documents signed. No one forced him to sign them. He told Colton he’d been waiting for you to come home so he could give this to you. He said a lot of other things, which you should have heard.”
“Except I was off getting drunk.”
“Well, don’t beat yourself up too hard. From what I’ve heard, that was possibly the first time you ever got drunk in your life. Unless you binged when you were at college.”
Jude shook his head. “I hate the taste of beer. And most other alcohol.”
“So Colton tells me.” Micah paused for a moment, giving Jude time to stare at the documents he’d been hassling Daddy to hand over for years. What now?
He sat there thinking, his head pounding. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could get a loan and salvage Reel Therapy. And then maybe, after a few years, he could save up enough for a down payment on the sailboat he wanted. Something like that forty-four-foot, 1981 LaFitte that was up for sale in Hilton Head. And then, out of nowhere, he flashed on Jenna telling him that the road to success was paved with failure. Somehow that made him feel so much better about everything.
“So, what are you going to do?” Micah asked.
“I guess I’m going to pick myself up and go talk to Boat-Tow and see about getting Reel Therapy salvaged. I reckon I’ll need to talk to a banker before that though.”
“And running Barrier Island Charters is what you want?”
He didn’t have to think about that. “I love being on the water. And I can make something of that business without Daddy’s interference. And maybe, if I work hard enough, I can finally turn it into the sailboat charter I want.” He paused a moment. “But what happens after Daddy gets out of rehab? I mean, I’m not optimistic that he’ll even stay.”
