by Tawna Fenske
He smiled and reached for her. She came willingly, and he wrapped her in his arms and held her there against his chest. “Me too,” he murmured into her hair. “Me too.”
Chapter 21
Three weeks later
“You think this is pretty close to the spot?” Alex asked.
Juli squinted through the lenses of her cheap sunglasses, momentarily distracted by the sight of Alex without his shirt on. She slid her glasses down the bridge of her nose, admiring the flex of his biceps as he let some tension out of the sails, slowing the boat. A wave crashed behind him, making him look like a poster boy for sailing gear.
They’d returned the hefty powerboat to the charter rental company in St. John, swapping it out for Alex’s forty-five-foot Cabo Rico. Alex had told her all about the original plan—about sailing his boat down from Key West, about their quest for a seamless, peaceful heist, and their plans for a quick trip home.
Obviously, the plan hadn’t quite worked. Juli, for one, was glad.
She watched as Alex trimmed the jib, his forearms flexing as he pulled one end of the rope. She smiled, noticing the faint scratch marks she’d left on his bare shoulder the night before.
“Hello?” Alex called, glancing over his shoulder, still waiting for a response. “You with me here?”
“Just admiring the view.”
She tore her eyes away from Alex to survey the sea around them. Unlike the deep black-blue of the Atlantic, the water here ranged from a bright turquoise to a pale aqua where the coral reefs rose up to enjoy the sun. She was glad Alex knew what he was doing out here. And she was damn glad she got to watch him do it. She’d even gotten to help, learning about tacking and schooning and goosewinging and not even giggling anymore when he told her to come abreast.
Of course, coxswain and dinghy and ditty bag were still pretty funny.
“It’s nice here,” Juli said at last. “I think this seems right.”
It was certainly beautiful. The sort of place Uncle Frank would have enjoyed if the weather had been this nice.
And if he’d been sober and not dead.
Juli reached for her knapsack and rummaged inside for Uncle Frank’s urn. Pulling it out carefully, she rested it in her lap and looked around.
“It’s a lot lighter without the Krugerrand,” she said.
“I can’t believe you lugged that thing around for so long and never noticed the coins.”
“I was a little distracted. Besides, how would I know how much cremated remains are supposed to weigh?”
“Good point.”
Juli looked down at the urn. “What do you think, Uncle Frank? You like this spot?”
Alex cleared his throat behind her. “He’s not actually answering, is he?”
Juli rolled her eyes. “Of course not. He waits ’til I’m in bed before we have conversations.”
“Considering I’ve been in bed with you every night for the last few weeks, that’s disturbing.”
Juli grinned. “Oh, we talk about you, mostly. Like your performance in bed, and whether you left the cap off the toothpaste and whether that little freckle on your left shoulder blade looks more like an ant or a mini chocolate chip.”
“What does Frank say?”
“Chocolate chip.”
Alex smiled, and Juli felt something tingly radiating all the way from her belly to her fingertips. She wondered how long that feeling would stick around. If she’d someday look at Alex over the top of her bifocals as he passed her a tube of Preparation H and she’d have a heart attack from the sheer pleasure of seeing him smile.
She hoped so.
The last couple weeks had been a bit hectic for all of them. Though Alex and the rest of the crew had already planned for how to deal with the diamonds once they had them, Juli’s connections to the gem industry didn’t hurt. Neither did her ability to speak Flemish on their hasty trip to Antwerp.
When the Kranston executives had called Alex’s cell phone in the wake of Tom Portelli’s arrest, Juli had held her breath. She’d feared the worst—an ugly legal battle, screaming accusations, a prison sentence for Alex.
Instead, they’d asked him to run the company.
Alex had been polite but firm. Thanks, but no thanks. There had been much mumbling about a change in priorities, a new lease on life, the fact that money didn’t matter as much as he’d thought it did. Juli had tried hard not to eavesdrop, but it was tough with her ear pressed against the door.
And she’d tried not to be too hopeful when he’d said he was in no hurry to return home to Key West. Now they were back on the water, preparing for this final detail of their journey.
“So how do you want to do this?” Alex asked.
Juli looked out at the horizon, considering her options. The sun was starting to settle lower in the sky, giving everything a faintly pink glow. Frank definitely would have approved.
“I think if we just toss the ashes into the wind, they’ll scatter like they’re supposed to.”
“You want me to head any direction in particular?”
Juli shook her head, scooting closer to the starboard side of the boat. She glanced up at the sails, trying to gauge the direction of the wind.
“Okay,” she said, nodding at Alex. “Here we go.”
Alex reached out and flipped the switch on his iPod. Loverboy’s “Turn Me Loose” came blaring out of the speakers, just like Uncle Frank had asked.
“What about the vodka tonics?” she asked.
Alex held up a small thermos. “Got ’em right here. Ready whenever you are.”
“Okay then.” Juli took a deep breath. “Here we go.”
She flipped the little switch on the bottom of the urn, opening the lid. The wind caught her hair and tossed it around, plastering a curl against the side of her cheek. Juli closed her eyes.
“Rest well, Uncle Frank,” she said.
And then, with a little flourish, she turned the urn upside down and sent the ashes fluttering gracefully into the breeze.
At least, that’s what she tried for.
Behind her, Alex sputtered and sneezed. Juli coughed, wiping Uncle Frank from her eyes.
“Wow,” she said, glancing down at her hands and arms to see Uncle Frank lodged in every little crevice and wrinkle. “Cremated remains sure can fly.”
Juli turned to look at Alex, trying not to giggle.
This was a somber occasion.
“What’s the proper protocol here?” Alex asked, shaking the front of his shorts to release Uncle Frank into the breeze. Pale ash clung to his lashes, making him look like a shirtless chimney sweep. “It seems rude to just spit it out.”
Juli dusted a thick batch of Uncle Frank out of her hair and shook her head. “No, go ahead. Spitting out cremated remains is the sort of thing he’d appreciate.”
She stood up to grab the controls for a moment as Alex spit respectfully over the side of the boat, taking heed of the direction of the wind. He twisted the cap off the thermos and took a swig of the vodka tonic, swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it over the side. He shook his hair out before dumping the rest of the vodka into the ocean for Frank to enjoy.
Then he recapped the thermos and set it next to Juli. Surrendering the controls, Juli sat back down with her feet dangling over the side of the boat.
“For future reference,” Alex said, “you may want to learn a bit more about gauging the direction of the wind. If you’re going to be spending a lot of time on a sailboat, that is.”
Juli grinned. “Thanks for the pointer.” She gave her shirt one last shake before tucking the urn back in her knapsack. “I’m sure our new pirate-themed boat charter business will have a lot of clients looking to dispose of cremated remains.”
“Actually, there are two signed up already for September. Phyllis’s website got several hundred hits just in the first week.”
“No kidding? Might have something to do with the shirtless photo of Cody on the home page.”
Alex shrugged.
“Jake said they’ll bring Cody with them when they all come out for our maiden voyage. As long as it doesn’t conflict with one of Malcolm’s pirate missions.”
“Or with Jake and Phyllis’s honeymoon,” Juli added. “Or with the grand opening of their new sex toy shop in Barbados.”
“Nice to see everyone is enjoying their retirement.”
Juli smiled, looking up at him appreciatively. “Really, Alex, thanks for doing this. For bringing me all the way out here, I mean. It was really important to Uncle Frank and to the rest of my family that I get to do this just the way he asked.”
“So you’re grateful?” he asked.
“Oh, yes.”
He smiled, stuffing one hand in his pocket as he steered the boat with the other. “How grateful?”
Juli grinned wider and leaned forward, making sure to give him a nice glimpse down the front of her shirt. She said a silent prayer her cleavage wasn’t dusted with cremated remains.
“Oh, very grateful,” she said. “Supremely grateful. Back rub grateful at the very least. Maybe even blowjob grateful.”
Alex raised an eyebrow at her, considering. “How about marriage grateful?”
Juli felt her heart jump into her throat. Her fingers went numb and her ears began to ring.
“Wha—what?”
Alex pulled his hand out of his pocket, clutching something in his fist. Holding his hand out to her, he opened his fingers. Sitting in the middle of his palm was the most stunning diamond ring she’d ever seen.
Juli felt her throat close up. She couldn’t say a word, not even a squeak.
“I’d get down on one knee,” Alex said, “but that would make it hard to keep the boat steady. So I’ll just ask nicely. Will you marry me, Juli? Please?”
Juli stared at the ring. Her heart was pounding in her ears, her mouth had gone dry, and she felt like she might just throw up. In a good way.
“Look,” he said, his hand steady, even though his voice trembled a little. “I know I told you a few weeks ago that I didn’t want a relationship when I was broke and unemployed with my life and my career in flux, but I’ve realized something.”
Juli swallowed. “You realized you’re set for life now that you cashed in several million dollars worth of diamonds?”
“That too,” Alex said, drawing a breath. “But more than that. It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t have a job or a pension or any money in the bank at all. As long as I have you—and that I love you and I trust you—that’s what matters.”
Juli felt her eyes stinging, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t just the cremated remains on her lashes. Slowly, she reached out and touched the ring. She picked it up, holding it between her thumb and forefinger and lifting it up to the light.
She smiled. “Is this one of the vibrator diamonds?”
“Of course,” Alex said, grinning. “Only the best for you.”
Juli looked up at him as she slid the ring onto her finger. A perfect fit. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Can I take that as a yes?”
Juli stood up and twined her fingers in his hair and kissed him then, admiring the glint of the diamond on her left hand as the sun sank lower on the horizon.
“Yes,” she said. “Arrr.”
“Arrr,” Alex said back, steering the boat into the sunset.
Acknowledgments
Whoever said writing is a solitary profession deserves to be pinned down and tickled until he pees.
My sincere gratitude goes out to the dozens of people who helped me along the way. Infinite thanks to Linda Brundage, Linda Grimes, and Cynthia Reese for being the best critique partners I could hope for, and to my staggeringly talented beta readers, Larie Borden, Bridget McGinn, and Minta Powelson. Without you ladies, my characters might all be badly dressed, bitchy people sitting around drinking wine while their eyes change color every couple pages. Thanks also to Dan Streck for the missing puzzle piece that inspired Juli’s “issue.”
Big hugs and kisses to my writer pals from The Debutante Ball, Rose City RWA, and Mid-Willamette Valley RWA as well as my Twitter friends and amazing blog readers at Don’t Pet Me, I’m Writing. You’ve provided more support than even the best bra I’ve owned.
Thank you to the crew of The Prima in the Whitsunday Islands of Australia, and to the dozens of fascinating characters I encountered traveling around Barbados, Jamaica, and Fiji. Most of you will never know you inspired little pieces of this story or taught me something that helped with its creation.
Huge thanks to my editor, the fabulous Deb Werksman, publicity goddess Danielle Jackson, and the rest of the wonderful staff at Sourcebooks, Inc. I’m thrilled to be part of the team!
I can’t express enough appreciation for my amazing agent, Michelle “never say die” Wolfson. Thanks for always believing in me, and for never meeting a dead horse that couldn’t be beaten back to life.
Thanks most of all to my parents, Dixie and David Fenske, and my brother, Aaron “Russ” Fenske for your unwavering love, support, and encouragement. I couldn’t have done this without you guys.
And thank you to Steve. For everything.
About the Author
A third-generation Oregonian who can peel and eat a banana with her toes, Tawna Fenske has traveled a career path that’s led from journalist to English teacher in Venezuela to marketing geek.
She’s the author of the popular daily blog “Don’t Pet Me, I’m Writing” and a member of Romance Writers of America. She holds a degree in English literature and lives in Central Oregon with a menagerie of ill-behaved (albeit, well-loved) pets.
Though Tawna shares her heroine’s violent allergy to seasickness medication, she has never stowed away on a pirate ship. Making Waves is her debut novel.
If you loved Making Waves,
read on for an excerpt from
Romeo, Romeo
By Robin Kaye
Rosalie Ronaldi made a successful escape from the insane asylum. Okay, so it wasn’t a real insane asylum; it was her parents’s Bay Ridge home. But most days, it could pass for the Sicilian version of Bellevue. She pulled on her coat as the storm door snicked closed behind her, took a deep breath of cold early January air, and ran for the solace of her car.
Sitting through a typical Italian Sunday dinner at Chez, Ronaldi was always a lesson in self-control. Today it had become a lesson in avoidance—marriage avoidance.
For the life of her, Rosalie couldn’t figure out why her mother would push a daughter she supposedly loved down the aisle. It wasn’t as if the institution had brought Maria Ronaldi any happiness. Just the opposite.
Whenever Rosalie made decisions, she measured the odds and studied the statistical evidence—something at which she’d always excelled. With the divorce rate at 53 percent, if you added the number of unhappy marriages that wouldn’t end in divorce because of religious beliefs or sheer stubbornness, which she estimated was running at about 46 percent, only 1 percent of all marriages could be considered happy. A person would have to be crazy to take a calculated risk with a 99 percent failure rate.
Rosalie was many things, but crazy wasn’t one of them. As a child, she’d made the decision never to marry, and nothing in her experience since had done anything but cement her resolve. Of course, if she said that, she’d be breaking the eleventh commandment: thou shalt marry a nice Catholic boy (preferably Italian) and have babies—or go straight to hell.
Rosalie climbed into her VW Beetle and headed toward her Park Slope apartment. Turning onto the Prospect Expressway, she heard a funny thumping noise. Never a good sign. She pulled over to find her tire was as flat as matzo, and after a marathon Italian dinner, the waistband of her pants was so tight that if she took a deep breath, she’d pop a button. God only knew what would happen when she bent down to change the tire.
Rosalie opened the trunk, expecting to see her spare tire. It was supposed to be right there, but all she saw was a big hole.
Great! Just what she needed. She stared into
the trunk, turned to kick the flat tire, and called her brother the nicest name she could think of that fit him. Asshole.
“Stronzo!” She should have known better than to give him a hundred and sixty bucks to replace her spare tire. She’d told him to buy a full-sized spare, and he hadn’t even gotten her one of those donuts. “He’s proprio un stronzo della prima categoria.”
She had no problem calling Rich the world’s biggest asshole in Italian. After all, God excused cursing if done in a second language. He gave bonus points for cursing in a third. Rosalie had a feeling she’d be brushing up on her Spanish.
***
Dominick Romeo stood in the state-of-the-art garage of his flagship dealership, the largest car dealership in all of New York. He’d built it from nothing but brains and hard work. He owned a chain of dealerships that covered most of the East Coast, but he’d be damned if he could figure out what was wrong with his Viper.
Nick checked the clock next to his private hydraulic lift and decided to call it a night. He was the only one unlucky enough to be there at five o’clock on a Sunday evening. Anyone with the sense God gave a flea was at home digesting a traditional Italian supper, but not him. His car had chosen today to act up. He slammed the hood and cringed as the noise echoed through his aching head. Wiping grime from his hands, Nick contemplated one of the world’s great mysteries: why man had ever combined computers and the internal combustion engine.
The weekend had started badly and gone downhill from there. On Friday, the offer he’d made to acquire the one car dealership he’d coveted since he was a boy had been rejected. Then on Saturday night, instead of being considerate about his loss, his girlfriend Tonya started making noises about marriage, leaving him no choice but to break things off. That led to tears on her part, more than half a bottle of Jack on his, and a screaming hangover Sunday morning.
The very morning he was awakened at six o’clock by his mother’s phone call reminding him it was his turn to take Nana to church. Experiencing Mass with Nana while hungover made him wonder whether Jesus really died for our sins—or because dying was less painful than listening to Nana sing. That morning, Nick had been tempted to give the cross a try himself. His broken-down Viper was the icing on the cake. He’d heard trouble came in threes. He must have gotten a double dose, because he was up to five at last count, which meant he had one more to look forward to.
