by Nell Stark
Biting her lip, Quinn sheeted in slightly on the line that controlled the main sail, then eased the main again as she coasted toward the bright red lifesaver just a few feet ahead. She quickly transferred the line to her tiller hand, leaned down, and snagged the flotation device out of the water.
“Nice,” said Corrie, grabbing hold of the flapping jib sheets and pulling hard. “Perfect that time. Let’s do it again.” As Quinn tossed the lifesaver out to port, Corrie leaned forward and cupped her hands around her mouth. “I want to see two more man-overboards from each of you!” she called to the other boats. “Remember—figure eight! Fall off the wind, come up and tack, and then do a close-hauled landing on the lifesaver!”
“That was really okay?” Quinn asked anxiously as she steered their boat downwind.
Corrie, in the process of settling herself back on the thwart, turned and looked at her, clearly surprised. “Of course. What, you don’t believe me?”
Quinn shrugged, eyes focused on the red square bobbing gently on the waves off starboard. “I just want to be sure.” When Corrie slid aft along the gunwale and touched her forearm, Quinn briefly met her gaze.
“You should trust me.” When Quinn didn’t answer, Corrie’s eyes narrowed mischievously. It was only after Quinn had salvaged the flotation device once more that she spoke up again.
“In fact,” she said, gently grasping Quinn’s wrist before she could toss the lifesaver back into the Pond, “you have to trust me. Because I trust you to come back and get me.”
And before Quinn could open her mouth, Corrie released her wrist and pushed herself out of the boat. The splash was substantial. “Man overboard!” she shouted gleefully from the water.
“Oh…oh, crap!” Quinn struggled to keep her balance as the boat reacted to the loss of Corrie’s weight by tilting up significantly so that the far end of the boom was almost touching the water. She tucked her feet under the straps inside the cockpit and hiked out, easing the sail as she extended her body out over the ocean. All alone, she thought, trying to ignore the ache in her abs. I am all alone on a boat meant for two people. Shit.
“Okay, okay. You know what to do. Just did it twice. Bear off and ease...but don’t jibe. Right.” Shifting the tiller away from the sail, Quinn let the mainsheet run through her fingers before risking a brief glance backward. Corrie was floating on her back and whistling, blithely unconcerned.
“I can do this.” Quinn bit down anxiously on her bottom lip as she hauled in on the main sheet and pushed the tiller toward the sail so that the boat spun up toward, and then through, the eye of the wind. Quickly ducking under the boom, she banged her shin against the thwart as she jumped onto the starboard gunwale. Ignoring the sharp pain, she slipped her feet under the hiking strap and leaned back.
“Almost there. Almost.” She angled the boat a little further downwind, in order to come up next to Corrie at a close-hauled course, very near to the wind. “Okay. That’s it. Turn up now, and let the sail go.” As she eased, the main sail began to flap heavily in the brisk wind, and Quinn felt the boat slow almost immediately. “Little more speed...and, stop.”
Corrie watched her methodical approach, struggling not to laugh at the way Quinn talked herself through every maneuver out loud. Cute. You are just really cute. As the boat pulled up alongside her, Corrie flashed Quinn the two-thumbs up. “You’re getting good at that.”
Her praise dispelled most of Quinn’s frown and convinced her that she really should give Corrie a hand getting back into the cockpit. “You deserve to be left behind, after that little stunt,” she said. “Don’t you know this is my first day sailing this boat?”
Corrie evaded her hand. “Well, in that case—” Lunging up out of the water, she grabbed the mast just above where it intersected with the boom and pulled down hard. The boat tilted viciously, and Quinn had just enough time to take a deep breath before she was plunged into the cool, salty water of Judith Pond. She surfaced a second later to the familiar sound of Corrie’s laughter.
“You—you...” she spluttered, trying to find an appropriate epithet and failing miserably. Quinn finally settled for aiming a splash in Corrie’s direction, before swimming around to the other side of the boat and levering herself up onto the centerboard.
“I want to see you guys capsize, too!” Corrie shouted to the frat boys as she latched onto a hiking strap and rode the boat’s momentum enough to boost herself back into the cockpit. “See?” she said as she helped Quinn aboard. “We had to do that anyway, for you to get your rating.” Gathering in the jib sheets with her left hand, Corrie held out her right hand and assumed what she knew to be an endearing smile. “So c’mon...truce?”
Quinn eyed her speculatively. “Only if you buy me ice cream,” she said on impulse before finally grasping the cool, wet hand in her own. When Corrie raised her eyebrows knowingly, Quinn felt herself flush and hurried to explain. “I’m—I’m craving chocolate chip cookie dough.” “Buy me ice cream.” Where did that come from?
Corrie squeezed her hand briefly before releasing it. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded slightly lower than normal. “You’ve got a deal, Dr. Davies.” She jerked her head westward and tightened up the jib. “Let’s head for home.”
*
When the bow of their 470 lightly touched the pier, Corrie tossed some line to Drew, who had come out of the boathouse to meet them. “Good lesson?” he asked Quinn as he efficiently tied the boat off.
“Yes,” she said, glancing once at Corrie, who was bent over the thwart as she raised the centerboard. “Eventful.” When Corrie looked up and winked, Quinn rolled her eyes.
“What?” Drew asked from the pier, looking between them. “C’mon, what?”
“I made her do a real man-overboard,” said Corrie, just before lithely swinging herself across the bow so that she straddled the mast. Drew laughed.
“You fell out of the boat?”
“Jumped out,” Quinn interjected, guiding the boom down into the cockpit as Corrie lowered the sail. “Jumped right out and left me there all alone.”
“Cruel. Very cruel.” Drew watched as Corrie steadied the boat so that Quinn could disembark. “Want to get some practice in for the regatta?”
“In a little while,” Corrie said, smoothly transferring her weight to the dock. She jerked her head toward Quinn as she tugged at the Velcro of her sailing gloves. “Give me half an hour. We need ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” He frowned and looked at Quinn. Corrie’s putting off sailing for ice cream?
“Don’t worry, Drew,” she said, amusement flaring briefly across her face. “I won’t keep her away for long, I promise.”
“I didn’t—” he spluttered. “But—” The pier swayed gently as they walked away from him, toward the boathouse and the small town of Wakefield. “Okay!” he called after them. “I’ll just be here...” His voice trailed off forlornly when neither of them looked back.
“Drew looked so confused,” Quinn said as they fell into step on the fractured concrete sidewalk.
“It can be hard to drag me away from the water.” At Quinn’s curious glance, Corrie grinned flirtatiously. “What can I say, I owe you for that stunt I pulled.”
Quinn didn’t quite know how to reply to that, but neither was she exactly comfortable with the silence that descended between them. “So, uh, will you tell me more about the regatta?” she asked quickly.
“Oh, it’s so much fun!” Corrie’s step took on a slight bounce as they turned the corner and paused at a crosswalk. “The Rhode Island Invitational is open to anyone who can sail a 470, but since a lot of the Olympic sailors are from New England, it gets pretty competitive.” As the light changed, they made their way across the street and turned again. “Some of the best sailors on the eastern seaboard will decide to show up. The whole thing is really just for kicks. It’s not a ranked regatta or anything, but it’s good practice.”
“Olympians,” said Quinn. “That’s impressive. How do you and Drew compare?�
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Corrie shrugged as she pulled open the door of the local ice cream parlor, holding it to one side and gesturing for Quinn to precede her. “We’ll be somewhere in the middle of the pack, probably,” she said, stepping inside. “Doesn’t really matter. We’ll just kick as much butt as we can and have a good time.”
Quinn was surprised at her cavalier attitude but did her best not to show it. Drew had said that Corrie had very nearly been in the Olympics two years ago, and even Quinn knew that you didn’t make it that far in a sport without being able to hold your own in some heavy competition.
“So,” Corrie interrupted her introspection, “chocolate chip cookie dough, you said, right? Cone or dish?”
“Uh, cone.” Their upper arms brushed lightly as Corrie moved past her toward the register, and Quinn couldn’t help but take a step back. Maybe that’s what gets me, she reflected, as Corrie placed their order. She has no concept of personal space.
“Want to walk?” Corrie asked as she handed Quinn a dramatically overburdened ice cream cone and took a large, slurping bite out of the side of her own. When Quinn nodded, Corrie held the door again and followed her out into the muggy heat.
“So,” she said between bites. “Tell me about your pets.”
Quinn frowned, the bridge of her nose wrinkling in a way that made Corrie want to reach one finger out and touch. “Pets?” she asked, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re in vet school,” Corrie said as they began to retrace their route toward the boathouse. “I figured you had a menagerie.”
“I wish!” Quinn sighed heavily. “I don’t even have hermit crabs. My last landlord wouldn’t allow pets of any kind.” She took a careful bite off the top of her cone and shrugged. “Maybe when I move out of Drew’s apartment at the end of the summer. But so many places charge extra or don’t have enough space.”
“Bummer,” Corrie said sympathetically. They slowed to a stop to wait for traffic to pass, and Quinn had to fight the urge to put some extra distance between them. She’s just a close talker. Doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
She peered up at Corrie curiously. “How do you have the space to keep Frog? Your apartment must be huge.”
Corrie looked away and cleared her throat before speaking. “House, actually,” she said. “I have a house.” When Quinn’s eyebrows rose, Corrie found herself hurrying to explain. “My grandfather passed away a few years ago. He was a big sailing maven, and I was his favorite grandchild. Will was so damn jealous. I think he’d always thought that he would get the place. He sailed in the Olympics two years back and was definitely the golden child, but Gramps always liked me better for some reason. God knows he was the only one who...” Corrie trailed off, but when Quinn remained silent, she rolled her eyes.
“Jeez, I’m just confessing my whole life story to you today, aren’t I? Anyway, whatever, point is that I got lucky. Besides, engineering internships tend to pay well.”
“Nice,” said Quinn, more struck by Corrie’s strange demeanor than by the startling news that a graduate student could actually own a house in Wakefield. She almost seems embarrassed, and there’s definitely some kind of major tension between her and her brother. Quinn frowned, wondering whether Drew really knew Corrie as well as he thought he did. He’d described her as beautiful but a little arrogant, charismatic but sometimes manipulative. “Nice and always fun,” he’d said, but also distant. And yet here she was, not distant at all—slightly flushed and slurping ice cream and having awkward moments like a regular human being.
“Well,” Corrie said into the silence as they rounded the corner of the boathouse. Before them, the dark blue expanse of Judith Pond was dotted with dozens of sails in various sizes, shapes, and colors. As if by an unspoken agreement, they both paused to take in the view—just as a windsurfer went down close to shore in a spectacular flailing dive. Corrie threw back her head and howled in laughter.
“Nice biff, Brad!” she shouted. When he managed to water-start while simultaneously flicking her off, she laughed even harder. “Oh god,” she said finally, nudging Quinn’s arm with her elbow. “That was beautiful.”
“Windsurfing looks tough,” was all Quinn could think to reply.
“It’s a little tricky at first.” She looked Quinn up and down. “Let me know when you want to learn, and I’ll be happy to teach you.”
“Uh, sure,” Quinn said, feeling abruptly disconcerted. “I...well, I guess you’d better go practice with Drew, huh?” She focused on taking another nibbling bite from the edge of her cone. “Thanks for the ice cream.”
“Hey, thanks for being such a good sport out there.” Corrie’s hand rested lightly on the bare skin of Quinn’s forearm for an instant. “You sure you don’t want to come hang out for a while longer? I’ll push Drew out of the boat so you can watch him flail around, if you want.”
Quinn opened her mouth to tell Corrie that she had a metric ton of studying to do and that there was no way she could possibly afford to spend more time at the waterfront today, but what came out was, “Sure, okay.”
“‘Okay,’ you want me to push him in?” Corrie said as they continued toward the piers.
“Do what you want. If you try to blame me, I’ll plead the fifth.”
“That won’t stop me from—” Corrie’s mouth suddenly clicked shut and she began to walk faster. “Fuck,” she said through clenched teeth, glaring at the nearest pier.
Quinn wanted to ask what was going on, but didn’t dare. Instead, she followed Corrie’s line of sight. A small crowd had gathered at the pier along with Drew, and they were all watching the antics of someone messing around in a boat inside the mooring field. Quinn blinked in surprise; the sailor—a tall man wearing a white cap—was standing up on both gunwales. And singing. Completely off pitch. Quinn had seen him around the boathouse a few times, but had no idea who he was. All she knew was that if she were to ever try sailing like that, she’d be in the water faster than you could sing “Row, row, row your boat.”
“What the fuck are you doing, William?” Corrie muttered as they set foot on the first wooden slat.
Her brother, Quinn realized—who, at that instant, jumped down off the gunwales into the cockpit to crouch low as he tacked through the wind, only to return to his precarious standing position despite the rocking of the boat. He let out a raucous “Yeeehaw,” and waved in Corrie’s direction. How is he doing that? Quinn wondered. Somehow, in the few seconds it had taken him to tack, he’d managed to adjust the jib as well as the mainsheet. All by himself.
“Hey, li’l sis!” Will shouted as he turned slightly downwind. “How ’bout a race? You and me, each single-handing a 470—right here, right now.”
Corrie shook her head sharply. “Drew and I need to practice, Will.”
“Aw, c’mon!” he yelled back. “No better practice than this!” He tacked back around and sailed close to the pier, pretending to look mournful. “Besides, I just rigged up both these boats with chutes so we could race ’em. You’re not gonna let me down now, are you?”
“Corrie,” Drew said urgently, “I don’t know if trying to single-hand a spinnaker in this kind of wind is a very good ide—”
“C’mon, Cor, where’s that fighting spirit?” Will called. “Let’s go!”
“Fine,” said Corrie, pointedly ignoring Drew.
Jaw set, she shook out her hair before putting it back up in a long ponytail. The end brushed against her shoulders, and Quinn suddenly wondered what her hair would feel like, sliding between her fingers—whether it was as soft and fine as it looked. She caught herself staring and immediately blushed, but fortunately, Corrie wasn’t looking at her at all. Jeez, get a grip! Yes, okay, she’s attractive, but remember what Drew said.
“The speed buoy out at the north end of the mooring field will be the windward mark,” said Will. “Finish line is the same as the start—the end of this pier.” He glanced up at Drew. “How ’bout you count us down, Harris?”
Drew lo
oked from Will to Corrie, who was already putting the rudder into the second boat. “Sure, yeah. Just don’t kill yourselves, okay?”
Will saluted. “Piece of cake, man.”
Quinn fidgeted on the pier as Corrie raised her boat’s mainsail. Corrie hadn’t even looked at her once since her brother’s challenge. It was like no one else existed except the two of them. Wonder what their story is? It made sense that they’d be competitive with each other, but it was clear that Corrie wasn’t having fun. Quinn fought the urge to repeat Drew’s advice about being cautious. Why would she ever listen to me?
Corrie untied the knot that secured her boat to the pier and gave herself a push, then scrambled back into the cockpit. “Two minutes!” Drew hollered, looking at his watch.
Quinn frowned as Corrie headed out toward the ocean, while Will circled back around the end of the dock. She moved closer to Drew. “What’s going on?”
He glanced at her before returning his attention to his watch. “They’re jockeying for starting position,” he said. “The goal is to be as close to the line as possible, but behind it, of course, when the countdown gets to zero.” He paused, then raised his head. “One minute thirty!”
Quinn watched Corrie turn back toward the pier. She was maneuvering within the boat just as fluidly as Will. “Who do you think will win?” she asked Drew quietly.
He shrugged, still staring intently at his watch. “Will was an Olympian, but he’s probably out of practice by now. Thing is, he weighs more. That might really help him. One minute!”
“Help him? Isn’t it better to be lighter?”
“Sometimes,” Drew said, “but sometimes it’s worse. The wind is gusting a lot today. Because he weighs more, Will has the better chance of being able to sail efficiently if it picks up out there. Corrie will have to let her sail out further to keep her boat level.”
