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The Agate Pass did not disappoint.
Rachael tossed her breakfast early and spent much of rest of the thrilling ride though the Pass dry heaving at the grab rail.
The water was swift and the tailwind strong. The Soft Cell made excellent time, circling Bainbridge Island clockwise.
But Rachael missed most of it. When she finally felt strong enough to rise from the gunwale, she collapsed face first onto one of the cockpit's benches and groaned. For five minutes at a time she'd rise from the cold clamminess of the bench cushion and ruminate on the sight of Maggie standing radiant and proud at the helm of the Soft Cell. The ship was heeling over substantially with the force of a substantial tailwind, bucking as the wind danced, but Maggie stood at the helm firm. Chemical hooted in pleasure, still hogtied to the pulpit, bathed in the spray of the churning water. Maggie had the sails trim and the helm steady, the whole craft cut like a bullet through the fast-moving water.
The bile would always quickly rise in the back of Rachael's throat and she quickly had to return to the cold comfort of the bench cushion or end up back at the gunwale. But even through the muddy haze of motion sickness, she was impressed.
The whole morning, from the first word of the murder back at the office to the sight of the Agate Pass Bridge passing overhead, had been a whirl of emotions and new experiences for Rachael. She'd prepared herself before leaving dryland for the emotional hurdle of reconnecting with Maggie. Even before she'd picked up the phone, she'd willed herself to expect the worst. But now, face to face with Maggie, she found herself at a loss to handle the changes that five years had brought to her old lover.
This Maggie, the Maggie aboard the Soft Cell, was so different than the Maggie that Rachael had known back in her day. The Maggie currently piloting a sailing yacht through the dangerous waters of a narrow, rocky pass... well, the old Maggie would have never dreamed of doing anything of the like.
Five years ago, when she'd dropped the bomb on Rachael, Maggie had been so different. When she'd told Rachael she was selling the house they shared, the house Maggie's parents had left her, and buying a sailing yacht to join the Raft, Maggie had seemed so small. No, not small, not less, but... shorter. Rachael could explain it no other way. Though logic told Rachael no one could gain inches in their forties, Maggie genuinely appeared to Rachael more statuesque. For what it was worth, living barefoot aboard the Raft appeared to agree with Maggie. Rachael smiled...
Briefly... then the dry heaves quickly had her bending over the grab rail once again.
Despite weeks of Rachael's protests, emotional fits, and last ditch attempts at groveling, Maggie had followed through with her threat. The house was sold, for pennies on the dollar, leaving Rachael homeless. And then Maggie had run away. To the Raft. Neither of them had seriously entertained the notion of Rachael accompanying her. It was self-evident that Rachael had no desire to live aboard a boat, even set foot on one, and no real festering discontent with society at large. But Maggie had had enough. She'd known that leaving dryland had meant leaving Rachael, and she'd gone regardless. The pain still burned deep inside Rachael. Though she'd buried it deep inside, and almost forgotten exactly where she'd dug the hole to hide it, it still burned inside her.
Had it really been so bad?
Perhaps if Rachael had been more understanding... maybe if she'd been a little more sympathetic when the café had closed, Maggie wouldn't have run away. But no, after five years and so many tears, Rachael could no longer summon up enough self-pity to blame herself. It had been Maggie's decision and Maggie's decision only. Rachael no longer blamed herself, even though, for so many years, she had so desperately wanted to.
The café hadn't been much, hardly even a living wage for Maggie, but it had been her dream. She'd worked so hard to renovate the location – an old storefront facing onto Greenlake – and planned out the menu in meticulous detail. Some half-buried, girly part of Maggie had risen to the forefront, taking on the duties of pastry chef, barista, and entrepreneur with gusto. She'd poured her heart into concocting an assortment of tasty vegan treats to complement the fair-trade, shade-grown coffee.
The results were an unmitigated success, the small shop instantly becoming a go-to stop for morning joggers and walkers circling the lake. Left alone, Maggie could have easily turned the single, hole-in-the-wall shop into a two- or three-café chain, dotting the city. But it was not to be. Less than two years after pulling her first espresso, Maggie was closing the café's doors.
She'd bribed the wrong health inspector.
There'd never been any issues, nothing wrong with the cleanliness or upkeep of Maggie's café, or the food she served. It was just part of doing business, the backhanders paid to the county officials. Out of inexperience, Maggie had bribed the wrong inspector. The one she'd bribed had been from ADA, or OSHA, or something else other than the health department. It was hard to keep track, the inspectors swarmed like files. The bribed official had been happy enough to take the money, though Maggie's store had passed his inspection anyway. Perhaps he made a point to mention in his report that Maggie's café was especially wheelchair accessible. Regardless, the genuine health inspector had failed to see the humor of the situation. Maggie hadn't a second thousand dollars on hand to bribe another inspector, and pleas of poverty fell on deaf ears. Maybe out of spite more than principle, the inspector had shut Maggie's café down.
A new thousand dollars was soon acquired, from Rachael, the bribe paid in full, but the café was never really able to reclaim its former glory. After the skull-and-crossbones yellow tape and the list of health department violations had graced the front doors of the establishment, it was hard to win back clientele. Maggie had tried. But it was soon obvious that there'd be no keeping her head above water.
Inevitably, she'd gotten behind in the rent and the bills from suppliers began to mount up. When the coffee ran dry and the debt collectors started to call, Maggie knew the dream was over. She shut the doors and walked away.
After that, she refused to leave the couch for a month.
She was a lump – a destroyed lump that Rachael passed heading to and from work. She ate junk food and watched TV. Nothing Rachael could do or say could rouse Maggie from her funk. Reminders that things weren't so bad, that there was always another café to be opened, fell against a shield of indifference. Rachael grew annoyed and snippy. Soon, the two of them were no longer speaking at all, sleeping next to each other in silence, going through the motion of their lives, but no longer together.
It must have been during one of Maggie's marathon bouts of television that she came to learn about the Raft.
Everyone knew about the Raft, of course, as it was often in the news. But until the failure of her café, Maggie had always had the deepest disdain for the movement. A bunch of right wing wackos, she'd said. She mirrored the popular opinion of the Raft. But some documentary, or snippet in the news, or daytime talk show had caused Maggie's opinions to make a radical shift. Suddenly, after a month of inactivity, there was new life in Maggie's bones. She dressed and went to the bookshop. Rachael came home to a kitchen table covered by books written by a wide selection of dead white men. Names like Hayek, Rothbard, and Von Mises.
Maggie's political shift was shocking, abrupt, and total.
From no communication, Maggie veered uncontrollably past normal, civil discourse to annoying loudmouth bore. Rachael had always savored conversations over dinner with Maggie. Her wit was remarkable, her social insights keen, and her intellectual curiosity almost boundless. But her dinner conversation quickly devolved into little other than deconstructionist rants about the last fifty years of American history and the government's intervention in it. Maggie's language changed, she began to assume political foundations in Rachael that she didn't possess. She was quick to dismiss and always irritable.
Rachael began to long for the days of the old Maggie. The listless lump on the couch.
So when Maggie, out of the blue, an
nounced her intention of her selling the house and joining the Raft, Rachael had given it little credence. She'd dismissed it as just another out-of-left-field notion that would pass as abruptly as it had appeared.
But as the weeks passed and it became apparent that Maggie was genuinely perusing her plans to put their home on the market, Rachael realized that Maggie had not been joking. She was serious, she was really going to leave dryland and live on a boat. Rachael was devastated. Rachael was hurt. Rachael was angry.
And then, one day, Maggie was gone.
And here they were, five years later, with Rachael throwing up over the grab rail of the very boat Maggie had sold their home to purchase. Rachael righted herself and again watched Maggie at the helm of the Soft Cell. The sun shone on her face and wind whipped the curls of her hair around her face.
Rachael should be mad, she should storm about and stomp her feet and yell. But all Rachael was feeling was a strange inner calm, the pleasure of seeing Maggie safe. When the wire had come and Rachael had assumed that the dead woman was Maggie... but now that was almost forgotten, replaced by the sight of Maggie stand proud and tall at the helm of her boat.
So much taller than that lump on the couch that Rachael remembered.
The Raft Page 10
