"Hello, my name is Sabrina Windham. My grandfather, Don Windham, designed the Zephyrus sailboat. I'm trying to locate a Mr. Blair who may have purchased one. Do you know anything about this boat?"
She paused. After a second or two, the querulous voice responded. "Sailboat? Eh? You looking for Don Windham's sailboat?"
Finally a lead in her quest. Sabrina's heart raced. "Yes, do you know anything about a Zephyrus sailboat?"
"Sailboat, eh? Yes, I have one. It's in sorry shape, girly. You don't want this one."
Excited, Sabrina paced the sitting room ignoring his comment about the boat's condition. "You have a Zephyrus? May I ask you, which year?"
"Eh? Speak up, girly. I don't hear so well."
"Sorry," she raised her voice. "What year was the boat built?"
"Why, the first year, girly. Don Windham owed me money for a truck and trailer, so he traded me a new boat for it."
Sabrina pumped her fist excitedly.
"Mr. Blair, I would like to visit you and look at this boat. Is that okay? Will you allow me to see it?"
"Sure; I don't mind. She's been sitting by the barn for nearly twenty years now. Put 'er in storage after I retired. Kids didn't want it, and I'm too old to sail a fast boat."
Sabrina confirmed his address and told him she would be in Rhode Island on Saturday. Again using the Internet, she made a hotel reservation near Mr. Blair's zip code. Then she hurried to the hospital to update Rose.
"I don't know, Grandmother. This could be it," she said, her cheeks flushed.
Rose raised a weak hand, which Sabrina grasped.
"I hope so, dear. Mr. Blair? I don't remember him, but I do remember Don coming home one night with a dreadful truck and trailer. The thing was a rust bucket; it had a dragging muffler and it backfired when he revved the engine."
Rose closed her eyes and smiled, as if reliving the joy of an argument with her long-gone husband. "Don had just started building boats, and he said he needed a truck to move them to the dock. I don't remember if he traded the first one they built."
"I'm going to see Mr. Blair this weekend. He lives near Warren, Rhode Island.
That's where you and Grandfather lived, isn't it?"
Rose nodded. "Yes. It's a small town on the Warren River, north of Narragansett Bay. Not many people lived there, but it was close to Providence, as well as Newport and Bristol. And, we could afford the rent."
"May I use your car, Grandmother?"
"Certainly, dear. I'm not going anywhere."
* * *
Friday approached and she decided to keep her dinner date with Robert Hall. She felt a bit guilty, going out while Rose lay in the hospital, but the old woman insisted.
"I don't want you rattling around in that old, drafty house every night," Rose cautioned.
Sabrina acquiesced, but pointed out the obvious. "You rattle around in it and have for decades."
"That's different. I'm an old woman and I deserve to live with my ghosts. You, on the other hand, are young and beautiful and it would be a waste of your spirit. Now go," she said, squeezing Sabrina's hand. "Robert Hall is quite a catch."
"I'm not looking for romance," Sabrina said, blushing at Rose's gentle teasing.
"That's exactly when it looks for you," the old woman warned.
* * *
Early Friday evening, she stood before the cheval glass mirror in her bedroom, critically examining her outfit. She hadn't brought many clothes with her but at the last minute, she tucked her dressiest cocktail dress in a suitcase. The blue charmeuse strapless gown featured a sweetheart neckline with pleated bodice. The casually tossed matching shawl complemented the tea length gown, wrapping around her long neck and trailing softly down her back. She styled her long dark hair casually, letting it flow over her bare shoulders. She applied a slick of lipstick and then blinked her eyes, making sure the blackened lashes were dry. No need to look like a raccoon.
She felt a thrill of panic when the doorbell rang. It had taken nearly ten years, but Robert had arrived.
His eyes measured her as she stood in the open doorway. Did he find her lacking, she wondered. He raised a corsage for her to inspect, and lifted her left hand. He slid the small, white rosebud onto her wrist and stepped back. Sabrina gazed at the delicate flower, attached to a diaphanous bracelet of thin, stretchy ribbon. Then her eyes lifted to measure Robert.
No, he did not lack. He wore a hand-tailored black suit, lavender shirt and hand-painted silk tie. His short dark hair and smooth cheeks completed the image of a male model. Sabrina leaned toward him and inhaled. He even smelled like power, his tantalizing cologne stirring her senses.
"You look lovely tonight, Sabrina," he said. "Shall we go?"
Sabrina nodded and shut the door behind her, locking it and dropping the house key into her small evening bag. Robert's hand barely touched her elbow as he guided her to a sleek Audi sports car.
"Now this is lovely," she said, breathless.
"Do you like cars?" he asked.
"Well, I like this one."
As she sank into the luxurious interior, she caressed the butter-soft leather seats, admired the simple artistry of the expensive machine.
Robert slid behind the wheel, turned the ignition and the formidable motor growled. "It's only a few blocks, so we'll take it easy. But if you like, after dinner, we can take a drive to Breakthrough Lake. I'll show you how fast it can go."
Sabrina gripped her lower lip between small, white teeth. They practically glowed against the dark red lip. Robert noticed and thought about her lush lips opening beneath his.
Unaware of his tension, she continued to worry her bottom lip. "I'm a bit of a conservative, Robert," she admitted. "I don't think I would care to drive too fast."
Robert let the topic drop and within a few minutes, he parked in front of the town's best Italian restaurant, Dante's. Sabrina waited for him to open her door, then she swept long legs out of the car, took his hand and stood. She flipped the matching shawl back in place, the teal band encircling her slender neck, the ends snaking down her bare back.
Oblivious to the feral look in his eyes, Sabrina clasped her hands and purse in front of her. "I'm famished."
As they walked through the restaurant towards Robert's reserved table, he paused at a booth where a couple sat intimately sipping wine and whispering.
"Erica?"
Sabrina stopped abruptly, nearly plowing into Robert. She peeked curiously around his wide shoulders at the couple and saw the friendly young woman from the bookstore.
"Robert! How nice to see you," Erica said.
He looked pointedly at the man sitting next to her.
Erica caught his message. "Oh, excuse me. This is Clay Knight. Clay, this is Robert Hall."
The man stood, nodded at Robert and extended his hand. They shook and exchanged brief greetings.
"Nice to meet you."
"Same here."
Robert, always suave and polite, stepped to the side and slid a possessive arm around Sabrina's waist. "Erica, you recall Sabrina Windham. From the bookstore," he said.
Erica nodded and smiled engagingly. Clay extended his hand in greeting. "Nice to meet you, Sabrina."
Robert frowned, then subtly pulled Sabrina towards his chest. "Please, enjoy your dinner," he said curtly. "I'll see you tomorrow, Erica."
Then he escorted Sabrina to his table where first the restaurant owner and then the waitress fawned over him.
As she studied the menu, Sabrina realized that Robert Hall led an extraordinary life, surrounded by people in awe of his breathtaking good looks and elegant style. He seemed to expect it, as if he considered it his due. It must be difficult, she thought, to be so beautiful. It's as if everyone wants a piece of him, wants to touch him, to taste him. She recalled seeing his younger sister, Katrina Hall, and having the opinion that both were so startling beautiful, they were almost unreal. She wanted to lay a comforting hand on his, but then she would be like all the rest of them. Wanting to t
ouch him.
As dinner progressed, her heart continued to lighten under his compliments and admiring glances but strangely, all she could think about was leaving for Rhode Island in the morning. Her quest to find the Zephyrus took priority over her companion's charms.
Declining his offer of a late-night drive along the lakefront, Sabrina soon found herself back on her doorstep, her house key in her hand. Spending time with Robert was everything she dreamt of as a young girl, but her trip to New England dominated her thoughts. He took her hands in his, brushed his lips against her cheek and said goodnight. "Please give Rose my best wishes. Perhaps I'll see you again while you're in town?"
She nodded distractedly. "I will, and yes, perhaps. Thank you for a lovely evening, Robert." Then she slipped inside, closing the door on her youth.
* * *
Sabrina rose at six, packed her suitcase and headed East on I-80. She estimated it would take at least six hours to get to Rhode Island, and she wanted to leave herself enough time to eat lunch and freshen up before driving to Mr. Blair's house. Her stomach twisted nervously. This kind of impetuous behavior wasn't normal for her. She left spontaneity and reckless impulse to her parents, Norman and Marta.
She turned on the radio, hoping the distraction would settle her anxiety. Unaccustomed to driving in traffic, she was a bundle of nerves by the time she crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge in New York. "It's all downhill from here," she told herself. Then she hit the Connecticut traffic on I-95.
"Where do all these people come from? It's not even rush hour," she snarled.
Instead of six hours, the drive took eight. She pulled into Warren around two o'clock, her stomach rumbling from hunger. She drove south on Route 136, Market Street, looking for a café. She didn't want fast food; she needed to sit in a booth and eat slowly, waiting for the roar in her ears to subside. She drove past a cheery blue-and-white wooden sign with a sailboat and arrow. It read "Warren Boatyard." In the distance, the Warren River twinkled. She spotted piers and white boats behind many houses. Finally, she found a small coffee shop and pulled in. The Cadillac's large engine hissed when she turned off the ignition.
Sabrina closed her eyes, savoring the quiet. She drove straight through, stopping only once at a rest area in Matamoras, Pennsylvania. It was a nerve-wracking experience for a city girl whose jaunts were measured in blocks.
For a Saturday afternoon, the small town was quiet. A young couple walked their terrier down the sidewalk, and a lone man sat outside the coffee shop reading a newspaper. Sabrina picked up her purse and got out of the car. She wasn't sure if she should lock it.
Silly; this isn't Baltimore, she thought.
Inside the small restaurant, she told herself she chose wisely. She selected a fresh garden salad, a bowl of mushroom barley soup, a multi-grain roll, and a strawberry smoothie from the surprisingly eclectic menu. "This is wonderful," she gushed, spooning the last of the soup into her mouth before the waitress could clear the dishes. "I haven't had soup like this since … um, never."
"It's a specialty of ours. We make the best soups in town. No kidding. You should try the fudge, too. Killer," the waitress said, winking.
"I will. Thanks," she said. "Is it always this quiet? I'm visiting from out of town."
"Well, it's too late for the lunch crowd but it's not normally this deserted," she said, looking out the large front window.
Sabrina paid her bill, left a large tip and took along a serving of fudge for later. She drove by the hotel and, since it was after three o'clock, checked into her room. She stashed her suitcase beside the bed and took few minutes to wash her face, freshen her makeup and brush her hair.
She changed into a pair of jeans and sneakers, recalling that Mr. Blair said the boat was stored near a barn. She grabbed her lightweight black leather coat, and brushed breadcrumbs off her maroon tailored shirt. She tugged at the V-neck, now worried that it was too low and too tight.
"I hope he doesn't think I'm making a pass at him," she said to her reflection. She double checked her teeth for stray flecks of pepper, then slid her hotel key card into her back pocket.
Back in the Cadillac, Sabrina looked at the directions, wishing she'd brought a state map along instead of a one-page computer print out. The instructions to his house were clear, but what if she made a wrong turn? How would she make it back to the starting point? She shrugged, and started the car.
Traffic was still light, and she offered a brief prayer of thanks. A few minutes later, after turning right, checking the directions, turning left, checking them again, and trying to keep her eye on her mileage (how the heck can you go 1.7 miles?), she stopped the car in front of a small, battered two-story house. In the distance, she saw a barn. Behind that, the Warren River sparkled.
She pulled into the unpaved driveway and parked a few yards from a sagging front porch. As she stepped out of the car, Mr. Blair, a bent old man in overalls and a faded, plaid shirt, ambled down the porch steps.
"Good afternoon," he rasped. "You the Windham girl I talked with the other day?"
"Yes sir," she said, extending her hand. His grasp was strong and his blue eyes twinkled.
"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?"
"Thank you, Mr. Blair." She gestured with a nod to the barn. "Is the Zephyrus over there?"
"Ah yup. Guess you're anxious to see it, aren't you?"
"I am. I'm very excited. I've never seen one of my grandfather's boats before."
"Eh? Why not?"
"After he died, my grandmother moved to the mountains of Pennsylvania. I live in Baltimore, and don't have much time for recreation."
"That's too bad. Coming from a sailing family as you do, you should have blue water in your veins. Well, come on along."
He shuffled through the tall grass, his feet unfailingly finding the path to the barnyard. Sabrina cringed when the small old man pushed against a heavy wooden gate. She thought she should lend a shoulder, but then the gate creaked and swung open. Chickens cackled and raced out the opening of the barn.
"Don't mind them. They like to nap in here," Blair said.
In the shadows on the side of the barn, covered with several faded and torn tarps, she could make out a large lump that must be the sailboat. She tiptoed towards it, unsure what might be living inside. Blair wasn't as shy. He strode forward and yanked the tarps off the boat.
Sabrina gasped. It was chalky white, with black streaks running down the hull. The bent mast lay across the cockpit, crushing the bow pulpit. Varnish peeled off the faded teak trim.
She looked closer. There were bales of moldy hay on the cockpit seats and she could hear the "cheep cheep" of tiny peeps in the cabin.
It sat in a rusted, steel cradle, and its broken lead keel lay beside it. Blair plucked a ladder from the side of the barn and leaned it against the boat hull with a thud. "Help yourself, missy. Have a good look."
"I'm not sure what to look for," she murmured.
"Well, what is it you want to know?"
"I'm searching for Hull Number One; the first boat my grandfather made.
Your invoice was the earliest, and I was hoping that maybe this boat …" her voice faded.
"Well, what you gotta do is climb up in there and look in the cabin. There's a bronze builder's plate on one of the walls. That's where it tells you the hull number. Why do you want Hull Number One?"
"A personal quest, I guess you could say."
He stepped back. "Like I said, help yourself."
Sabrina climbed the ladder and stepped gingerly into the cockpit. She looked over the edge. "In there?"
"Ayuh."
She inched towards the cabin opening and removed the warped teak washboards. "Do you have a flashlight?"
"Nope. I have a lighter. Want it?"
"Um, sure. Thanks." She caught the deftly tossed stainless steel Zippo lighter. She flipped the lid and timidly rubbed the wheel. After a few tries, the spark caught igniting a small butane flame. She looked inside. The cabin was filled
with several inches of black, oily water. Chicken feathers floated on the surface.
"Where did this water come from?" she called over her shoulder.
"Hatch leaks."
She didn't want to step into the rank water, so she leaned in and reached her arm forward, the flame casting shadows on the washed-out teak. The lighter was growing hot, beginning to burn her fingers. She couldn't see a bronze plate. She almost gave up, had pulled her hand back toward her face when out of the corner of her eye she saw it. It was on the bulkhead by the cabin opening. She clung to the teak grab rails and leaned inside.
It read, "Zephyrus 32, No. 1, Zephyrus Yachts, Warren, Rhode Island."
"Yes!" she whispered.
* * *
Walking back to her car, Sabrina wished she could ask Rose what to do next. She didn't know how to buy a boat, didn't know what kind of questions to ask, so she started with the most important.
"I want to buy it. Will you sell?"
"Well, you see, I'm fond of that boat."
"But you haven't taken care of it. You can't sail it. Why would you want to keep it?"
"I don't. I'm just warming up."
"I don't understand. You do want to sell the boat, then?"
"Maybe. How much?"
"I don't know. What's a boat like that worth?"
"It's worth $5,000 to me."
"What? That's what you paid thirty years ago. I know, I've got the invoice," she cried, pulling the folded paper from her jeans pocket.
"That's what its worth. Do you want it?" The canny old man leaned against the Cadillac and squinted at her.
"Yes."
"Then we gotta deal," he said, sticking out his hand.
Sabrina cautiously took it. "Will you accept a check?"
The old man looked at her car, then her, then the car again. "Sure."
* * *
Back at the hotel, Sabrina called Rose. She whispered into the cell phone, not wanting to disturb her. "It's here, Grandmother. I've found it."
West Wind Page 4
