He lifted up his arms and flew overboard. “Help!” he yelled. The boat swung back and forth. Jodi snatched the ring buoy out of its wire holder and threw it out. The wind caught the buoy and carried it beyond the swimmer.
Christopher swam frantically. She saw his orange hair, his red shirt. He caught the ring. The wind and sea swept him toward shore. He disappeared under a breaking wave and Jodi screamed. She was soaked through. Her cropped hair was plastered to her scalp. Water dripped off the gold rings in her eyebrows and off the stud in her nose. She covered her eyes with her hands and peered out through her fingers, dreading what she might see. A flash of red just this side of the breakers that dashed on the point. She could hear the roar above the wind and the slapping sail. She could barely see him through the rain, still clutching the ring buoy.
His head rose above a wave and disappeared again. He was in the breakers now, tumbling and twisting, still hanging onto the buoy. A towering wave flung him onto the beach and she saw him stagger to his feet, take a few steps, and fall.
The jib, the forward sail, snapped, caught on a stay, and ripped with a shriek. Lines running from the foot of the sail whipped and twisted around the stay.
Jodi was too frightened to think of crawling forward to fix the mess. She wouldn’t have known what to do anyway. She mustn’t fall overboard. She wasn’t a strong swimmer. She knew how cold the water was and she’d seen Chris get beaten up and pounded by the surf.
She shivered. She thought of her four boys. Would she ever see them again? Her muscles cramped.
What could she do? Was Chris alive or dead? Would the anchor hold? There was no way she could unwrap the anchor line from the prop. Even if she could, the boat would be tossed onto the rocks.
All this raced through her mind and with it the ever-present thought of her four boys. Her cell phone was dead. How would she get home? What would she tell Jonah?
Too many questions. She dropped into the cockpit, where she was sheltered from the wind, and cried.
* * *
At Cronig’s big storefront window, Price Henderson and Bill O’Malley watched the deluge for some minutes without speaking. Katherine, the egg woman, had left them and slogged through the rain to her car. She’d taken off with a rooster tail of water trailing behind her.
Price thought about his boat. The boat was safe enough, but he wasn’t confident about the two he’d left in charge.
O’Malley set his foot on the low sill and leaned an elbow on his thigh. “I’m leaving as soon as there’s a break in the rain. I’d be happy to drop you off at the path to the cove, but this isn’t going to let up for a long time.” He pointed a thumb at the bag of groceries that filled Price’s backpack. “I don’t suppose you’d care to wait for the rain to let up at my place, would you? I can offer you a nonalcoholic beer. I don’t drink.”
Price looked at his watch. Going on three.
“You’ll be able to see your boat from my living room window.”
Price lifted the heavy backpack from his shoulders and set it on the floor. “I don’t want to trouble you…”
O’Malley laughed.
“Well…” said Price.
O’Malley set his foot back on the floor and stood up straight. “Whatever you three are doing out there is pret-ty strange.” He arched his back and sighed. “However, I figure it’s none of my business. I have my own affairs I don’t choose to share.”
Price paused while he thought of his options. Wait at the store and hitch a ride when the rain let up, or take up O’Malley’s offer.
“Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it.”
There was a slight lightening of the sky and O’Malley said, “Looks as though we can make a dash for it.”
Price hefted his backpack and the two raced out to the dump truck and slammed the doors, just as the downpour resumed.
“It’s not what you’d call great rowing weather,” O’Malley said, starting up the truck with a roar. “As soon as it clears, you can walk from my house to your dinghy. It’s shorter than the path.”
The heavy truck passed the Lambert’s Cove turnoff and wound its way up a long dirt road, slick with mud and newly washed out in places. They stopped next to a sprawling old house that must have been there for generations. The house was on top of a cliff and faced the Sound. Off to one side was a barn. In clear weather, the view must be spectacular, Price thought. Right now, the rain was a curtain that closed off everything beyond the cliff edge.
Price set his backpack on the entry floor and realized he was filthy. He stepped into the kitchen and hesitated before going any farther. He could take his shoes off, but he knew his feet were filthy, too, and probably stained from the wet leather of his boat shoes.
While he stood there, O’Malley lit the fire. Price could see the living room through the kitchen. Beige and cream overstuffed chairs, an antique rug.
“Go ahead, take them off,” said O’Malley, returning to the kitchen and nodding at the shoes. “There’s a towel by the door to dry your feet. Don’t worry about the furniture. It’s seen worse.”
The fire and the beer, nonalcoholic though it was, soothed Price, and he relaxed.
“Is this a family house?” he asked.
“Built by my great-grandfather,” said O’Malley.
After they talked about O’Malley’s house, they had nothing more to say. Price had no intention of discussing his academic work—that would lead to awkward questions. Nor did he want to talk about his search for a dead father. He certainly didn’t want to talk about the reason he’d anchored his boat for the past week within sight of O’Malley.
He stood and went to the window that overlooked the Sound. Sheets of rain slashed against the small panes.
“See your boat?” asked O’Malley.
“I can’t even see the cove,” said Price.
“You’ll catch a glimpse when the rain lets up.”
A few minutes later, while he stood at the window, wishing the view would open up, it did, briefly. Then the curtain closed again.
“You see it okay?” asked O’Malley.
“No. I must not be looking in the right direction.”
O’Malley got up from his chair, his bottle of O’Doul’s in hand, and stood next to Price. “Next time it clears, look right there.”
“I did,” said Price. “But I didn’t see my boat.”
CHAPTER 26
The disabled whaler, with Victoria, Elizabeth, and the Vineyard Haven harbormaster aboard, was towed back in the pouring rain to the harbormaster’s dock by the Annie B, the shipyard’s boat. Victoria was right—water in the fuel line.
“Thanks, Butch,” said Richard Williams.
“No problem.” Butch, a black-bearded, curly-haired Newfoundlander, was the pilot of the Annie B. He let go the tow lines and jerked his thumb at the harbormaster. “If you and Mrs. T apply for a job at the shipyard, she gets it.” With that, he spit out a stream of sunflower-seed shells, shifted into gear, and took off.
Elizabeth laughed.
“Pain in the rear end,” muttered Richard, turning to work on the fuel line.
Victoria, still in the seat next to the console, crossed one long leg over the other and, with a faint smile, examined her fingernails.
* * *
Christopher Wrentham pushed himself to his knees and tried to get to his feet. No strength left. He was soaked and chilled. Rain beat down on him and wind whipped his wet jeans around his legs. His red wool shirt clung to him. He had crawled out of the reach of the angry surf. He was shivering and knew he had to get warm somehow. He suspected he’d been hurt, but was so numb he could only think of getting warm. The beach had a narrow sand strip bounded by cobbles the size of baseballs at the surf line, and by a low cliff at his back. Surf broke over partly submerged car-size rocks, sending sprays of icy water high into the air. It was a wonder he hadn’t been smashed against them. He had to get warm. He had to get out of the wind and rain.
The low cliff faced the wind and
provided no shelter. He didn’t have much strength left. Inch by inch he crawled around the point until he reached a slightly hollowed-out place that was out of the wind. He understood hypothermia. But he didn’t care anymore. He curled up, knees bent, arms tucked close to his chest, and wrapped his wet wool jacket around him as best he could.
* * *
Bruce Steinbicker’s woman friend, Daphne, had intended to stay for the entire two weeks, but decided to leave early. She planned to take the three-forty-five ferry. Bruce, who had looked forward to this rendezvous, was relieved. After a week, Daphne had lost much of her allure.
Starting at noon, all ferry runs were cancelled.
He wanted to check on his anchored boat after Daphne left. With the wind and rain lashing the Island like this, there was absolutely no way he would go out on the water.
So Bruce and Daphne decided to make the best of it. They lit a fire in the main room of Chris Wrentham’s guesthouse and snuggled down for a cozy time. Wind howled, rain beat against the windows. Branches lashed the shingles and the electricity flickered on and off, giving them just enough time to find the candles and matches all Islanders keep for such occasions.
“This is so romantic, darling,” said Daphne, snuggling close to Bruce. “A lovely way to end a special time. I really ought to call my husband. He’ll be so worried about me in this storm.”
“Ummm,” said Bruce, nuzzling her neck.
“I just hope he doesn’t decide to call Marylou.”
Bruce’s voice, so familiar to television viewers, was muffled. “Marylou?”
“Oooooh!” said Daphne. “I told my husband I was staying with Marylou. Stop that, darling! I really should call.”
“Phones are out,” said Bruce, unbuttoning the top button of her blouse.
“It’s been a glorious week,” she murmured. “What a … oooooh! special time.”
Bruce didn’t answer.
“Ummmmmm!” said Daphne.
* * *
Price Henderson turned away from the window. “I don’t see my boat.”
Bill O’Malley set his bottle of O’Doul’s on the coffee table, got up from the couch, and went over to where Price stood staring out into the storm.
“Can’t see a thing,” said O’Malley, wiping condensation from the glass.
There was a brief view of the cove through the heavy rain. “There!” said Price.
“I still don’t see anything,” said O’Malley.
“That’s it. That’s where my boat was anchored.”
“Maybe you got your bearings wrong.”
Price turned to him. “You saw my boat, O’Malley. You’ve been watching us for a week.” He pointed at the storm raging outside. “Right there. That’s where she should be. I know my boat. She’s not there.”
“Probably slipped anchor.” O’Malley took a long swig of his O’Doul’s. “Not much you can do about it now. When she drifts into shoal water, the anchor will grab hold.”
“If she drags her anchor, she could fetch up on the rocks on the lee shore. Those two people aboard know zilch about boats.” Price left the window and headed for the entry where he’d left his jacket and shoes. “I’ve got to get out there. Would you give me a ride back to the cove?”
“What do you plan to do there, row your dinghy out in this?” O’Malley gestured at the raging storm.
“I have to locate my sailboat.”
“It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”
“Listen, O’Malley, I’ve got to do something. I can’t just stand by the window wondering if my boat is smashing up on the rocks with those two hanging onto the rigging.”
“Okay.” O’Malley set his bottle on the floor and got up. “I’ll go with you.” He went to the hall closet and brought out yellow foul-weather jackets, life jackets, a coil of rope, and a Maglite. “We can take my boat. It’s at the foot of the bluff. Closer than driving.”
They headed to the cliff path with the wind flattening their oilskins against their backs, sailing them along. Once they reached the path and had gone a few feet down they were somewhat sheltered. The steady downpour worked its way through openings in Price’s jacket, sending trickles of cold water down his back.
A small boathouse stood at the foot of the bluff, the front half built out over the water on pilings. Its wide front door faced the water. O’Malley opened a side door and Price saw a powerboat, about eighteen feet long, hanging in slings above the water.
From here, with his back to the wind, the cove was protected and the water seemed almost placid. Price knew this was misleading. The storm had built up hazardous waves only a few hundred feet from shore. He had a sick feeling about his boat. If the anchor didn’t catch, one of two things could happen. His boat could wreck on the rocks of Paul’s Point, or she might clear the point and be swept out into Vineyard Sound. And from there … Who knew where it would end up?
Visibility was only a few feet with an occasional break where they could see several hundred feet. Not enough to see the opposite shore of the cove, a mile away. In those brief glimpses, Price could see the backsides of heaving waves, almost like a pod of whales breaching.
Inside the boathouse, O’Malley handed Price a winch handle, and they lowered the boat in its slings into the water. O’Malley started the engine blower to clear out any fumes, checked the instruments, and they headed out. They’d gone only a short distance from the shelter of the bluff when the full force of the wind hit them.
“This is really stupid!” shouted O’Malley, turning to Price, who was standing behind him. The hood of his jacket blew back. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. Wind blasted them from behind and they surfed over the backs of breaking waves. Price looked back at the boathouse, but it had already disappeared in the rain and spray. A mountainous wave broke over the stern, filling the cockpit with icy water.
“That’s it. I’m turning back,” shouted O’Malley. “This is insane! Next breaker is going to flood the motor.”
He turned the wheel sharply. During the seconds it took the boat to respond, they were broadside to the waves. A torrent of water poured over the side into the cockpit.
“Bail!” shouted O’Malley, and Price scrambled for the cutoff Clorox bottle that floated in the bilge. He scooped water overboard as rapidly as he could, feeling helpless as he tried to keep up with the chilly water that poured in over the side. Once around, they faced into fearsome breakers, quite different from the smooth backs they’d sped over in the other direction. The following wind had swept them along a quarter mile or more. Now they had to beat back against the wind. With rain and sea spray in his face, Price could see nothing.
Suddenly, when Price had lost hope of ever getting back to their starting point, they reached the shelter of the bluff. The water was unnervingly calm.
O’Malley let out a deep breath, turned the boat to face out, and backed into the boathouse.
Price continued to bail until what remained he could sop up with a wrung-out rag. Without saying a word, they winched the boat out of the water and made their way up the slippery muddy path back to O’Malley’s house.
They shed their wet gear and relit the fire. Inside, the rattle of rain on the windows and the howl of the wind made their journey out into the storm seem remote.
Price stood near the fire, wet clothes steaming.
“I’m sticking to O’Doul’s,” said O’Malley. “Go ahead and pour yourself a stiff Scotch.”
“Thanks,” said Price. “I will.”
CHAPTER 27
Professor Phillip Bigelow spent most of a sleepless night listening to the howling wind and beating rain, worried about things over which he had no control. He finally fell asleep and woke in time to drive over to the paper boat dock in Falmouth. The sun wasn’t up yet.
“Mornin’,” said Capt. Littlefield cheerfully.
“Yes,” said Bigelow, frowning.
“Not too bad this morning,” Capt. Littlefield said, taking Bigelow’s money and stashing it
in an ancient cash register drawer under a heavy metal shackle. “Sea’s down, but there’s a few rollers out there. Got your sea legs?”
Bigelow, who hadn’t had time for coffee, grunted.
Capt. Littlefield heaved a bundle of newspapers onto the deck of the boat docked beside the shack and climbed aboard. Bigelow followed. The entire afterdeck was stacked with bundles of newspapers. Boston Globe. New York Times. Washington Post. Wall Street Journal.
The engines were running and the boat shook with the rhythm. Diesel fumes made Bigelow a touch queasy.
“We land in Oak Bluffs, you know,” the captain said, over the sound of the engine. “If you’re going to Vineyard Haven, you’ll have trouble getting a ride at this hour. You can always walk. Only about four miles.”
Bigelow looked at his watch. “How long will it take us to get to the Island from here?”
“Little over a half-hour. We’re faster than the Steamship Authority boats.” Littlefield uncleated lines and tossed them onto the dock, then went back to the wheel and pulled away, looking over his shoulder.
Bigelow said nothing as he seated himself on a bench beside dozens of stacks of newspapers. Once settled, he folded his arms over his chest. The fumes were getting to him. “Order a taxi for me, if you would, please, Captain.”
The captain pushed his hat back and guffawed. “You’re a pretty comical feller, I’d say.”
Bigelow stared at him, but the captain was intent on the boat’s instruments and didn’t seem to notice Bigelow’s disdain. He’d pulled out a microphone from above his head and was muttering into it something Bigelow couldn’t hear above the engine noise. Clearly, he was not calling a cab.
They eased out of the harbor and in a short time were on the open Sound. Heavy swells lifted the boat and then dropped it again with a sickening motion. Capt. Littlefield pushed the throttle forward and the boat sped up, trailing a curling wake astern.
For the entire trip across this vast, heaving sea, with its oily swell and its sensation of imminent death, Capt. Littlefield didn’t say another word to Bigelow, who was just as glad not to be obliged to hold a conversation with this man. He couldn’t have heard him, anyway.
Poison Ivy Page 17
