Leaf’s words felt like Gramps jamming a finger into Jake’s chest. He shoved it back. “Why didn’t you marry her?”
“You sound like my daughter.” Leaf chuckled. “She’s ashamed that her parents never tied the knot.” A cloud passed over his expression. “My daughter and I don’t see eye-to-eye on much. Man’s got to reject negative energy. Inhale the positive—good food, ocean air, beauty.”
Jake sprayed a stream of water against the deck, and it sloshed against the gunwale. He wanted to hang onto Leaf’s philosophy, but it ran off with the water running through the drain.
Instead, Leaf’s words slammed him against the serrated edge of his grief for Gramps. He needed to man up and face the pain once and for all. Get past it. But not today. All he could imagine was diving into a vat of agony and never climbing out.
Rachel squinted into the sun from the bow as a lanky black teen strode up the finger pier, a rolling suitcase thumping across the boards after him.
Peering through his glasses, he cocked his head at Jake. “Captain Murray?”
Rachel half-listened to Jake welcome Nigel and direct him to his bunk. Two kids in low-slung surfer trunks and flip-flops passed the Queen’s dock box.
Rachel waved. “Yo, guys. Looking for the Smyrna Queen?”
A backwards baseball cap mashed onto snowy almost-dreads jerked up. The boys about-faced in front of the bow.
“Welcome aboard, men.” She stretched her arm down over the life lines toward the kid in the Inlet Charley’s Surf Shop T-shirt. “Rachel.”
His eyebrows arched above his mirrored sunglasses. “Keenan.”
She would have gotten a firmer handshake from a hunk of seaweed. “And?” She held out her hand to dreads.
“Pete.”
Pete slapped her five. She was so going to teach these boys how to shake hands like men. She checked her clipboard. “Stateroom One.” She waved them toward the main cabin.
Behind Pete, a red-haired man and woman and three similarly blessed kids walked up the dock.
Jake shook hands with the dad. The tallest and most-freckled kid, sporting an I’m-totally-embarrassed-by-my-family look, moped toward his bunk as six more boys boarded the Queen in a cacophony of parental warnings, awkward good-byes, and luggage thudding onto the deck.
Twenty minutes later, Rachel cranked a manual can opener around a massive can of baked beans in the galley. Oh man, this was a seriously bad choice for the first meal of the cruise. She had a straight shot at Jake chatting with the boys in the cockpit, a grin playing cat and mouse on his face.
He’d been good for her. He provided an ever-present yardstick to measure Bret by. And, if she used the term loosely, he’d become a friend in the time they’d sailed together.
Jake shoved the curls off his forehead and squashed his University of South Florida baseball cap back onto his head. He cleared his throat to get the boys’ attention and pointed to the heavy wooden beam where the mainsail was furled. “The boom demands your attention at all times. If it clocks you, you could be knocked unconscious into the drink or killed. When someone yells, ‘Coming about!’ you duck. Then, look for the boom.”
Even surfer Pete, who lounged in the far corner of the cockpit, paid attention. Jake’s mix of respect and firmness would have made him an excellent teacher. One more thing to admire about him. One more career option a dyslexic wouldn’t consider.
Chapter 8
On Tuesday morning Rachel stood on the fore cabin and stared up at the mainsail luffing in the miniscule breeze. Nigel and Keenan sniggered on the fore deck. Heavy metal blared from below. Pete, propped against the aft cabin, cleaned his toe nails with a paper clip. An idea Jake would try to shoot down took shape in her head.
She looked down at Jake who stood in the cockpit beside the wheel. “The guys are bored.”
“Noticed.”
Rachel fanned her T-shirt away from her swimsuit. “We’re not behind schedule, are we?”
Jake squinted at her. “Not yet.”
“Let’s throw out a tow line and let the boys swim.”
Jake shrugged.
“Your enthusiasm is killing me.” Rachel ducked in and out of the aft cabin. She dribbled her basketball the length of the boat.
The rest of the boys streamed onto deck. Rachel fired the ball between the bowsprit and its railing. “Guys, that’s a basket. Choose up teams.” She tossed her T-shirt onto the cabin and dove overboard. When she came up, all eyes riveted to her. She swam for the ball.
“This is water dribbling.” She demonstrated by swimming with her head out of the water, keeping the ball in front of her on the glassy ocean. “No sitting on the ball. No dunking the guy with the ball—that’ll be a foul.”
Rachel climbed back onto the deck. Water ran off her body and pooled at her feet. “The most important rule—” She took a couple of breaths. “Lose my basketball and you die.”
Forty-five minutes later, the game degenerated into a cannon-ball contest off the bow.
Rachel dropped onto the cockpit bench across from Jake. Her breath came in short bursts. She leaned against the coaming. “I’m too out of shape for this sort of thing.”
Jake cocked his eyebrows. “You looked like you were holding up fine, but I don’t know about the Queen’s decks.”
“You’re like a little old lady about this boat.” Rachel leaned her head back. Cool water dripped out of her hair and down her back. The sails slackened and smoothed out as they caught small puffs of wind. Her eyes drooped shut.
“Man the helm for me?” Jake’s words mingled with the shouts, running feet, grunts, and splashes off the foredeck.
“Mmmm.”
“You’d do a better job with your eyes open.”
At this speed, it hardly mattered. Rachel slit her eyes anyway and grabbed for the wheel. “Whatever.”
Jake sprinted the length of the deck and spun a near perfect one-and-a-half off the bow.
Now that was worth opening my eyes for.
He swam the length of the boat with smooth, easy strokes. Pete raced along beside him with an unpolished surfer’s crawl. Keenan, lacking the muscle and stamina of the others, fell behind in the impromptu race.
Keenan drifted toward the stern and climbed up the transom ladder. He slumped onto the seat across from Rachel. Blond hair matted to his head. Sparse chin hairs caught the sun, accentuating the tough-guy glint in his green eyes.
“That B-ball game was wicked.”
“You’re a natural at basketball. You line up and shoot. The ball is an extension of your hand when you dribble. Why don’t you go out for the NSB High team?”
“No way!” But his shoulders and the firm line of his lips relaxed under her praise.
“Why not?”
“Basketball’s not cool.”
“What is cool?”
“Hanging out. Surfing.”
“Have a board?” Rachel doubted it. His stroke wasn’t strong enough for a surfer.
His eyes narrowed defensively, and he shook his head.
“That leaves hanging out—and getting high.”
He looked across the water.
Nailed that one. She tried another tack. “Afraid to go up against guys who played through middle school? Afraid of the gym floor after playing on asphalt?”
Keenan glared at her. “What’s it to ya?”
Rachel shrugged and fingered the wheel.
Jake stepped over the coaming. He rubbed his fingers back and forth through his hair, flinging drops of water in a shower around him. “Listen to her. She played ball.”
His words warmed her. How did Jake know? Had she put it on her resume or did packing a basketball give her away?
Jake jutted his chin toward her. “Tell him.”
“Four years at New Smyrna Beach High, scholarship to Daytona State College.”
Jake’s eyes widened.
She must have skipped the scholarship on her resume. What was the point when she didn’t use it? Couldn’t. Sure, Jo
hn Lennon, Keira Knightley, Ansel Adams worked around their dyslexia, but college didn’t show up on their resumes.
Keenan’s brows shot up. Then he hunkered down and rested his chin on his knees.
Jake jogged down the companionway steps into the galley.
“I grew up playing on asphalt, too,” Rachel said. “You’d love the gym. Imagine a floor with no divots, no cracks with grass growing through them, no stray rocks to give you a crazy bounce. Your game has a whole new edge when you always know where the ball is coming up.”
Keenan lifted his head, a smile fighting the corners of his mouth.
“My favorite thing about playing in the gym is that you almost never leave skin on the floor.”
Keenan’s smile broke out. He pointed to an assortment of pink scars on his knees and elbows. He peered out at the ocean, then back at Rachel. “Maybe I wouldn’t make the team. Or I could be the worst player there.”
“Here’s a story for you: A boss gave his employee a buck, and the kid ditched it between his mattress and box springs. A second worker got two bucks. He bought eight cans of Walmart soda on sale, stuck them in a cooler, and sold them for fifty cents a pop to the girls’ soccer team after practice. A third guy got five dollars. He bought a never-used Spalding basketball at a garage sale and doubled his money by selling it to a kid on J.V.”
She heard Jake opening and shutting cabinets in the galley. A few boys jimmied up the bowsprit chain. Two more climbed onto the aft deck.
“What do you think the boss said to his employees about their investments?”
Keenan scratched his stiffly drying hair. “He was probably cool with the dudes who doubled his cash… and ticked with the jerk who hid the buck.”
“Bingo.” Rachel inched the wheel to port and shot a glance at the boys trash-talking on the foredeck. “You’re in this story.”
“Huh?”
“What does the story say about your talent with a basketball?”
Keenan stood and stretched. “Is this a riddle? You’re hurting my brain.” Keenan sat back on the edge of the aft cabin. “You’re saying I have to get off my tail and play ball, use my one talent, make the boss man happy. Even if I suck.”
Jake stepped out of the fore cabin with a Dr. Pepper in his hand. He winked at her.
Something fluttered in her stomach.
“Hey guys!” Jake yelled to the boys lounging on the foredeck. “I’m going to sacrifice my last, ice-cold Dr. Pepper.” He held the can aloft. “This trophy goes to the man with the best dive.”
The guys raced for the bow, diving in every direction.
Rachel squinted up at Keenan who hadn’t moved. “The story ends with the boss taking the talent from the first guy and giving it to the mega talented guy.”
“So, if I use my talent, I’ll get better?” Keenan’s head tilted toward her, interest flickering in his eyes.
“Possible.”
As if on cue, the boys tumbled into the cockpit asking for lunch. Pete lofted the Dr. Pepper like the Olympic torch. Rachel mouthed ‘thank you’ to Jake for distracting the boys to give her a few more minutes with Keenan.
Below, Rachel passed the tray of bologna and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Jake had assembled through the hatch. Maybe she could teach preschool or high school P.E. It was reading four years worth of text books she doubted she could do.
Rachel passed the sandwich tray through the hatch to Jake. She lobbed Hawaiian Punch cans, one after the other, from the fridge into a gaggle of waiting hands, then the chip bags.
Jake jogged down the steps and held out a bologna and a PB & J sandwich. “Pick one.”
She took a bite of the bologna sandwich as Jake bit into the peanut butter.
Mustard. She chewed, telling herself mustard wasn’t so bad—like Jake watching out for her. But they both tasted—wrong. She was the one who raised Hall, who nagged Mama to get eight hours of sleep, who packed Dad’s lunch when she’d lived at home fulltime.
He licked jelly from the corner of his mouth. “That story was from the Bible.”
She swallowed a bite in one gulp. “You were the one who wore out that Bible on your shelf?”
“Hardly. It was Gramps’. But I doubt he missed telling me a story.” He ran water into a paper cup, handed it to her, and reached for another cup.
“Stop. Quit waiting on me. This is my job.”
“It’s called common courtesy. I’m getting myself a drink. You don’t have a drink. I get two.” He shook his head like she was a nut case.
Maybe she was.
“Anyway, what I was going to say is that I bet you were a really good coach.” Jake wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and climbed the steps into the cockpit.
A tiny quiver vibrated her solar plexus, fanning outward until it reached her fingertips, toes, and the crown of her head.
Later that afternoon, Rachel darted in front of the plaid boxers and soggy shorts that hung from Nigel’s ebony hips and snatched the line from his hands. “Thanks a million!” she yelled as she leapt from the bank. The impact of the cool, green water closing around her encased her in a delicious microcosm of all that was good about crewing for Jake.
Perched on sprawling tree roots at water’s edge, she wrung the moisture out of her hair and watched the boys swing out and drop like ice cubes into the water of the cove.
Jake and the boys paraded cannon balls and jack knives into the cove. She tried, unsuccessfully, to imagine Bret doing the head-first “watermelon” Jake did.
Jake slumped onto the bank nearby, breathing hard. Rivulets ran down his arms and back. His breathing slowed, and he looked up at her. Water slicked his curls flat against his head. The sun picked up golden flecks in the brown of his eyes.
Her breath caught, and she refocused on Keenan whose arms and legs flailed in mid-air before he hit the water. She squashed down the popping and fizzing inside her—the same sensation that had lured her to Bret.
She darted a glance back at Jake. He’d drawn up his knees, chin resting on his folded arms as he gazed at the far bank.
“Thinking about Gabrielle?”
“Y—” He twisted his head toward her. “Let me have a private thought, would you?”
“Excuse me for caring.” Rachel climbed the bank and got in line with the boys. Obviously, Gabrielle was the only one causing any popping and fizzing for Jake.
Jake peered over his shoulder at Rachel.
She stood between Pete and Keenan, her back to him, saying something that made the boys laugh.
His eyes drifted over her ringlet-covered shoulders, the one-piece Speedo, her long legs. He caught Nigel doing the same, male appreciation written on his face.
Jake jerked his chin in the opposite direction. He wanted Gabs. Not Rachel. Gabrielle.
Chapter 9
Wind over twenty knots whistled past Jake’s ears as he manned the helm. He surveyed the four to five-foot whitecaps and the dark sky boiling overhead. A minute ago they’d clipped along at six knots under blue skies, making him wonder why the meteorologist had called for gusts of more than twenty-five knots. He glanced at the GPS, mentally converting miles per hour to knots. Twenty-seven knots. Anxiety churned under Jake’s ribs.
The bow lofted and plummeted, taking on green water.
“Everyone below,” he barked as he kept the Queen tacking seaward. “We’re in for a big blow.” His eyes nailed Rachel. “Get the boys into life jackets.”
“Jake—please hang on tight.” Her eyes locked on him, her hand clamped on the hatch rail. One of the boys jarred Rachel on his way through the hatch, but she seemed not to notice. Couldn’t she feel the wind amping up?
The Queen listed deeper into the tack, sea spray pelting them.
“Get below!” he said.
Rachel startled and ducked into the cabin.
Jake steered with one hand and dredged bungee cords out of the cockpit locker, his mind already walking through the motions of heading the Queen into the wind, lashing the
wheel, reducing sail—reefing the main, dropping the staysail and genoa, leaving the mizzen up for stability—starting the motor.
The wind flung rain and ocean at his skin like a thousand acupuncture needles. The sound of ripping sailcloth belched above the storm, jerking his head up. He gazed in shock at the flapping mainsail ripped top to bottom as he wheeled the Queen into the wind. Nausea and a five thousand dollar price for a new sail swam in his stomach.
Was Jake frightened? It didn’t matter. Rachel was afraid enough for both of them. “Everybody into life jackets!” She hauled Pete and Keenan off the port bench by their arms and pitched jackets out to the boys.
The smell of perspiration and this morning’s sausage hung in the air as she threaded among the shirtless boys checking their life jackets. The Queen slammed through a wave, and Rachel’s teeth clattered together. “I’m not your mother, Nigel.” Rachel jerked the belt to his life jacket. “Buckle up.”
Someone pinched her backside. She spun and halted, her hand a hair from Pete’s face. “Try it again, bud.”
“Whaaaa!” Pete’s sun-whitened hair stood out around his head like a halo. “I didn’t mean anything.”
Rachel glared at him another second, almost glad for the distraction. She slipped into a life vest and darted up the companionway with a jacket for Jake. The Queen surfed the storm in all her biker-chick glory—hauling a cargo of testosterone to safety. Hold together old girl. Please.
The wind gusted Rachel airborne as she hopped the coaming onto the side deck. One foot slipped over the gunwale and she scrabbled for a grip on the shroud to keep from going overboard. Oh, God! The rigging beat a metallic drum roll against the masts. All sail but the mizzen had been dropped and bungeed to the rails in clumps.
Clinging hand over hand to the cabin rails, Jake’s jacket clenched in her teeth, she made her way toward him at the base of the mainmast where he lowered the flailing pieces of the mainsail. Ragged edges of sail whipped frantically, flinging a four foot fiberglass batten into the ocean. Sea spray and rain pelted her. Inside, she chanted, Keep us safe. Keep us safe. Keep us safe.
Tattered Innocence Page 7
