They were anchored next to a sleek, expensive yacht named Elizabeth’s Quest, and while there was no sign of an Elizabeth, there was a man aboard, drinking beer after beer, Bud Light. He sat on the deck, looking morosely at the horizon. Drinking American beer would make anyone sad.
CeCe had some cleaning to do, some lines to replace, and of course, Chienne’s box to take care of. She had plenty to do while René was away, since they would leave the next day.
At around noon, René came back, but he stopped to talk to the lonely man on Elizabeth’s Quest. René stayed on the launch while the man spoke to him over the side.
CeCe was hot and sweaty, but more than that, she was curious. What were they talking about?
She was in her swimsuit, so she stepped to the side of the Tourbillon and dove off into the cool, blue waters of the Caribbean. The seawater slipped over her body, so cool, whipping away the sweat and cleansing her. She popped up and swam to the launch where René helped her aboard. She stood, streaming water, and she liked how both men paused to look at her. René gave her a towel and she wrapped up in it, now a little chilly. The salt crusted her skin and made her feel sticky in minutes, but a quick freshwater rinse back on Tourbillon would take care of that.
“CeCe, this is Greg. Greg, CeCe.”
Greg raised a beer and then slurped it loudly. A five o’clock shadow of beard painted his cheeks. Since it was only a little after noon, it was clear he hadn’t shaved in days. Probably weeks if you took into consideration he also looked in need of a haircut. His longish dark hair was streaked with gray.
“Hey, CeCe,” Greg said. “I was just boring René here with my sad story.”
“I like sad stories,” CeCe said. “I’m part Swedish. It’s cold and dark there for months on end. A good place for sad stories.”
René grinned.
Greg stood up. The beginnings of a beer gut dipped over his Ocean Pacific shorts. “Well, for René’s sake, I’ll get straight to the point. My wife, Elizabeth, wanted to sail around the world. We worked for years, saving and saving, in Chicago. I was a lawyer, and if you want to make money and work your ass off, the law is a good place for that. You marry two lawyers together, and yeah, we were never home. But it was all for our great quest, if you get me.”
CeCe winced. “And then she backed out?”
Greg nodded. “We left Miami. Picked up this yacht from the broker and after just a week, she told me she was done with boats and done with me. Now bam, she is so gone, and I’m wondering what in the hell I’m supposed to do.” He drained the beer and stacked it carefully on a growing pyramid of other cans.
CeCe wanted to laugh a little. Americans always were so quick to share private information. CeCe couldn’t imagine saying such things.
Greg continued. “You know, we really worked well together in Chicago, or maybe I just thought we did. I mean, we had a house, we had all the normal house stuff, and we took care of it together. But the minute we hit the sea, everything changed. We bickered and fought like never before. Everything I did pissed her off. And yeah, I guess I was annoyed too, but I could’ve dealt with it. She couldn’t. We even stopped having sex, which was at least one thing we’d always been good at together.”
CeCe stood. She got the story, but she didn’t want to hang around to hear about their sex life. He wasn’t sloppy drunk yet, but he was heading there. “Well, I should be getting back,” she said.
“So, René, you two really sailing up the Atlantic together?” Greg asked.
CeCe changed her mind about leaving. She wanted to hear what René had to say.
“Oui,” René said, smiling. “I’m hoping we get along better. We’ve both sailed all our lives. I think we should be okay.”
Greg shrugged and snapped open another can of Bud Light. “Maybe. I wish you better luck.”
“You know,” René said, “you should try to find someone else to sail around the world with you. Your ship, Elizabeth’s Quest, is new, and she wants to taste all of the waters of the world. It would be a shame for her not to get the chance. And there are many people who would love to sail with you.” René paused. “I have a friend, I think she is in Tobago, who might be interested. I could call her and let her know.”
Greg sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. Sure. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared below deck.
René cast CeCe a little smile. “You and I are just starting. If we do end, I’m hoping it won’t be like Greg and Elizabeth.”
“If we do end?” CeCe asked. “I thought boys like you are always planning an escape route. It sounds like you have fallen head-over-heels in love with me and never want to let go.”
René swallowed hard, but didn’t say anything. The mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, but CeCe had the feeling if she could see his eyes, they would tell her everything. And the everything was that she had totally called it. He was in love with her, or at least, he thought he was. But she knew he would get over her in a New York minute.
Finally, René found words. “Why yes, my feet are over my head for you.”
CeCe laughed. “I don’t think that’s the right idiom. Meet you back aboard, René.”
She dove into the water again, enjoying the cooling effect. She swam to the ladder of Tourbillon and climbed up to the deck. When she turned toward René, he was staring at her. He caught her glance, smiled, and waved.
She waved back. How serious was this going to get?
She thought of their little romance, fated to end with her leaving him alone, and her heart broke a little.
No, he would be okay. This was just some fun before she had her baby. Besides, she couldn’t imagine a macho man like René raising someone else’s child. He wanted to sow his own seed and have his own babies, probably a whole chateau full of them. Not her. One baby would be just fine.
* * *
That night, René held the bottle of Champagne in his hand, feeling the chill. It was the perfect temperature, and the perfect drink to toast their leaving the islands and sailing for Europe. How many others had sailed across the Atlantic before them? Not many, in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t easy, and the ocean did not suffer fools.
Above decks, CeCe had the hibachi going, and this time, she was grilling zucchini. René had landed a yellowfin tuna earlier on the line he always kept trailing off the stern of his ships. He’d sliced it into steaks, and one was grilling next to her squash. He hoped she’d have some, since she did eat fish. Fresh-caught tuna cooked out in the open on their boat, under a sky full of a blood-red sunset? He couldn’t imagine her saying no.
René emerged with Champagne and two glasses.
CeCe eyed the bottle. “I said we would take it slow. And now you are trying to get me drunk?”
René tisked. “Am I as barbaric as our unfortunate American neighbor? You might get drunk on Bud Light, if you can manage to drink enough between peeing. My great countryman, Napoleon, said, ‘In victory, you deserve Champagne; in defeat, you need it.’ Either way, tomorrow we leave the New World for the Old, and we shall see whether there is victory or defeat between us.”
“A little splash across the pond,” CeCe said, grinning. She flipped over her zucchini and his tuna. When she turned and encircled him in her arms, he felt the heat of her skin, and his breath hitched.
She gave him a soft kiss, and dipped her hand low, caressing him through the fabric of his shorts. He couldn’t breathe. All thought left him. “You get so excited,” she purred. “And I must admit, I do too.”
René rubbed his hand down her back and cupped her bottom through her skirt. It was so pliant, and yet, underneath, he could feel the muscle. She was both soft and strong, perfect.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
She returned from below with a carafe of orange juice. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I like my Champagne in a mimosa.”
René still thrummed from her touch, from the taste of her in his mouth, and her scent. He could die happy dr
enched in her scent. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they fell on one another. But could he wait?
He would have to.
René popped open the bottle and shot the cork out across the water. Chienne barked at it.
“That’s litter,” CeCe admonished. “And Chienne is not happy about it.”
René shrugged. “Maybe a little littering, but isn’t cork a natural part of the environment?” He poured Champagne into his glass, and offered to pour CeCe’s, but she took the bottle from him. She turned and poured her own.
Then she spun about and raised her glass. “Since you already toasted with tea, I will toast with Champagne. To us, to you, to me, and to our passion. Our time together might be brief, but we will burn, René. You and I will burn.”
Their glasses clinked together. The tuna sizzled. The coals were warm, even as the chill of evening came with the setting of the sun. The smell of the ocean mixed with the smell of the smoke from the grill hanging off the stern.
The whole world grew quiet.
René looked into CeCe’s eyes. “To us. And yes, to the heat, to the adventure.”
Both sipped from their glasses, and neither looked away.
* * *
The next morning, René waved goodbye to Greg on Elizabeth’s Quest. He knew his friend Madeline would be calling him. Maddy had always wanted to sail around the world, and Greg might be the perfect opportunity. He hoped it would work out. He planned on calling Greg to see.
But first? The Atlantic.
Chienne barked from the bow.
René was at the wheel and revved the diesel engine to start the windlass to pull up the anchor after he and CeCe had hauled up all the canvas. CeCe monitored the clear, sun-drenched depths to make sure the anchor did not snag on any debris. Tourbillon lifted on the wind and sailed free to the west around Antigua, heading for the beginning of their rhumb line toward Bermuda. Soon, all they would see would be the line of the horizon, where ocean met sky, with land far behind.
“Next stop, Bermuda!” René shouted.
“Aye, aye, captain!” CeCe shouted back. More barking from Chienne.
“So, CeCe, you never said.” He grinned. “Am I your captain, your friend, or your lover?”
“You’ll see,” she said, touching the side of her breast lightly, teasingly. “You’ll see.”
He gulped and had to adjust his shorts. Again.
Chapter Eleven
19.0101ºN, 62.0000ºW
Day Nine, Aboard Tourbillon
On Rhumb Line to Bermuda
CeCe was near the end of her four-hour watch and dusk was falling. She picked up the binoculars lying next to her on the cushioned lazarette near the helm.
She’d kept an eye on the horizon for the last few hours where a patch of cumulus clouds had begun to form. But now, with the last of the light, she had a hard time seeing exactly what was happening in the distance. At this time of day, the sky and sea blended into one gray mass. But the white of the billowing clouds still stood out in stark contrast.
According to her hand-held GPS, they were just past eighteen degrees north, east of Puerto Rico. Line squalls. Why did it have to be line squalls? Because they were in the same latitude as San Juan, Puerto Rico. She never knew it to fail. All she had to do was hit that latitude, and the weather got freaky. Maybe it was just her.
Line squalls were localized mini-storms that never lasted much more than twenty or thirty minutes. But they could be the longest twenty or thirty minutes of your life. The accompanying winds could be gusty, they could swirl, they could change direction on a dime.
She’d had a pretty easy shift so far, since the electronics on tired old Tourbillon still supported autopilot control of the helm. Autopilot would be useless, though, if they hit foul weather, which seemed likely to descend in the next twenty minutes or so.
The weather reports René had accessed thus far from his satellite phone had indicated fairly smooth sailing, but the area near Puerto Rico was frequently an aberration.
She debated whether or not to go below, make sure Chienne was okay, and then wake René. He could help her reef down the sails. But neither one of them wanted to start using diesel fuel this early in the trip. So, instead of taking down all the canvas and motoring with bare poles, she left the helm and started the laborious process of reefing down the sails, main first.
René needed his rest. If she started wimping out and asking for help so early in the passage, he’d be too worn out to help in bigger emergencies.
She hove to and stopped the boat while the winds were still cooperative and then lowered the big sail down to the points where the heavy canvas could be tied off. After a few minutes of feverish work, the main was ready to ride out the storm. All that remained was to take all the other sails down while leaving just a small triangle out for a storm jib which flew off the bow.
Tourbillon was closer to the towering clouds now, and the electricity in the air made the hair stand up on her forearms. The bright metallic smell unique to the ocean just before a storm filled her nostrils. Beautiful. She could never get enough of the constantly changing sea.
As the boat moved within the cloud banks, CeCe was back at the helm, her foul weather gear zipped tight to her chin and her rubber-soled sea boots planted firmly in a wide stance at the wheel. She clipped her safety strap onto the binnacle supporting the compass.
A sudden updraft took the ship and lifted her like a sea dragon of old. She took on a life separate from CeCe and surged bravely through the building waves.
CeCe hung on and checked quickly to either side of the ship, ahead, and behind to make sure no other ships were near. A wall of rain stood in their path, and she knew in a few minutes her vision would be obliterated when they entered the maelstrom.
* * *
At Tourbillon’s first lift, René woke, all his senses on alert. The rocking of the ship as she flew through the squall nearly threw him from his bunk. He was on his feet in seconds, pulling on his foul weather gear and boots, before racing up the companionway. Chienne sensed the weather had turned hellish, and remained curled up in her bed in the galley. Smart dog.
René sprinted up the companionway to CeCe. He prayed she’d seen the squall approaching and knew what to do. Was she clipped in? Mon Dieu! Why in the hell hadn’t she come below to get him?
By the time he reached the top deck, he could tell by the lightening cloud bank they were nearly through the worst of the storm. Tourbillon was old and fading, but by God she had a full, deep keel. He clipped in to a jackline they’d rigged as a safe guide to the helm and moved as fast as he could on the heaving deck to get to CeCe.
By the time he reached her side, he’d noted with a sigh of relief the neat job she’d done reefing down the sails. She turned her face toward him, a broad smile giving her away. She was in heaven. She hadn’t needed him. He couldn’t have picked a more competent first mate.
René motioned for her to go below while he took his turn at the helm. He held up four fingers to let her know he was taking over the watch. It was nearly time for his turn anyway.
She gave him a look like a little girl being sent to bed while the rest of the family got to stay up and party. He shrugged his shoulders. He was the captain after all, and the Tourbillon was his responsibility, however hideous. After he took the wheel, he nodded his head toward the lazarette bench behind him.
She moved her safety line to the bench and sat down hard. When he looked back again, there was a huge grin on her face. She was enjoying the storm. In his experience, most women like CeCe headed below at the first sign of nasty weather. Most women.
But he’d never met a woman like CeCe.
* * *
After about forty-five minutes, the spectacular squall wore itself out, and the seas calmed somewhat, giving way to less treacherous waves and a cloudless, starry night. A crisp crescent moon kept pace with Tourbillon.
When CeCe stood to go below, she mimed taking a towel to her wet hair and body. The win
d remained strong, but steady, so René put the helm back on autopilot, adjusting the course a few degrees.
When he looked up, he swore he could see the shade of the six-foot, hairy Turk he’d been using to keep from succumbing to CeCe’s wiles. The big guy gave him a mock salute before crawling over the gunnels and flinging himself into the deep. Both of them were goners.
“I’ll go with you for some hot coffee before I finish the watch,” René shouted. “We’ll leave the reefs in till daylight, just in case.”
Following her down the companionway, he wondered if there was anything sexier than a slender, strong woman swathed in heavy-duty foulweather pants and bulky jacket. Some of the best ocean-going gear was designed for men, cut big, some lined with fleece for serious Atlantic weather.
As soon as they reached the galley, Chienne gave him a growl, huffed happily at CeCe, then padded up the steps to the upper deck as if to say, “The worst of the storm is over, thank God. I have to pee.”
René lit the gas stove and filled the teakettle with water. He pulled out a bag of dark coffee and measured scoops into a French press. Once the water was on to boil he turned to CeCe and was completely undone by the picture she presented. Her light, blonde hair was soaked and hanging in thick strands down the sides of her face. She’d just peeled off her sea boots, leaving her bare feet with longish, slender toes wriggling in freedom on the galley floor. She grabbed a towel from a hook and bent over with her hair swinging down, rubbing vigorously with the thick cotton terry. When she at last stood up, the towel turbaned around her head, René walked close and pressed his fingers beneath her chin, urging her eyes to the same level as his.
“Are you wearing anything beneath those foulies?” he asked, not giving her a chance to take the lead.
Her eyes flew open wide, and she gasped. “No,” she said, her voice shaky. “Why would you ask such a question?”
Up Too Close Page 9
