Up Too Close

by Stein, Andrea K.

  And now René was alone, heading east across the Atlantic, flying with all his sails out. He prayed to every saint he’d ever heard of in Catholic schools so many years ago. Prayed he’d catch up to CeCe before it was too late. Prayed Tourbillon would stay afloat another week.

  * * *

  CeCe snapped awake just before her alarm went off. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, leaning back against the stern. Some strange awareness had prodded her to consciousness. She snatched the binoculars from their case and again swept the horizon.

  After she was satisfied nothing bore down on her from the three-quarter arc ahead of her, she turned to the aft area beyond the stern.

  She stared for a few moments and then abruptly put down the binoculars. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and checked the view again. She hadn’t been mistaken. There was a faint outline of sails on the far horizon behind her.

  Whoever followed was about six miles abaft of the Anda. She’d keep checking to make sure the ship turned away, or made a big arc to avoid a collision path. Not many sailing ships took this inside rhumb line to Porto. Most headed south along the coast to Lisbon.

  Her heart stuttered a few unsteady beats before she got a grip. The other ship was probably a fellow cruiser heading north along the Portuguese coast for some other port.

  Since they were both sailing vessels, probably capable of similar speeds, she had at least an hour before she had to worry. She turned back to the helm and picked up a dog-eared copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. She’d snagged the book from a paperback trade shelf at Peter’s Cafe Sport, of all places. CeCe tucked her legs beneath her and turned to the bookmarked page describing what to expect at three months. She couldn’t wait to feel her little man kick.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  41.1590°N, 8.6305°W

  Day Forty-One, 0900 Monday, May 23

  West of Porto Harbor, Portugal

  René was certain the elusive sail ahead of him on the horizon was CeCe, but he couldn’t catch up. In spite of all the patching he and the Zarcos had done before he left Horta, poor old Tourbillon was gradually losing the battle against the mighty North Atlantic.

  In addition to the ship’s gradual sinking, each gallon of seawater that filled the bilge caused her hull speed to slow, even though her sails spanned much more area than those on CeCe’s sloop.

  René felt so defeated, he’d ceased to worry about going down at sea. If he couldn’t catch up to the woman he loved, what was the point? The damned ship could sink for all he cared. Hell, there were so many lifejackets and cushions, he could lash them together and float with the tide the last few miles to Porto.

  Chienne seemed to sense the distant sail had something to do with CeCe. Maybe the dog could smell her. Chienne would race to the bow rail, rear up on her hind legs with her paws against the lifeline and bark like crazy before racing around trying to catch her tail. Then she’d come back to his side and give him an accusing look as if she blamed him for CeCe’s disappearance. Why not? Everyone else blamed him.

  He deserved the condemnation. He’d told CeCe he didn’t want to help raise her baby. Again, the full weight of what he’d blurted in a moment of hurt pride crashed down on him. But he was determined to be a husband to CeCe and a father to her child.

  Chienne began another round of barking. The wind had shifted, hard, from the north. The sluggish broad reach he’d been on for days suddenly changed to a close reach. He set the auto pilot and left the helm to adjust Tourbillon’s sails to the new angle of the wind.

  The higher the ship shifted up into the wind, the less the bilge pumps labored. For the first time in a week, the intake of seawater at the bow slipped below the levels being pumped out. René held his breath for a few moments. He was afraid to trust what he was seeing and feeling. Tourbillon picked up speed and lifted on the waves. The faint sail at the horizon slowly came into focus. He was gaining on her.

  * * *

  CeCe woke to the chiming alarm on her cellphone. She was so tired, she just lay there, blinking her eyes for several minutes. A feeling of complete lassitude and contentment spread over her. However, a quick look at her hand-held GPS revealed she was coming close to Porto, and busy shipping lanes. No time to stare at the clouds.

  She sat up and shook her hair out of her face, fastening the long mane back into a ponytail with one of the scrunchies she kept in the pocket of her foul-weather jacket.

  The air had warmed the closer she’d come to the coast, so she unzipped the top of her jacket a few inches and glanced down at the “Whirled Peas” shirt René detested. Something he’d reminded her of every time he’d peeled it off her.

  She smiled at the memory, a little sad. The whole journey with René had faded into something out of her far-off past. She tried to focus on the things about René that had infuriated her, but failed. She’d turned into an emotional freak. Damn the pregnancy hormones.

  She reached for her cellphone and punched in her mother’s number. Time to return to reality.

  “Hello, Mom.” Just saying those words brought tears to CeCe’s eyes.

  “I’m so glad to hear from you,” Maje Ahlstrom said in an easy voice. “I’ve been checking the internetties, and the weather is clear for you.”

  Her mother’s malaprop made her grin, but she came right back to reality.

  “What am I doing, Mom?” CeCe asked, doubt in her voice. “Can I raise this baby alone? Do I need to? I know you won’t be that far away, but babies need fathers. I found a man who seems to love me, but now I’m running away from him. Well, sailing away.”

  “Why?” her mother demanded, and the tone in her voice surprised CeCe.

  “He’s not who I thought he was,” CeCe said, and the explanation sounded lame even to her ears.

  “When you get closer, give me your coordinates, and I’ll arrange a slip at one of the Porto marinas,” her mother said. “You won’t be alone. And men are overrated. Like your father.”

  CeCe wanted to defend “the Zarco,” but she didn’t. Her mother wouldn’t believe her even if she tried to explain how much he’d had changed. And she wanted to hear more since this was the first time she’d heard her mother discuss her failed marriage and escape from Horta.

  “What about Pai?” CeCe asked. “You’ve never told me why you left.”

  “When I met Zarco, Baby, he was everything I could have ever wanted. He was as handsome as he was confident, and he needed such confidence since he wanted to be rich. Something is very sexy about a powerful, driven man, and I wanted to go on the ride with him. At first.” Her mother paused for a long time. “Then the babies started coming, and while I thought he might put as much into family as he did all his businesses, he made it clear the house and the kids were mine, and he didn’t want to bother with them.

  “And yet, he had an opinion on everything I did. There was only one way, his way. So while all the work was my responsibility, I wasn’t my own boss. Such a thing grew intolerable.

  When I talked of leaving the Azores and traveling with you and the boys, he absolutely forbade me. He said the whole world could be found on the islands and that I was being irrational and intentionally dangerous and risky. I held on as long as I could, and then I had to leave. I am not so sure raising you and your brothers alone wouldn’t have been easier.”

  After the long speech, her mother took in a deep breath. “Please tell me you forgive me for leaving, yes?”

  “Of course,” CeCe said quickly. She understood everything her mother had said. And yet, her heart grew heavy.

  Her mother seemed to guess her thoughts. “This Frenchman might seem to be your everything, but some men are not meant for fatherhood and families. After so many years sailing and partying on his own, I wouldn’t trust this chocolate eclair to settle down into a dansk aebleskiver.”

  CeCe laughed at the mention of her favorite Swedish donut. One of the sheets came loose, causing a sail to flap erratically. She needed to go, but she couldn’t leave the conve
rsation without defending Zarco.

  “Mom, I know Teresa has been sending you pictures and updates of Augie, Mika, and Hélder, me, even Zarco, but the pictures don’t show how much Pai has changed. He really is a different man.”

  “Perhaps, yes, maybe. But can you wait twenty years for your eclair to change?” her mother asked.

  CeCe’s heart broke, like a stab in the chest.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was so angry at him, and I knew this was a good time to sail across to Porto, but now I’m feeling more and more pregnant every hour, and I’m already so tired. Can I really make these last miles to get to you?”

  Her mother’s laugh jingled like sleigh bells, and she said, “CeCe, Baby, there is nothing on earth stronger than a pregnant woman.”

  * * *

  The closer René sailed Tourbillon to the ever elusive sail on the horizon, the more hopeful and excited he became. He was sorely tempted to start the ancient diesel to increase his speed, but was afraid the flooding might have damaged the engine. They were within ten miles of Porto now, and if he didn’t catch up soon, he’d lose her in the huge harbor.

  The hell with caution. He put the ship on autopilot and raced below to attempt to crank the old engine. After a few disappointing hiccups, the noisy contraption rumbled to life. René did a little victory dance before taking two steps at a time up the companionway. He was motor-sailing, gaining on the little ship ahead of him at a much faster rate.

  If he remembered correctly from a charter job a number of years before, the entrance to the harbor was narrow, but once inside, widened into a number of twists and turns. After that, there were hundreds of private slips and marinas along Porto’s varied waterways.

  If he didn’t catch up now, she’d disappear. He’d lose her forever.

  * * *

  CeCe jerked around at a circus of sounds overtaking her. A loud clanking, the swish of water pumps and manic barking from a frantic dog assailed her ears like a chorus of hammers on a tin roof after days of quiet solitude.

  She had to shade her eyes to be sure, but it looked like René at the helm of Tourbillon with Chienne at the bow barking frantically. They were still about ten boat-lengths apart when suddenly the crazed Portuguese water spaniel leapt off the bow, under the safety lines, and swam steadily toward CeCe, paddling furiously with her webbed paws.

  CeCe’s heart dropped. She knew dogs like Chienne were bred for long swims between ships, but still she worried her precious furry friend wouldn’t be able to paddle that far. She immediately hove to, turning to back the sails against each other and stop the ship.

  She looped a bowline at the end of a sturdy line and leaned over the bow, calling to Chienne. When the dog swam under the bow, CeCe clipped herself onto the bow cleat and tipped over the edge of the toerail to lasso Chienne and pull her aboard. The dog put her paws on CeCe’s shoulders and licked a slobbery kiss across her face.

  “What a bad dog to scare CeCe that way,” she said, leaning away from Chienne’s eager dog kisses. She grabbed a towel from a storage lazarette and rubbed Chienne hard before draping the towel over her and lifting the dog to one of the benches near the helm at the stern.

  Once she’d settled Chienne, she saw René jumping up and down on the deck of Tourbillon, waving his arms and legs in the international distress signal. When he pointed to his cellphone, she shook her head vigorously in dissent, but then relented when she realized she’d have to get Chienne back to René once they reached Porto.

  CeCe gave him a slow, affirmative nod and then held her cellphone to her ear to wait for his call.

  * * *

  After putting the diesel in neutral and heaving to, René stared at the cellphone in his hand for a few moments before punching in CeCe’s numbers. His hands shook and his stomach roiled. The next thing he said could decide the fate of the rest of his life.

  “Please, God, don’t let me blow this,” he mumbled to himself, while the satellite phone rang at least six times. When three random, orbiting Rube Goldbergs in the sky finally started talking to each other, CeCe picked up.

  Her first words were not encouraging. “What is wrong with you?” she spat into the phone.

  He was so terrified, the best he could manage was, “I love you, CeCe, and your baby.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, and clicked off the connection.

  He cringed, and his teeth chattered. He’d blown it. Immediately, he jumped up and down again, waving his arms and legs. He couldn’t help but remember how he had sought CeCe’s attention at the very beginning of their adventures, when he was on the little dinghy in Grenada’s Secret Harbor Marina. Things had changed.

  Or had they?

  After an excruciating delay, his phone rang.

  “You have two minutes to explain, and it better be good,” she said.

  “I was wrong,” he said in a rush. “My pride was crushed when I heard about the baby like that. I didn’t have time to think, I just reacted. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you and your baby. I can’t imagine a life without the two of you.”

  When he stopped for a breath, CeCe’s voice broke in, a little shaky.

  “It’s too late, René,” she said. “You, me, Jerome’s baby—it just won’t work. You are a chocolate eclair, not a dansk aebleskiver.” She broke the connection again, and this time, turned away and released the headsail before moving back to the helm and freeing the wheel. Her little sloop snapped through the tack and shot away.

  René cocked his head. What in the hell was a dansk aebleskiver? Then he sighed as his Gallic heart broke inside. He could almost hear the sharp crack.

  His phone rang again and when he picked it up, CeCe said, “Meet me at Douro Marina. You’ll need to get Chienne. She’ll understand.” And then she hung up for the last time.

  After about five seconds of feeling sorry for himself, he raced back to the helm, came out of the tack, and pushed the diesel throttle full ahead.

  * * *

  Two hours later, René pulled into Douro Marina behind CeCe after having radioed ahead to arrange to have Tourbillon lifted out of the water as soon as possible.

  When he finally tied off alongside the marina crane, the poor old tub was so flooded and low in the water, he had to dive over the side to make sure the belly band was tucked safely around her hull. After giving her one last, loving look, he hustled to the marina manager’s office to find out the location of CeCe’s slip.

  As soon as he walked through the door, he spotted a tall, curvaceous woman holding Chienne by her collar and soothing the dog with gentle rubs behind her ears. Her honey blonde hair pulled back into a smooth bun was uncomfortably familiar. CeCe’s mother walked forward with Chienne and shook his hand.

  “Thank you for taking such good care of my daughter, but she is with family now,” she said, and then disappeared out the door. When René followed, he saw her walk away next to a tall, gigantic young Swede who carried a sleeping CeCe in his arms. Her eyes were closed and her head leaned heavily against his meaty shoulder.

  René fell against the door frame. His father’s watch had never felt heavier on his wrist. This was where the story ended.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Day Forty-Two

  0900 Tuesday, May 24

  Grande Hotel do Porto, Portugal

  CeCe woke up in an actual bed, in a hotel room, and immediately missed the subtle rock and shift of sleeping on a boat.

  The room was small and sparsely furnished. She sprawled across both beds slammed together in the middle of the white room. She had memories of getting stuck between the two mattresses and fighting her way out.

  Part of her loved having the entire bed to herself. Another part missed the warmth of René’s body. She felt caught between both emotions like she’d felt trapped between the mattresses.

  Memories came back slowly, of her mother, and some huge Swedish man, who spoke zero English. No doubt he was her mother’s latest muscled toy. When CeCe fell asleep
talking to them, the giant had swept her up and carried her away.

  And into a small hotel room from the looks of it. The bed, a table, a TV on the wall. That was it. The bathroom was both toilet and shower, but everything smelled fresh and clean.

  CeCe stepped over to the window and looked out. Tenement apartment laundry flapped on frayed lines in the evening breeze. A woman on a small balcony crammed with furniture held a baby, smoked a cigarette, and talked on her cellphone. Downtown Porto. Some ancient government building in the distance rose above the apartments and behind it, the Atlantic Ocean, which she’d crossed by herself from Horta.

  Her hand dropped to her stomach. Not by herself. Her and her little man.

  She was safe for now, though the future loomed over her. She’d have to figure out how to combine motherhood with a career, but her mother had promised to spend some time helping her get settled once the baby arrived.

  CeCe glanced at the time, a little after six. She’d slept round the clock and through the day. But where was she? She recognized the palace by the sea, Porto definitely, but where in Porto? And where was her mother?

  CeCe picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. She used her rusty Portuguese to ask the name of the hotel.

  The clerk answered, the Grande Hotel of Porto, and he had a message for CeCe to call her mother. He gave her the room number and they both hung up with a friendly tchau.

  CeCe wanted to brush her teeth and change into clean clothes, and knowing her mother, the closet would have fresh clothes. She found a silver-blue skirt and a cornflower-colored top hanging in the closet along with silver shoes, with a fair amount of heel. A bit too much for CeCe, but that was her mother.

  Once dressed, CeCe picked up the phone.

  At the window, a man peeked in.

  CeCe dropped the phone in shock. For one mad minute, she thought it was René, but no, his build was all wrong. And the hair, this guy had salt-and-pepper hair and an older face.

  Familiar? Maybe, but CeCe wasn’t about to give him a second look to find out. But how could the man be there? There was no balcony outside the window, nothing to stand on, nothing to grasp.