“Nope. What I would like to do, if you agree, is demo your system to potential clients. I’ll come aboard, hit the PANIC button and then show off for my clients, who will be watching from my office. That’s the only time I will turn on the camera, and never when you’re home.”
“I trust you.”
“So how do you like the system?”
“I love it. Not only can I see what’s happening on my boat, if I need help I can punch a button. Wait a minute, who’s monitoring the calls? What if you’re out of town or something?”
“I have a pager and a portable satellite system. I can go on line, look at the situation and call the police or whatever. And if I’m not available, I have employees who cover for me. They work from home.”
“Wow. I feel safer already. Jenks, how much does one of these things really cost? You’re only billing me for service, not equipment and all. This sucker’s pretty damned sophisticated. In my business, that spells big bucks.”
“They ain’t cheap. I’m targeting megayachts, corporate stuff. Your boat, like I said, will be my prototype, so I really shouldn’t be charging you anything, but it goes against my nature. The hundred will do. If, that is, you agree.”
“Oh, I agree all right. I’ll be your Guinea pig, no problem. What happens when the boat leaves the dock? Is my security system dead in the water, so to speak?”
“I can rig up a cell phone that’ll dial the website when the PANIC button is pushed.”
“Call me impressed. In fact, call me anytime,” I said, then blushed. Brazen hussy.
“I will. Oh, and there’s another thing I meant to do last night, but ran out of time.”
What now, my own satellite?
“What?” I asked.
“This,” he said, and he kissed me.
And what they say is true, even after two thousand, one hundred and thirty-one days—but who’s counting? It’s like riding a bike.
In the Tour de France.
And winning.
Chic, alors!
42
What can I say? The next six weeks were magical. And no, that’s not what I named the boat, it’s the only word I can think of to describe my thing with Jenks.
I guess one could call it a budding romance, but one thankfully devoid of the hype, sleight of heart, and the general bullmerde involved in most new affaires d’cœur. At least any I’d had since I was ten and my heartthrob was a horse named Wishes. As in, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”
Or maybe it was that Jenks and I were far from buds. One might even say a mite past full bloom. For the first time in my life, the words, mature and love, could share a sentence. Not that either of us had actually used the L-word yet.
Call it what you will—love, like, lust, or a healthy mix of all those things—we fell into a comfortable…what? Relationship: A state of connectedness between people. Okay, so that’s what we had, even though I hate the word. Anyway, neither of us found it necessary to unload past baggage—another buzz word that stinks—play the hard-to-get game, or worry whether what we said to one another might constitute possible insult or injury. I never even obsessed or asked about that blowsy blonde, old Shirl. It was downright unnatural.
I was away in Seattle or Los Angeles a few days out of each week, but we frequently talked on the phone right before I went to bed. It was comforting to know someone out there besides Jan, Mama, and Daddy missed me. And told me so.
Thursday night through Sunday night we spent aboard Sea Cock. We left the dock on Thursday afternoon, sometimes taking what we dubbed a cocktail cruise to our destination. We’d anchor at Treasure Island’s Clipper Cove, Angel Island, or some other Bay Area locale until reluctantly returning to the real world Sunday night or Monday morning. Sometimes Tuesday, if we didn’t have pressing business.
We quickly fell into a natural, relaxed routine. For our weekends afloat, Jenks shopped for what he called real food, namely steaks, hamburger fixin’s, pork chops. I made sure we had movies and necessities like chocolate cake, popcorn, Toll House cookies, and Merlot.
Weather permitting, Jenks schooled me on anchor drills, basic seamanship, knot tying, and diesel mechanics. If it blew or rained, we holed up on the hook and played dominoes. He always won. We’d read, he Clancy, me McMurtry. We both liked Tom Hanks movies, and while he really leaned toward action flicks, we both loved Sleepless in Seattle. Mostly though, we talked and enjoyed each other’s company.
After being alone for so long, I sometimes found myself astonished that I could spend this much time in such a confined space with someone who still liked me when we parted. Like I said, it was downright unnatural.
But when we were apart, my neuroses surfaced. Lurking very deep in the dark labyrinth of my insecurity was a murky dread of…what? My past whispered, “Hetta, Jenks is too good to be true, and you know what they say about that.” And if he was what he seemed, what was he doing with me? Four in the morning found me tossing and turning in my hotel room bed, trying to convince myself I wasn’t dating Ted Bundy.
Thankfully I didn’t carry my misgivings aboard on our weekends. Although we didn’t usually go into gory details concerning our histories of loves, losses, or regrets, we did touch lightly on our pasts. Needless to say, I couldn’t let the “nooner” incident go untouched. We shared a good laugh when he told me he called a nap a nooner, and I told him what I thought he’d meant.
One Thursday night, when entertaining Jenks with funny anecdotes of my hooker friends in Tokyo, I found myself reluctantly telling him about Hudson. After all, Jenks was in charge of my security system and we were having an intimate relationship. I thought it might be about time to tell him my last boyfriend ended up floating face down in my hot tub. Some guys could get real touchy about something like that. Evidently Jenks was made of sterner stuff.
“So,” he said when I’d finished, “this guy, Hudson Williams, who disappeared in Tokyo five years ago, shows up, breaks into your house and ends up dead in your hot tub? Why do you think he surfaced,” here he smiled, “after all this time?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll show you,” I said. I went to my cabin, opened the safe, and brought back the key I no longer wore around my neck. The one from the Key Note Club in Tokyo.
“Mr. Fujitsu, my Japanese neighbor, told me these clubs keep bottles in personal boxes for up to ten years, so chances are Hudson had more in that box than a bottle of Crown Royal. That’s my guess.”
Jenks fingered the key. “What did that detective, Martinez, think about this?”
“Actually, I didn’t tell him about the key.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m stupid. That’s my defense and I’m stickin’ to it. I’ve been thinking it was a mistake. I plan to get in touch with Martinez on Monday, give him the key and let him figure out what to do with it. I never was a serious suspect in Hudson’s murder, but I can assure you Martinez is going to be really pissed when he finds out I’ve been holding out on him. According to Allison, he could even charge me with obstruction of justice or something. The only good news is that Hudson is no longer in the picture.”
“Gee, I don’t know about that,” Jenks said, smiling and handing me back the key. “If he were still alive we could invite him for drinks, hit him over the head and collect the reward.”
“Very funny. Although I like the hitting over the head part. Anyway, I promised Allison I’d give the key to Martinez this week for sure.”
“I thought you had to leave for Seattle Monday noon. Do we have to go back to the dock on Sunday instead of Monday morning?”
“Rats! You’re right. Japan Incorporated, as I call the big client, will be in Seattle. We start work early, eat late, and never have a moment in between. The good news is that after this week, I’ll have some time off and can stay down here for at least a couple of weeks. I’ll have to give Martinez the key after I get back.”
“Want me to handle it for you? I’m not real busy and I can’t really get any
work done on the boat because you have a charter on Wednesday and Thursday.”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot about those charters. I must say, they’re great for the pocketbook and my champagne supply. Molly buys the good stuff.”
“Who’s chartering this week?”
I shrugged. “I never know. Molly takes care of everything. Whoever they are, they have bucks, ‘cause I get five to seven hundred a day and Molly charges the client twice that. I think it’s mostly corporate stuff and honeymooners.”
I handed Jenks the key. He turned it over and looked at it. “Looks harmless enough. Give me Martinez’s number and I’ll get it to him so you don’t have to break your promise to Allison and Jan. I’m sure, though, he’ll be wanting to talk to you about it when you return.”
Gratitude swept over me like a warm wave. I had been alone for so long, handling everything myself, the ability to share a responsibility with someone was a wonderment. Moisture welled in my eyes, causing Jenks to get that alarmed look men get when women cry.
“Don’t worry, Jenks,” I told him with a laugh, “I’m no sob sister. I’m not gonna cry. In fact, I rarely do. Nor do I throw up. If I ever do either, you’d best pay attention because we have us a serious problem. And while I’m in a true confessions mood—a rarity, you’ll be glad to hear—I have to warn you I have a long-term memory like a computer. I might forget what I had for breakfast this morning, but in the end I remember almost everything anyone tells me. If two pieces of information don’t add up, my motherboard screams tilt. So don’t lie to me unless you mean it.”
He grinned. “I’ll remember that. So if you don’t cry or throw up, does that mean you never get seasick?”
“Never have. Why?”
“I thought maybe we’d take this tub out the Gate, go down to Half Moon Bay.”
“In the ocean?” I squawked.
Jenks chuckled and waved away my concern. “Hey, you’ve got to get certified sooner or later.”
“As what? A lunatic?”
“Sea wench,” he said.
Any other man called me a wench he’d’a died on the spot. The way Jenks said it, I smiled. Yep, I had it bad. This was a man I aimed to get—without my .38.
True to form, I didn’t get seasick the next morning when we left Clipper Cove, cruised out under the Golden Gate Bridge, and plunged into fifteen-foot head seas.
“Uh, Jenks, are you sure about this?” I said as we ran up a wave, fell off it and crammed the pointy end of the boat into a wall of water before climbing the next wave. That’s the way I saw it, anyway. For the properly nautical, however, we topped a swell, nosed into the trough, and buried the bow, taking on green water before climbing to the top of the next swell. Semantics aside, we were getting the crap beat out of us.
“It’ll get better real soon, Hetta. We have to clear the bar, then you’ll see.”
“Damn. I’ve been in some pretty raunchy bars in my day, but this one is the roughest.”
Jenks laughed. “All the weather and sea reports say we’re in for a great cruise down to Pillar Point. Hang in there for an hour.” He took a sip of his coffee. I’d long since given up trying to drink mine after almost taking out my front teeth.
“If you say so,” I muttered, not really convinced.
In just under an hour, we were smoothly headed south, Sea Cock riding in the troughs or over swells, only occasionally catching an undulating wave on the beam that caused the boat to rock from side to side.
I soon adapted to the boat’s rhythm and started enjoying the cruise. We changed course, picked up a following sea and rode it into Pillar Point. I whooped with delight as we surfed off the top of swells, sliding forward with dizzying speed, then almost stalling in the troughs until the next wave picked us up and pushed us forward again. It was this E-ticket ride that told me I’d found more than one new love. But, like any new relationship, mine with the sea was soon to be tested.
North of Half Moon Bay, the delightful anchorage at Pillar Point Harbor offered a peaceful respite from the waves pounding her breakwater. A flotilla of small sailboats, a group of trailerable vessels from a Sacramento sailing club, bobbed about, their crews sipping beer and swapping tales after a day of sailing on the Pacific Ocean.
Happily anchored after our own exciting day at sea, we showered, had a drink, cooked steaks on the propane grill and we went to bed at nine o’clock. Whoa, you say. Drink? As in singular? Yep, one of the most surprising aspects of spending time with Jenks was my diminished alcohol consumption. “Maybe you won’t be needing those meetings after all,” my Pollyanna muse chirped. My dark side, however, rasped, “Until he dumps you.”
By the time we hit the sack, an unusually balmy southerly breeze gently rocked the boat. The warmish air felt good on my naked, slightly sunburned skin. A little foreplay on the foredeck during the voyage—in full view, I might add, of planes soaring out over the Pacific from SFO—had singed previously pasty white body parts to a pinkish tinge. As I fell asleep, I gave the day a ten. People spend their whole lives dreaming of a day like I’d had.
A clap of thunder brought us from dreamland to our feet in seconds. Driving rain sent us scurrying around the decks, naked as the day we were born, slamming shut doors and hatches. Lightning flashes lit building whitecaps. White horses slammed into our bow. Surf crashing on the beach astern roared the boaters’ worst nightmare of ending up on the wrong side of a normally lee shore.
We started the engines.
It was, of course, pitch black outside. Where’s a moon when you need one? Sea Cock was hobby horsing, her bowsprit scooping seawater on the dive, then throwing it over her shoulder onto the decks on the rise. Thankfully I had done the dishes and locked the refrigerator before we turned in or the galley would have been a minefield of flying food and pottery. I careened around the cabin, securing anything that threatened to move while Jenks turned on the running lights, depth sounder, VHF radio and radar.
“Hetta, can you get down to your cabin and grab us both a set of sweat pants and our shoes?” When I said yes, he added. “I’ll get out the PFD’s.”
PFD’s. PFD’s. I tried to remember what they were. “PFD’s? What are those?”
“Personal Flotation Devices.”
“Hell, Jenks, I thought we were on one!”
Once we were both dressed and PFD’d, he snapped a safety line to his waist, strapped a strobe light to his arm, then one on mine. During all this time, which seemed like an hour but was more like five minutes, he was a rock of calm, doing his best to relieve my building sense of panic. However, safety lines, life jackets, and strobes are somehow not comforting. They mean shit has happened.
He gave my lifejacket ties a tug and said, “Okay, Hetta, here’s the drill. Raising the anchor from down here, using the automatic switch, is too iffy under these conditions. I have to go out on the foredeck. We’ll have to maneuver the boat to time the raising of the anchor between swells. Got it?”
I nodded dumbly. “Uh, yes. I think. What do you want me to do?”
“You have to drive the boat from the bridge.”
“What? Are you nuts? No way. Not a chance.”
“You have to, Hetta. And you have to drive from up there so you can see my signals. Remember what I’ve taught you. Slow is good. Follow my hand signals, just like we’ve practiced.”
“Can’t we just call the Coast Guard or something? Maybe a taxi?”
He grinned. “Nope. We can do this. You can do this.”
“Uh, don’t I need a safety line, too?”
“No, you don’t have to go out on deck to get to the bridge. Hold on with both hands on the way up. Now, are you ready?”
“No.”
He grinned, turned me around and gave me a gentle shove. “Sure you are. Go on up and watch for my signals.” I felt the wind hit me in the back as he opened the side slider and disappeared into the storm.
I took a deep breath, cussed my way to the bucking bridge, but found when I got there I couldn’t
see a damned thing through the Eisenglass wind curtains. Unzipping the panels proved hazardous. First the heavy plastic tried flogging me to death. Once they were secured, rain and wind shot through the opening, soaking me to the bone and blinding me.
At last I was able to move to the console where I could see Jenks waiting patiently on the pitching foredeck. He’d fixed his safety line to a rail and turned on his armband strobe, but how he managed to keep his footing I’ll never know. I looked longingly at the marina lights sparkling a half-mile away at Half Moon Bay and vowed never to anchor out again. Ever. And to replace the Eisenglass with real glass and windshield wipers.
Jenks had grabbed a flashlight before working his way to the bow and, as he fought for purchase on the deck, the beam swung wildly, as if he were doing battle with Darth Vader. I wanted Scotty to beam me up. I know, I know, mixed intergalactic metaphors.
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 24
