“No Ed, but I do want you to turn off the damned cameras.” I made a face at the fake smoke alarm on the wall.
“I don’t turn on the cameras unless you don’t answer the phone.”
“How do I know for sure?” I shot the camera the finger, just to check. Paranoia runs right strong through these veins, especially when folks keep disappearing on me.
Ed didn’t react to my digital salute. “Well,” he said, “I guess you have to trust us. Or, if you really feel uncomfortable, disconnect power to the system. That’ll do it. But if you do, and then you have a problem, we won’t be able to help you.”
Fooey. I sighed into the phone. “I guess you’ve got me there, Ed, but let me give you a warning. I know how to access my own system on the Internet, so if I turn it on and see my large white butt on the screen, I’m going to come over there and cut off your ponytail. Got that?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said with an, “Ooooh, I’m really scared” tone in his voice. I get no respect. I hung up.
I was running out of ideas. I paced and drank more. So much for reform. Here I was, right back where I started, only worse. At least before I put my trust in Jenks I was unhappy and lonely. Now I was unhappy, lonely, and furious.
I called Jan.
“Hetta, do you know what time it is here in Florida?”
I looked at my ship’s clock. “Uh, one-ish?”
“Almost two-ish. What’s wrong? Shouldn’t you and Jenks be off on your boat, screwing your brains out?”
“If I see him I’m gonna blow his brains out.”
“You’ve lost me. Has something happened? You two have a tiff?”
“I didn’t think so, but he’s disappeared.”
Silence, then, “Hetta, what did you do to him?”
“Jan, nothing, I swear. We had a great weekend, then I go to Seattle, I come back, he’s gone. No note. No e-mail. No Call. End of story. I didn’t hear from him all week, which was really unusual, but I was so busy I didn’t....” my voice wavered and trailed off. I was very close to tears.
Now Jan had reason to worry. I ain’t no crybaby and she knows it. “Hetta, calm down. Hold on a minute, I’m going to wake Lars up. This doesn’t sound like Jenks.”
I waited and paced. Finally, a gravelly voiced Lars came on the line. “Have you checked Vegas?”
“Like the whole city?”.
He ignored my acid tone. “MGM.”
I was momentarily thrown off subject. Jenks, frugality personified, stays at the MGM? Back on track, I asked, “No, should I? Does he up and take off like this?”
“Sometimes. Actually, all the time. You know, whenever he can get a hop on old Uncle or one of his old navy buddies blows into town. He called a day or so ago said something about going east. Sometimes he goes back East.”
Back East? Was this a euphemism for going back to see the old girlfriend? I’d never asked Jenks about her, but Jan had told me earlier, before I began seeing Jenks, that he had had a fifteen year affair with someone in Boston. I heard Jan growl at Lars and take the phone from him. But it was too late.
“Honey, I’m sure you’ll hear from him real soon,” she said, but without much conviction. I could hear it in her voice that she, like Lars, suspected that Jenks was most likely “back East.”
My heart gave a little tug that hurt right down to my toes. With great difficulty, I leveled my voice. “Yeah, sure. Sorry to wake you up, Jan. And thanks for letting me know not to leave the light on.”
“Hetta, we didn’t say we knew for sure where he is.”
“You didn’t need to. Bye.”
I hung up and then, for the first time since RJ died, I cried myself to sleep.
44
By Saturday I’d decided to get rich, because obviously the richness of love was to permanently evade me. Alone, but determined, I would throw myself into my career, working eighteen, no, twenty hours a day, seven days a week, forsaking friends, family, and food. I’d lose weight, quit drinking. Maybe take up Yoga. Or Buddhism. Better yet, maybe I’d become a Buddhist monk. Did they accept women? Would I have to shave my head? Wait, saffron yellow is a bad color on me. Perhaps a convent would be better instead. Black becomes me. And in those robes, I could nix the weight loss part.
Nope, none of the above. I’d just work hard, get filthy rich. Forget I’d ever met Mr. Robert “Jenks” Jenkins, USN Retardo.
But first, because I could, I took my boat, all by myself, to Clipper Cove. Why, I don’t know. Maybe I secretly hoped Jenks would materialize? Of course, he didn’t.
At anchor the first night, I sat on deck gazing at stars and a calm descended on me that was totally uncharacteristic under the circumstances. So I had, once again, been dumped by a man I trusted and this time by a nice guy! With not so much as a Dear Hetta letter. How annoying is that? Was I mad? Damned right. Was I sad? You bet. Did I feel betrayed? Definitely. So what?
I also knew I had changed over the past few months and could better handle my emotions. I had a new degree of self-confidence that I never had before. I reluctantly admitted it was in no small part due to Jenks. His insistence that I operate and maintain my own vessel had given me a better ability to steer the course of my own future. Probably right over the edge of the earth, of course, but steer it myself, nonetheless.
Most of my life, I’d been perceived by others as fiercely independent. A false perception, I knew, but one I didn’t bother disproving. Only I knew how much I had always been at the mercy of outside influences like bad men, good booze, fattening food, hoity-toity employers, you name it. Only during the past five years, and especially recently, had I begun to realize how much I depended on props—material goods—to gauge my self-worth.
Not that I did much about it, but little by little I began to wage a mostly-losing battle for control over my own life. Zut, alors! I was starting to sound like Oprah fodder. Like those so-called uplifting novels and movies I hate. The ones about wimpy, but always stunningly beautiful women, who let the world use them for toilet paper and then find the strength—usually through meeting a man—to overcome adversity. Only in the movies. I needed a plan of my own.
I got out a new spiral notebook and wrote, in block letters, GOALS. I then began to list things I wanted to accomplish in what was left of my life. I figured, what with demerits for debauchery, I had at least thirty years. Next to each goal, I would make a plan, outlining the steps of how to best achieve it.
At the top of the list, since I had no business travel plans or meetings scheduled for a couple of weeks, I printed: 1. TAKE OFF TIME TO DECIDE FUTURE. Hey, it was a start, and easily accomplished. As Christopher Reeve once said, so many of our dreams at first seem impossible, then they seem improbable, and then, when we summon the will, they soon become inevitable. I’d stay at Clipper Cove on the boat, contemplate my life and make momentous mental inroads towards the inevitable.
Who was I kidding? By anchoring out, I was forcing myself to avoid the Meccas for those in pursuit of unsuitable suitors. Oases dispensing soul tonic to the disheartened athirst for companionship along with their gin. In other words, bars.
I added to the list. 2. STOP DRINKING. I hesitated a moment, crossed out STOP and changed it to CUT DOWN ON. Let’s be reasonable here. I also made a note to determine whether I was an alcoholic or just a drunk. Time would tell.
First thing Sunday morning, I called the yacht club and told them I wouldn’t be returning to my slip for at least a week. Let them know I was alive and well—well, alive —at Clipper Cove so no one would call the Coast Guard and report Sea Cock amongst the missing. I didn’t bother mentioning that Jenks wasn’t with me. No use setting the bar tongues to wagging already.
3. CHANGE NAME OF BOAT. Fool’s Paradise? Island Woman?
I scratched out both names and called my parents.
“Wanted to let you know to call me on my cell this week ‘cause I’m away from the dock,” I said, oh, so casually.
“You and Jenks?” Mother asked.
“No,” I said in a falsely cheery trill, “just me.”
“Hetta, are you telling me you are all alone, at sea, on your boat?”
“No, dear, I’m at anchor in Clipper Cove by myself. You know where Clipper Cove is, right under the Bay Bridge? At Treasure Island? Right in the very heart of the City, practically. There are all kinds of boats here,” I said, looking at the nearly empty anchorage and crossing my fingers. A little white prevarication to ease one’s parents’ minds does not necessarily earn you a one-way ticket to the devil’s lair. “And,” I added, “there’s a Coast Guard station not a half mile away. I’m perfectly safe.”
“Where is Jenks?”
Merde. “He had to go out of town.” Not a lie either, exactly. I just didn’t know which town. I didn’t think this the time to pour out yet another sad tale of woeful romance gone south. Perhaps I’d finally grown up a little after all? Fancy that, and me only in my thirties.
“I don’t like it,” Mother said.
“Tell that to Jenks,” I quipped.
“You know what I mean, Hetta,” she said, her normally dulcet drawl hitching up an octave.
“Oh, Mama, I’m fine. You can call me anytime of day or night if you’re worried. Trust me, I’ll be here, because I don’t even plan to lower the dinghy.”
“Thank God for that. I wouldn’t sleep a wink if I thought you were running around in that little bitty rubber boat in the middle of the ocean. Not a wink.” She pronounced it wee-yunk.
“I promise I’ll stay put. And don’t forget, Jenks rigged up a smart alecky security system for me. If I have a problem, all I have to do is hit my PANIC button.”
“Well,” she said, somewhat mollified, “I guess that makes it a little better. Now you be careful, you hear?” She didn’t add “And use sunblock,” but I know she was thinking it.
I spent most of the afternoon with my cell phone hooked up to my computer, working online, contributing to the economy. Working online from Sea Cock at anchor would launch my phone charges into the ionosphere, but what the heck, it was a tradeoff for bar bills.
I e-mailed the Trob, Allison, Craigosaurus, Jan, and everyone I did business with, telling them I was available only by e-fax, cell phone, or e-mail for the rest of the week. My landline phone was locked in my dock box back in Oakland, along with the answering machine, so I could pick up, via remote, any message that strayed. I didn’t deem it necessary to inform my clients, or anyone else for that matter, that I was under self-inflicted boat arrest due to a broken heart. Not that anyone would be overly amazed.
I was catching up on paperwork when my ship’s clock rang four bells, six o’clock, and was surprised the day had gone by so quickly. And that, for about half of the day, I hadn’t thought of Jenks’s treachery.
I went out on deck to feed my duck, Echo. I’d named him Echo because I’d read somewhere that a duck’s quack doesn’t echo. My new pet was partial to Ritz quackers.
Throwing bits to my new friend, I kept a sharp eye out for wild-eyed ecofreaks who’d report me for polluting the bay. Some folks need to get a life. This from a woman who spends her evenings with a duck.
Echo downed his goodies and ignored my informing him that French ducks don’t say “quack, quack, quack,” but “coin, coin, coin.” He perched himself on my dive platform and deposited some pollution of his own. I hooked up a hose to my saltwater washdown pump and sprayed him and his leavings off my boat.
At dusk I secured the boat, made a huge tuna fish salad, drank one glass of chilled Chardonnay, and fell asleep on the settee while watching television. Sometime in the wee hours, the tide turned the boat abeam a slight swell and, alerted by the change of movement, I got up to check my bearings. Satisfied I was safely anchored, I went to bed and slept soundly through the rest of the night. Gee, who needs Valium, hot tubs, and watered down drinks when you can have a three hundred thousand dollar yacht? I was finding it real hard to feel sorry for myself, but I’d eventually manage.
By mid-week I was really getting into this island woman stuff. I also realized that at some point, I would have to go ashore for supplies and water. After six days at anchor, I was starting to run out of things.
I’d spent time at Treasure Island when it still belonged to the navy—don’t ask—but now the island had been turned over to the city of San Francisco and was destined for low income housing projects. I wasn’t sure whether there was a store or even if any of the planned houses had been built. In order to check it out, I’d have to go ashore, but I’d promised my mother I wouldn’t launch the dink. And if I did, she’d know. Mothers have a way, you know.
Unwilling to cruise back to the yacht club, I dug out a stack of Bay Area yachting and boating guides in search of a marina with a store. And one where I felt comfortable docking the boat alone. Pier 39, my first choice for shopping, was too daunting. I’d been there before, but the currents and winds were such that I always let Jenks handle the boat. I now regretted that.
Allison solved the dilemma when she called. “I got your e-mail, girl, but was out of town. Where are you that I can’t call your landline?”
“If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.”
“Very funny, Hetta. I was thinking of coming to see you, but you obviously don’t want company.”
“Whining doesn’t become you, counselor,” I told her. Then I told her where I was.
“Coffey, are you out of your effin’ mind? You’ve only had the boat a few months and got no damned bidness out there alone.”
Ah ha! I smelled a contrived call. “And how, pray tell, do you know I’m alone, Miz Allie? I do not recall informing you of such.”
“Uh, I talked to Jan.”
“Ah.”
“What, ah? It’s not like we’re talkin’ about you behind your back, it’s only that—”
“It’s,” I interrupted, “only that you’re talking about me behind my back.”
“Not really. It depends on the definition of the word back,” she said with a laugh. Ever since the Clinton/Lewinsky debacle we’d had a running joke on word definitions. Now it broke the ice.
“You win. And I’m not upset that you two talked. So long as Jan doesn’t tell anyone at the yacht club.”
“What’s she gonna do, call up from Florida and tell the bartender? Nope, your secret is safe. She swore me to secrecy, told me not to even tell the Trob.”
“Like he knows anyone to tell. How goes the strangest romance of the century?”
“We’re getting married.”
“What?”
“I was getting ready to call and tell you when Jan called.”
“And, you didn’t want to rain on my already soggy parade. Thanks, but it’s all right. Your happiness does not make me unhappy. Besides, I’m getting over it. I sure wish I knew what ‘it’ was.”
“Jan and I talked about that. We can’t figure it out either. According to her, Jenks told Lars everything was hunky dory with you two. We’re all mystified. You don’t suppose Jenks is some kind of secret agent man, do you?”
“Who the hell knows what he is. I don’t suppose Lars has heard anything from his crappy, old brother?” I asked, hating myself for asking.
“Jan would have called you. Nope, nothing as of this morning. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can I do anything? Other than send you some arsenic?” she asked.
“Yeah, bring me some groceries.”
“Huh?”
“I didn’t know I was staying out this long, so I didn’t bring much. I thought maybe, if you want to come out to Treasure Island, I’ll meet you at the dock.”
Silence.
“Allison?”
“Oh, I’m here. I’m making out a list of billable hours. Let’s see, ‘shopping for groceries for demented client,’ one hour at two big ones an hour, ‘travel time,’ another big one, then we have.…”
“Didn’t I fire you?”
“Yes. But until the Hudson thing is solved, I’m still your le
gal counsel of record. Can you give me any really good reason why I should trot out to Treasure Island?"
“How about if I cook you dinner?”
“Oh, that’s completely different. I can be there by, let’s see, five-thirty? I’ll take a cab because—and if you quote me on this one I’ll sue you—I don’t want to leave my Beemer parked so near low income housing.”
“Trust me, Allison, anything I could tell the press won’t do half the damage to your career as marrying the Trob will. Can you imagine him glad handing the Gov? He’d probably insist on wearing rubber gloves.”
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 26
