Baby on Board

by Lisa Ruff

  “Here, stupid.”

  “Thanks, ugly.”

  Elaine frowned at her sons. “Stop it, both of you. Patrick, sit down and keep that ice on your hand. Ian, your father just called and said Jimmy Johnson is down looking at his boat. He’ll stall him as long as he can, but you’d better get there right away.”

  “I told that idiot it wouldn’t be done until next week,” Ian grumbled, picking up the tools again.

  “Don’t call your father an idiot.” Patrick grinned at Ian and was rewarded with a rude gesture.

  “You should be handling Johnson, not me, bro. You’re the one who should have test-sailed the damn thing by now.”

  Elaine rolled her eyes. “Somebody better go. I think the healthiest and sanest one. I’ll tend to the injured and insane.”

  “Tell Dad I’m on my way. You want to go get a beer after?” Ian asked Patrick.

  “Yeah. I’ll be down on my boat. Tell Jimmy I just got back and I’ll take his boat out tomorrow.”

  Ian nodded and left the office. Elaine went back behind the counter and picked up the walkie-talkie. After she had delivered the message to her husband, she turned and sat down. Her gray eyes surveyed him expectantly. She was a pretty woman, small and sprightly. Dressed in jeans and a powder-pink polo shirt, she looked more like Patrick’s older sister than his mother.

  Patrick took a chair at the desk that faced hers and propped his feet on the corner. His bruised knuckles felt better—numb from the cold, but better.

  “So you punched your poor truck again. What did it do this time?”

  “Nothing. I was mad.”

  Elaine pursed her lips. “That’s a news flash. About what?”

  Patrick shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m over it.”

  The look on his mother’s face told him she didn’t believe this fabrication any more than the other lies he had told her. “That’s the third time, isn’t it?” She shuffled a few papers on her desk. “Or is it four?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Ian counted three.”

  Elaine kept her eyes fastened on him, as if she knew what he was thinking. Patrick said nothing and looked out the window behind her at the docks and the water.

  “Well,” she finally said. “You haven’t told me the other two reasons why you hit your truck, so I shouldn’t be surprised that you won’t tell me about the third. I’m only your mother. I just brought you into this world. I don’t suppose I have any more use in your life.”

  Patrick grinned. The grin turned into a laugh. “That was good, Ma. Are you giving lessons yet?”

  He could see a smile trying to break out on her face, but she wagged a finger at him. “You watch yourself, Patrick Michael.”

  “But, Ma.” Patrick’s eyes danced with suppressed laughter. “I’m only saying that a master at their craft owes it to the next generation to pass that skill along.”

  Elaine laughed and threw a pencil at him which he caught in his good hand. “Stop it, now.” She sobered. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, you know I’m here to listen. And tell you what you should do. Like a mother is supposed to do.”

  “I know that, Ma.”

  The phone rang and Elaine lifted the receiver. Patrick ignored her conversation, twirling the pencil between his fingers. How could he tell his mother about Kate? Where would he even begin? From the beginning perhaps; he had been sitting in the coffee shop, when his head was turned by a peal of sharp, ringing laughter. It came from a woman at the counter. Running his gaze over her slim, lithe form, he had felt something flicker inside him. Long legs, a sweetly rounded bottom and the taut curve of pert breasts: what wasn’t to like about that? Her hair had seemed alive, too, as some stray draft of air caught the long, golden curls and sent them dancing around her head. When she turned and he caught a glimpse of her face and her chocolate-brown eyes, he knew he had to meet her.

  Elaine got up, phone in the crook of shoulder and neck and went to a bank of file cabinets along the back wall. How could he tell his mother about how hot it had been between him and Kate after that first meeting? That was not information to share with a mother. Nor did he want to talk about how suddenly, today, Kate had turned so cold. It cut him to the bone that she could douse the fire so easily, even as she carried his child inside her. The more he thought about it, the more miserable he felt.

  Elaine hung up the phone. “All these phone calls! How am I supposed to do any work around here? I never appreciated Tricia until after she’d gone.”

  Patrick dragged himself out of his muddled thoughts. “What happened to her?” He used the pencil to gesture to the desk where he lounged. “I thought she would have chased me out of her chair by now.”

  “She moved to Boston two weeks ago.”

  “Boston?” Patrick gave a shiver. “What would she want to do that for?”

  “Love.” Elaine smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Isn’t that what makes us do all the stupid things we do in life?” She cocked her head to one side, once more looking at her son expectantly.

  “I wouldn’t know.” The words were a mutter as he avoided her eyes. He dropped his feet to the floor, rose, and tossed the pencil back to her desk. “I’m going down to the boat.”

  “How’s your hand?”

  Patrick lifted the towel and looked at his knuckles. The skin was blue-white and didn’t hurt, but he could see some swelling. “It’ll be all right.”

  “Keep the ice on it.” The command was all mother.

  He nodded, picked up his bag and swung the door open. “See you later.”

  “Oh! Before I forget, Jeannie wants you to call her about the picnic on Saturday.”

  “What does my darling sister need now?” Patrick asked irritably.

  Elaine shook her head at Patrick. “Be nice. She needs you to help her with the coolers and ice.”

  “Isn’t that why she has children?”

  “It’s a family picnic, Patrick. That means everyone gets to help.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “I’ll call her.”

  He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Sighing, he took a deep breath. It was like sucking air through a wet rag—a hot, wet rag. It signaled the start of another steamy July in Maryland that would probably last through August. Hoisting his bag on his shoulder, Patrick walked toward the docks that stretched away to the right, past the travel-lift pad.

  To his left, three rows of about fifty boats stood on jack stands. Half of those would be gone in a week, to be replaced by others in need of quick repairs or a coat of paint. The other half were serious refits, boats completely stripped of hardware and rigging. Some sported tents of plastic, behind which Patrick could hear the low hiss of an air compressor or the high whine of a gel-coat peeler. The sharp, sweet smell of hot fiberglass mingled with the fecund aroma of the shore. Behind the rows of boats were sheds for the yard’s various repair shops: one each for engines, gel coat, paint, canvas and so on. Ian’s wood shop was among the largest buildings—big enough to fit an entire boat during the winter. Fragrant with raw wood and varnish, the scent there always reminded Patrick of the childhood he had spent on his parents’ old boat.

  He went down the ramp connecting the docks to land. The floats bounced slightly with each step and undulated in the wake of passing boats. Like the water they floated on, they rose and fell with the tides of the Chesapeake. Pilings spaced every forty feet or so, driven deep into the mud of Crab Creek, kept the whole maze of docks anchored in place. Patrick passed the small powerboats slipped closest to shore, where the water was shallow. Beyond those were larger, more elaborate yachts, all gleaming fiberglass and bright chrome. Last, in the deepest water, were sailboats.

  Patrick turned left onto a narrower dock perpendicular to the main pier. A couple of men, fellow sailors who kept their boats at the marina, greeted him. Otherwise the dock was quiet, as it usually was during the weekdays. It would be busy later; tonight was race night. Patrick flexed his fingers, testing their strength. H
e winced when two gave him a stab of pain. Maybe he would have to sit this race out.

  Ten slips down, Patrick arrived at his boat, Aphrodite, a sleek, white sailboat with green canvas over the boom and mainsail. He slung his bag onto the cabin top, then stepped up and over the lifelines onto the deck. The boat rocked gently as he boarded. Patrick adjusted his rhythm to that of the boat and nimbly hopped into the cockpit. There, he pushed open the companionway hatch and pulled out the drop boards to open the cabin.

  He went down the steps inside the boat, and threw his bag on the settee that ran along the right side of the boat. The icy, dripping towel went into the galley sink. Moving forward through the cabin, he opened hatches and ports, letting the late-afternoon breeze wash the heat and musty smell out of the boat.

  He pulled open the icebox. It held more beer than it had when he left three months ago. He took out one can and, just as he opened it, heard a knock on the hull.

  “Ahoy, there, Aphrodite!”

  With a smile, he grabbed another beer. “Evan, come aboard!”

  Evan McKenzie climbed over the lifelines and sat on one of the cockpit seats as Patrick tossed him a can. He popped the tab and took a deep swallow. Patrick climbed out into the cockpit to join him.

  Tall, blond and lanky, he looked like Patrick’s fair-skinned twin. They had been best friends ever since age twelve when they had tried to beat each other to a pulp over a protest in a sailing dinghy race. After that start, they had gotten into more trouble than seemed possible to their long-suffering parents.

  “Welcome back.” Evan’s greeting was followed by a hearty belch.

  “Thanks.” Patrick clunked his can against Evan’s in a toast. “Thanks for restocking the icebox.”

  Evan grinned. “Only seemed fair, since I drank what you left in there.”

  Patrick often thought that his friend looked like a used-car salesman when he smiled like that, sunglasses hiding his green eyes. In fact, he was a car salesman, albeit new ones, and very successful at it. It had something to do with the charm that oozed out of Evan’s pores. He could sell a monster pickup to an eighty-year-old grandmother with cataracts or a minivan to a teenager looking for a chick magnet. Patrick didn’t understand it. If he didn’t know Evan well, he wouldn’t trust him on a bet.

  “How’d the big race go?” Evan asked.

  “You didn’t check the site?”

  Evan tipped his glasses down to eye Patrick, then pushed them back up. “Please. I’ve got better things to do with my time than track your wake.”

  Patrick snorted his disgust. “We took second.”

  “Against Voltaic?” Evan whistled. “Not bad for a bunch of amateurs.”

  Patrick flipped him off good-naturedly and leaned back against the cockpit coaming.

  Evan eyed the swollen, bruised hand. “You get in a fight or something?”

  “Punched my truck.” Patrick flexed the fingers, again feeling a stab of pain. “Didn’t break anything. But I don’t think I’ll race tonight.”

  Evan shook his head and slid around to lean his back against the cabin, stretching his legs out along the seat. “Who pissed you off?”

  Patrick saw his brother coming down the dock and didn’t answer. Ian climbed on board.

  “Ian! You see your brother’s knuckles?”

  “Yep. That truck will never be the same.”

  “Any good reason?” Evan cocked his head. “Or just staying in practice?”

  Patrick ignored the joke and went below to get his brother a beer. He didn’t want to talk about Kate right now. Maybe not ever.

  “It has something to do with a woman.” Ian took the can Patrick handed him.

  “Naturally. Kate?” Evan asked.

  Ian nodded. “You’ll have to pry the details out of him yourself.”

  Evan swiveled his head to look at Patrick, one eyebrow raised above the edge of his sunglasses. “She dumped you!”

  Patrick sighed. “Look, can we talk about something else?”

  Evan and Ian looked at each other, then back at Patrick. “No,” they said in stereo.

  “He knocked her up,” Ian volunteered.

  Evan’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Patrick over the rim of his sunglasses again. Then he pushed them back up and started to laugh, loud and long. Patrick took a deep drink of his beer, emptying it. He went back down and got another. When he returned, Evan was still laughing, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Patrick glared at Ian, who shrugged innocently.

  Finally, Evan got control of himself. “Damn, that’s perfect,” he said on a final gurgle. “Here’s to you, Dad,” he added, raising his drink.

  “That’s the tricky part—” Ian began.

  “Whose mess is this anyway?” Patrick interrupted.

  “Yours, Patty,” Ian said. “So, tell him.”

  Evan looked back and forth between them. “What rest? She’s knocked up. You get married, live happily ever after until you don’t. End of story.”

  “That’s the problem,” Patrick began reluctantly. “She doesn’t want to get married—”

  “That’s perfect!” Evan crowed.

  “She doesn’t want to get married to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Kate doesn’t think Patrick is father material,” Ian said. “He’s gone too often racing.”

  Evan snorted. “What difference does it make if he’s here or not? He’s the father.”

  “Tell that to Kate.” Patrick popped the tab on his beer and took a long swallow.

  “She’s going to find a guy who’s more qualified for the position,” Ian elaborated when Patrick fell silent.

  “Wow!” Evan swore. “That’s hard-core.”

  “She wants me to give it up,” Patrick added grimly.

  “What? Racing?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re a world-class skipper!” Evan straightened from his slumped position. “She might as well ask you to stop breathing. What’s she got against sailors anyway?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Search me. She’s never even been sailing.”

  “Well, you can fix that easily enough.” Evan patted Aphrodite’s hull.

  “So what are you going to do?” Ian asked.

  “Somehow, I have to change her mind. I have to show her that I can be a good father.”

  “Hey, I know! Just borrow one of Jeannie’s kids for a few days to cart around with you. Kate’ll get the idea.” Evan chortled at his own joke.

  “Knock it off, Evan.” Patrick glared at his friend. “I’m serious.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like she has guys lined up to marry her,” Evan scoffed. “She’s pregnant.”

  “She has at least one,” Patrick countered. “She’s meeting him tomorrow.”

  Evan shook his head and took another swig of beer. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I do,” Ian said quietly.

  Evan looked at him.

  Ian shrugged. “She’s beautiful and vivacious. She’s an artist. Smart, too. And she runs her own business. The fact that she’s pregnant wouldn’t be that much of a deterrent for some guys.”

  “It would be for me.”

  “No one’s asking you to step up to the plate, McKenzie,” Patrick said.

  “Sounds like no one’s asking you to, either, Berzani,” he shot back.

  “Shut up, both of you,” Ian interjected. “So, how are you going to change her mind, Patty?”

  “Go see her tomorrow, before she meets this other guy. If I can talk to her, I think I can make her see it could work.”

  Ian nodded while Evan shook his head. “It’s going to take more than fancy talk.”

  “Maybe I should take your advice, then,” Patrick said slowly.

  “My advice?” Evan asked, surprised.

  “Yeah.” Patrick nodded as he thought through the idea. “I should take her sailing. She’ll understand everything then.”

  Evan grinned. “Brilliant!”

&nbs
p; “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Patty,” Ian said, frowning. “She’s never sailed and—”

  “That’s why I should do it,” Patrick interrupted. “I’ll surprise her and show her how great it really is.”

  “But what if she hates it?” Ian asked.

  “Never happen,” Evan said. “I’ll go along to do the work and Patrick can play skipper.”

  “I am a skipper,” Patrick said drily.

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

  “Guys, I really don’t think you should do this.” Ian looked back and forth between them. His dark eyes were worried. “At least don’t spring it on her.”

  “No, Patrick’s right,” Evan said. “It works better if he surprises her. She’ll love it!”

  Patrick ignored his brother and Evan. He wasn’t sure how he felt about becoming a father, but he wasn’t going to let Kate push him aside before he figured it out. He had to change her mind. Taking her sailing was the perfect first step. Perfect.

  Chapter Three

  Kate carried her cup of tea out onto the brick patio behind her house. The early-morning air was cool and fresh after the heat and humidity of the previous day. Later, it would be hot, but now the temperature was perfect. She sat on a deck chair and looked at the garden.

  Peeking out from behind the daisies, peonies and petunias were fantastical ceramic creatures sprung from Molly’s fertile imagination. Some of the beasts sported smooth, shining skin in ocher, sienna and russet. Their eyes glinted slyly. Others were rough-hewn and mossy, features grumpy and fierce. Between them, shining spires of red, green, blue and yellow glass—creations from Kate’s studio—spiked skyward. Delicate orbs of lustrous silver and gold glass hung from the branches of the wisteria, catching the light and reflecting it back to the house.

  At the edge of the patio stood several large ceramic pots, also Molly’s handiwork. Crimson geraniums spilled over their sides, spicing the air with scent. Kate took a sip of her tea and savored the morning air. She emptied her mind, trying to concentrate on the whimsical beauty of the garden, but it was no use. All too soon, the pansies and marigolds were overlaid by Patrick Berzani’s angry face. She closed her eyes and sighed.