The Boathouse (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 14)

by Vickie McKeehan

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  THE BOATHOUSE

  A Pelican Pointe Novel

  Published by Beachdevils Press

  Copyright © 2020 Vickie McKeehan

  All rights reserved.

  The Boathouse

  A Pelican Pointe Novel

  Copyright © 2020 Vickie McKeehan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, locales, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, businesses or companies, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 8636646853

  ISBN-13: 979-8636646853

  Published by

  Beachdevils Press

  Printed in the USA

  Titles Available at Amazon

  Cover art by Vanessa Mendozzi

  You can visit the author at:

  www.vickiemckeehan.com

  www.facebook.com/VickieMcKeehan

  http://vickiemckeehan.wordpress.com/

  www.twitter.com/VickieMcKeehan

  https://www.instagram.com/vickie.mckeehan.author/

  No legacy is so rich as honesty.

  Shakespeare

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Cast of Characters

  The Boathouse

  by

  VICKIE McKEEHAN

  Prologue

  Thirty-five years earlier

  Pelican Pointe, California

  The waning days of summer forced Tate Burrows and Britta King to cram as many things to do and see as they could in the time they had left before heading back to school. They had to be back in Seattle the day after Labor Day or miss classes, which would not go over well with the parents. Already walking on thin ice with mom and dad, the young couple had ignored family fears to spend their summer traveling the coast in Tate’s ’74 VW bug. Driving down from the Pacific Northwest, sometimes seeking out of the way spots to camp, they had continued their journey along the California coastline.

  Such was the reason they figured they’d lucked out today. Small coastal town. A tiny, quiet strip of beach. A slice of paradise. They’d found the best spot—a sand reef—away from the crowds of beachgoers where they could be left alone to snorkel, swim, or perch on the rocks, waiting to see dolphins. Britta had her heart set on seeing one and didn’t want to go back home until she did.

  Their little sandbar sat at the mouth of Smuggler’s Bay, providing them with a perfect view of the vast ocean, a fantastic spot to get a picture if anything popped up out of the water.

  While fishing boats and trawlers bobbed in the harbor behind them, the shoreline sported a lighthouse and an old cannery. They’d already explored the town, walking around, taking pictures, blending in with the other tourists.

  Tate and Britta were about to begin their sophomore year at the University of Washington. As a couple, they’d been together almost a full year. They enjoyed the same kind of music—rocking to Duran Duran or cuddling to Peabo Bryson or cranking up Springsteen on the car radio. They shared the same love for the outdoors, often taking long hikes around Whidbey Island, tromping through the Snoqualmie Pass, or discovering the trailheads through the Southern Cascades.

  But that was back home.

  The two adventurous kids were proud to have finally made it to the central coast of California. Their love of nature had brought them together. Their passion for the outdoors had led them to this spot at the tail end of summer.

  But the trip hadn’t all been a bed of roses. Like any lengthy time on the road spent in close quarters, it had exposed some cracks in their relationship. Three months together in a small car could test the best of couples. Money had been tight—they’d done the whole thing on a shoestring budget. Britta’s doing. She was the planner, while Tate tended to focus on the right map directions to get from point A to point B.

  As they stretched out on an old blanket to bask in the sun, Britta was as tan as she’d ever been. While she slathered on another layer of suntan lotion, Tate began to pick through the bag where he kept the snorkeling gear—masks, tubes, and swim fins.

  No more than forty yards away, back on the strip of beach, they’d set up their main campsite next to their faded green bug. The car was within easy reach, close enough where they could run back if they needed to grab an extra towel and close enough where they could keep an eye on the rest of their belongings. Today, they’d left most everything they owned in their tent. It was a bit messy. Britta tended to leave stuff scattered around all over their sleeping bags. After all, she had plenty of time to be tidy once she got back home.

  Today was for having fun swimming and diving into the glistening blue water to retrieve seashells or whatever else they could find to bring home for souvenirs.

  Britta swiped a long strand of blonde hair out of her face before aiming her 35mm camera—the one with the zoom lens she’d gotten for her birthday last March—back toward the shoreline. She focused on her target, captured the lighthouse in the frame, and started clicking away.

  “You’ve already taken enough pictures to fill up a box,” Tate muttered, impatience in his tone. His longish brown hair fluttered in the August breeze as he waited for her to finish the shot. “Hurry up. The tide will be coming in soon, and we’ll have to wade back to shore. I thought you wanted more shells.”

  “What’s your problem? I like taking pictures. Besides, this is my la
st roll. You’ll thank me when we get back home and get these developed. That old lighthouse isn’t as impressive as the one we saw on Point Reyes, but it’s still cool-looking. I plan to frame these and put them on my wall, so I’ll always be able to remember this trip.”

  “You and lighthouses.”

  “Hey, like I said before, you’ll thank me later when we get to relive our entire trip through my daily photo journal.”

  Tate flashed a grin, his big blue eyes signaling to the girl he loved that all was right with the world. “You took a dozen rolls of film. That’ll probably cost a fortune to develop. I see a part-time job in your future.”

  “Not if I turn the closet in the basement into a darkroom, it won’t. I’ll develop photos on my own. I have it all figured out.” Britta angled her body to get a better shot at the old cannery and the faded lettering, then whirled around to meet Tate’s smile. “Your dimples are showing.”

  “I don’t have dimples,” he insisted before snatching her around the waist and started nibbling her neck.

  “You do. How much are you willing to bet I’ll have my darkroom by Thanksgiving?”

  “Ten bucks says I’m right. Like your old man would let you revamp that closet where he keeps his fishing gear into a darkroom.”

  “If he won’t, fine by me. I’ll clean out the closet in my bedroom and put it there. That’s option two. Either way, I’ll get dad on board.”

  “Yeah, well, mine’s putting me to work the minute I hit the door. I’ll be toting dirt back and forth until Christmas or listening to him bitch about me wasting my summer with you.”

  “Aww, poor baby.” She wrapped her arms around his neck in a show of support. “But it was worth it, right? Your dad might complain about you missing the whole summer landscaping with your brothers, and my dad will surely grumble about the money I’ve wasted. But just remember we did our vacation the way we wanted to, and no one else told us what to do. Even now, I’m prepared to break down the costs of the darkroom to my dad, explain how I’d use it for my photography classes this fall, and show him how it would save money in the long run. He might just go for it. You need to take that same approach with your dad; make it sound like this trip taught you valuable life lessons.”

  “Got it all figured out, have you? Well, that strategy won’t work with my dad. He’s upset I didn’t stay put and work. Period. But hey, you sure planned this trip so we’d spend the least amount of money on gas and food. He won’t be able to groan about me blowing my money. I wasn’t sure we could pull it off, but your thriftiness proved me wrong. I mean, look at this place. This sleepy little town is a perfect spot to end our trip. The thing is, I’m not ready to start school.”

  “Me, either.”

  Tate kissed the sad look off her face. “Come on, let’s not dwell on that right now. We still have two days before we have to start heading back. We’ll wait until the last minute to leave.”

  “Friday. You know we need to pack up and take off by Friday. Because of the Labor Day weekend, the interstate will be bumper-to-bumper all the way to Oregon.”

  “That’s still two days away. For now, don’t think about it. We have all this beautiful blue water around us.” He threw his arm around her shoulder. “I bet we see a dolphin today, maybe a whole pod.”

  He dangled a pair of goggles between his fingers. “Right now, we see what’s down below the waterline. Whaddya say?”

  She ran her hand down his cheek, already prepared to give in. She took the goggles from him. “You’re a bad influence. You know that? We need to think about supper.”

  “Supper? It’s not even two o’clock yet.”

  “We’re down to eating beans. We have four cans left.”

  Tate lifted a shoulder and slipped on his fins. “That’s okay. I like beans. Besides, as long as we’re together, I’ll eat bread for dinner.”

  She tugged on one unruly flap of his hair. “You say that now but when we get back to camp, and you start smelling those burgers cooking from everybody else’s grill, you’ll get all broody.”

  “I don’t get broody. Right now, I’d rather swim with you than think about dinner.” To prove it, he put his goggles on, adjusted his snorkel, then slid off the sandbar and into the water, diving and disappearing into the depths.

  Britta let out a sigh but prepared to follow him. She didn’t dive but waded out in her yellow bikini, toes squishing against the wet sand. She adjusted her tube so that it felt better over her nose and then let herself sink under the waves.

  Dozens of fish wriggled and scurried around to make room for them to explore. Rockfish and tomcod played tag right in front of them along with the grunion. Not for the first time, Britta wished she had an underwater camera to capture the silver, orange, and bright blue colors.

  They splashed and swam until their bellies yearned for fuel. Between the two of them, they carried a sack full of stinky seashells back to their campsite to paw through later and examine after supper.

  When they reached shore, they used the public shower facilities to clean off the salt from the sea and to wash away the grit on their gear.

  Their campsite was just as they’d left it. Tate gathered wood for the concrete fire pit while Britta dug out a can of beans to heat over the flame. Living out of the VW bug for three months meant that the two had the drill down to a precise effort. As REO Speedwagon blasted from the boombox, they worked in sync to get supper ready. Dumping the beans in a pot went smooth enough until the realization hit that their meager supplies from the last time they’d stocked up were almost gone.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said we have almost nothing left to eat,” Tate grunted. “How much money do we have between us?”

  “I have five dollars that I held back for gas.”

  “I’ve got about fifteen in reserve. We might be in trouble.”

  “I’ll phone my mom tonight and ask her to wire us a little extra. It’ll be okay. She’s more flexible than Dad.”

  “But I don’t want you to have to do that. Tomorrow I’ll go out and catch some of those fish we saw today.”

  Britta gave the beans a quick stir and chewed her lip. “Be realistic, Tate. I don’t see another option but to phone Mom for some extra cash. We always knew this trip would be a bit risky with so little money. We thought we’d have to turn back before now. Remember? We’re lucky our budget lasted this long, and we got this far.”

  “But asking your mother for help…that was never part of the deal.”

  “Maybe not, but you want to eat, don’t you? You don’t want to run out of gas between here and Seattle, do you? Mom won’t mind sending us a few bucks. She wants me home in one piece. When I called her last weekend, she said if we needed anything to let her know. I have it all figured out. After we eat, we’ll walk over to that pub right around the corner and use the payphone. I’ll call collect, ask her to send it through Western Union. I spotted a sign on Main Street. We’ll pick it up there in the morning. You’ll see, everything will be fine. Getting back home is the goal now.”

  Tate didn’t like the thought of asking for help. But they were almost broke. He decided right then and there that when he got his first paycheck in September, he’d pay Mrs. King back. “Okay, we’ll make the call, but only if she agrees to let me pay it back.”

  Knowing how stubborn Tate could be, Britta expected him to make the offer. “You don’t have to do that. Stop worrying. Everything will be all right. Sit down and eat supper.”

  After rinsing and putting away the bean pot and tin plates, they slipped on their jeans and sandals and started making their way to the other side of the harbor.

  The call to her mother went as expected. Britta said all the right things, sending lots of reassuring words back home that everything had been great until they’d run out of money. Before ending the call, Britta told her mother, “The trip’s almost over. I’ll be back Sunday night. Stop worrying about me. Tate would never let anything bad happen.”

  The couple held h
ands on the walk back to the tent, noting that the moon had disappeared into a bank of clouds. Inside the tent, instead of shedding her clothes, Britta dropped into her sleeping bag fully dressed. “I’m exhausted. That call to Mom took everything out of me.”

  Tate jumped on the makeshift bed and started to undo Britta’s blouse. “I know what will make you feel better. If it’s our last night here before we start back, let’s make it count.”

  “I’m too tired for that, Tate,” Britta muttered, batting his hands away. “Let’s just snuggle and go to sleep, maybe listen to the ocean. If you’re real quiet, you can hear the waves coming onto shore.”

  They huddled together on the sleeping bags. A few minutes later, all the activities of the day caught up with her. Britta’s eyelids fluttered closed, and she drifted off to sleep.

  Mere yards from their campsite, Tate could hear the waves. High tide, he suspected. Nestling beside Britta, he rested his chin on the top of her hair, letting sleep overtake him to the sound of the surf. As he laid there listening to Britta breathe, he had to admit that he was relieved that some extra cash was on the way. But Tate had no way of knowing that money would be the least of his worries.

  Because the moonless night held more than dark alleyways and empty streets.

  For Tate and Britta, their peaceful evening ended around two o’clock in the morning with angry voices rolling across the bay. Tate was the first one to stick his head out of the tent to find out what was going on. Beside him, a sleepy-eyed Britta sat up.

  “What is all that noise?”

  “Looks like two guys arguing on the deck of a boat in the harbor.” He squinted to see the name on the side. “The Stella Greer. Looks to be some kind of fishing trawler. Whoa. One guy just smacked the other one. Hard. Looks like things could get nasty. Oh, no, Britta. One guy just whipped out a knife and stabbed the other one, right in the heart. Oh, shit.”

  “What?”