19. Dockside Trash-Talking
19
DOCKSIDE TRASH-TALKING
PRENTICE
I picked Mal up at the yacht club dock the morning of Johnston’s sailing challenge. He stepped easily into The Siren , noting the sails were already bunched on the mast and hanging loose from the boom.
“You’re all ready,” he said. He gave me a soft, easy kiss that picked up my pulse and made me want more. “I was going to help, but you’ve set the sails yourself. You must have gotten here early.”
I untied the stern line and cast off. “Not early,” I corrected. “I slept here last night.”
We cleared the dock, and I nodded to Mal. He hauled up the mainsail and chocked it neatly. Raising the main wasn’t hard in my boat; I’d done it myself since I was twelve. But to have a big, strong man do it for me?
Yeah, I’ll admit I enjoyed it.
“Now the jib?” he asked. I was proud of him; my deck hand had learned quickly.
“Heave ho,” I said.
We had a good wind this morning. The Siren was nimble and responsive as we cut through the low chop. Perfect conditions to set spinnakers as soon as we came around the point. The skies were crystalline. Not a cloud in sight. My weather app, my grandfather’s barometer, and my instincts all told me the day was going to be perfect for a long sail. Inside my canvas deck shoes, my toes curled in delight.
Mal sat across from me in the cockpit and put his foot up beside my thigh. “I have to say,” he said with a grin, “the idea of you sleeping on this boat without me makes me a little sad.”
I slid my free hand under the hem of his pants to measure the points of his ankle. Sexy man. “There’s always tonight.” I smiled. “When do you have to be back in the studio?”
He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. His chest was appealingly broad—and was that a bulge beginning at his crotch? “Tomorrow at ten. They’re focusing on guitars today. I laid down their tracking beats last night.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “So, if you want company . . .”
I leaned over the tiller and hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt. I drew him, unresisting, to me and treated myself to the kiss I wanted. Slow. Wet. Deep.
He groaned and shifted around the tiller to sit beside me. I turned into the wind to drop our speed, much to the surprise of the retiree in the Sunfish nearby.
“Hey!” he shouted in alarm, tacking quickly to avoid a collision.
“Sorry, Gavin,” I called.
Gavin muttered, and Mal and I laughed. He went back to his side of the boat, and I picked up speed again.
“Why’d you sleep here last night?” Mal asked me.
I expressed my contempt with a flicked eyebrow. “Because Johnston Furneau hates losing. But he really, really hates losing to me. And I’m a better sailor than he is, and he knows it.”
“Which means . . .?”
“Which means he’s not above sabotaging my boat. I learned that the hard way.”
“That asshole. Would he really?”
I shrugged. “He’s done it before.” I thought back through a lifetime of attacks, from the petty to the severe, and plucked one out of memory as an example. “The yacht club holds a teen regatta each summer. I came in fourth when I was fourteen and won when I was fifteen. The next year, I motored out to The Siren to find one of the stays had frayed, and little steel fibers were standing out where they’d broken. Any strain on the mast from the wind and it would have snapped.”
Mal looked over at the starboard stay, a high-tension cable that ran from the deck to the top of the mast. “Do they ever fray on their own?”
“They do, but not six inches above the clasp. They’re most likely to wear at the connections or at the spreaders up there.” I gestured to the two rods three-quarters of the way up the mast that held the stays clear of the jib. “The only way they’d fray that low would be if someone took a file to them—someone maybe sitting in a dingy or another sailboat, who came up to The Siren after sunset and quietly filed away at it.”
“You figure it was Johnston.”
“It wouldn’t have had to have actually been him. I bet he had an alibi, should anyone ask. One of his buddies could have done it.”
“Did you ask?”
I shook my head. “I hadn’t yet learned to stand up for myself when I was sixteen.” I shot a grateful look at him. “I had you at school. I mostly hid from Johnston the rest of the time.”
Mal bit his lip. “If I hadn’t stopped him, would you have?—”
“No, that’s not useful. I found my strength as soon as I absolutely had to. Before that, I was desperate for a champion. Don’t ever regret defending me. It meant so much to me.”
His big hands were fists. “I hate that asshole.”
“Me too.”
“What happened with the regatta?”
“I pulled out. Johnston won because he had a cousin with him, a guy from Massachusetts who said he was nineteen. But he looked suspiciously like one of the pros who crewed on the big boats the summer after. The big races.”
“He cheated.”
“He always cheats. He likes to win. And he likes me to lose.”
“So we’re going to crush him today.” Mal wore an evil smile that did my heart good.
“I certainly have a plan. But I bet he does too. So we’ll lay low. Wait to see what his schemes are.”
“Aye aye, skipper. What time does the race start?”
“The starting gun is supposed to be at ten this morning, but we’ll all gather at the Furneau docks before that. We’re supposed to be there by nine. That will give us time to talk a little trash. Probably have a few cocktails.”
Mal raised his brows. “It’s half past eight in the morning.”
“Well, they’ll be breakfast cocktails, of course. Welcome to high society, where drinks are the preferred social lubricant, alcoholism is a given, and there are no sobriety checkpoints on the high seas.”
He chuckled. “Your people are tough. The more important question is, will there be coffee?”
“There will, and if you don’t like the Furneau blend, there’s a thermos for you in the cabin. Hot, fresh, and just the way you like it.”
“Prentice.” He sighed happily, his big chest rising and falling. “You are my dream girl. Thank you.”
If all it took was coffee, I’d keep him happy until the end of time.
Our journey to the Furneau docks was everything I loved about sailing. Fresh breeze, cool air, sunlight sparkling on the water, and the raw satisfaction of manipulating the wind to carry us across the seas. It would have been perfect, except for the knot of dread and anticipation lying low in my belly.
But Johnston Furneau wasn’t going to get the better of me. Not this time.
I dropped the sails, and we nosed neatly into a finger pier just before nine. The assembled crews on the dock shouted their welcomes.
“Prentice! Here you are!”
“Right on time as usual!”
“We missed you last night! How come you didn’t bring The Siren over yesterday evening, like us? It was quite a party!”
I called out my greetings to the kind hands that reached for my mooring lines. “Hi, Charlie. Thanks, Peter.”
I knew every skipper on the dock and most of their mates. Johnston’s three butt kissers were not in the impromptu welcoming committee, but they had boats in the race, and I knew they were here somewhere. Of course. If Johnston bought a twenty-foot Santana, then Steff, Trip, and Macklin would buy a twenty-foot Santana. If he jumped off a cliff, that trio would be right behind him.
Johnston and his trio of assholes. Me in The Siren . That left seven guys and their mates who were members of the yacht club because they just loved to sail. Most of them were men, most of them my father’s age. These guys had raised me as a sailor, and I was glad to see them all, even if they would have looked better that morning if they hadn’t been up drinking with Johnston and his cronies until all hours the night before.
Still, that was the way with older men who had more money than they knew what to do with. And the fastest cure for a hangover was a Bloody Mary on the docks.
Or coffee, liberally dosed with a good Irish whiskey.
Besides those helping me dock, there was a line of sailors stretching down the pier to the boathouse, where the Furneaus’ butler, Oliver, was presiding over the wooden bar. (A bar built right into the dock. Because of course that was what the Furneau dock would have.)
At Oliver’s side, I was happy to see, was Mal’s mother, Gerta, overseeing the event in her role as the estate’s manager.
I pointed her out to Mal, who gravely asked me for permission to leave the boat to give her a kiss. I laughed and sent him on his way, admiring his form as he wove between older, less muscled men.
Then a heavy boot landed on the deck.
Johnston Furneau stood on the finger pier, one hand on the very stay he’d cut twelve years earlier, watching me like a pirate and halfway to boarding my vessel.
“Prentice,” he said loudly, playing to his audience. “Glad you got rid of the help.”
From my position at the stern, I loosened the starboard mooring line but held it steady. “He’s not the help,” I said. “He’s my—” What word to use? Should I call him my lover? What was I entitled to say? “He’s my first mate.”
Johnston tossed his head back with an artificial laugh. “Of course he is. And have you met my first mate?” He waved over a blond, bearded man who looked familiar. “This is Royal Deakins, our new boat master.”
Royal tipped his head to me and said “Day” in a way that told me this was an Australian who’d clipped off the “good” from his greeting.
Oh, Johnston. Just how far will you go to avoid losing? And how much did this new employee cost your father?
“Good day to you, Royal,” I said. “And how many America’s Cup races have you crewed?”
He grinned. “You know that race is not named for your country, right? It’s named for the first yacht to win the competition, which happened to be called The America .”
“And you know that The America was American, right?”
He chuckled and nodded at me. He tipped an imaginary cap to Johnston and headed down the dock to what I assumed was Johnston’s boat.
“So,” I said to Johnston, “you brought in a ringer again. Still don’t think you could beat me in a fair race, I guess.”
He scowled. “I can beat you. Anytime I like.”
The implied violence in his emphasis raised my hackles. I felt the rush of adrenaline flood receptors under my skin, heating me. My reaction time would be greatly increased. “I don’t think you can,” I said. You will not intimidate me. You will not scare me .
“Oh, I think I can.” He pushed off the dock to come onto my boat.
I let go of the mooring line. The boat swung away from the pressure of his foot, and he had to scramble back onto the finger pier to avoid landing in the water.
“You ask permission before you come on my boat,” I said coolly. I’d taken a refresher of my self-defense classes just a month before. Could I remember what to do if he came after me? I ran through the various methods in my head.
“Fine behavior for someone who wants to raise money for her little charity,” Johnston sneered. “Maybe I’ll change who’s supposed to get the cup for this little race.”
I heard the murmur of voices around us, but I wouldn’t look away from Johnston long enough to see how big our audience was.
“No, you won’t.” A hard voice broke through the whispers.
Johnston turned, and once he did, I could too. It was instinctive, as if another, bigger predator had arrived on the scene.
And that was right. Jack Furneau—or, more formally, Johnston Furneau III—stood at the bow of my boat. The only one who could manage Johnston IV. Daddy had come to rein in his wayward son. I relaxed marginally.
“Father,” Johnston said, and then ran out of things to say. He looked like a younger version of the man who ran most of the world. No gray in the son’s dark hair yet, but the hawklike look was the same.
“The money will still go to Preston’s charity,” Jack said. “What’s the name of your organization, dear?”
“The Arts Council, sir.”
“Call me Jack, Prentice. Must I tell you again? The money will go to The Arts Council for whatever it is that they do. And we’ll make that gift at our annual Furneau spring bash this Sunday as already announced. Right, Johnston?”
His son nodded, his bravado gone into hiding. “Yes, Father.”
“That’s fine. I think the starter gun for this race goes off at ten exactly, am I right? Well, then, you men had better get your flasks filled before then. You’ll need to be on the water soon. Gerta, are the lunches ready? Gentlemen, pick up your box lunches here. Come along, Johnston. You’re the host. Let’s see you look a little livelier.”
I hid my satisfaction when Johnston was pulled into his father’s wake like garbage behind a fast-moving car. The rest of the crowd dispersed, revealing Mal and Gerta, who were wide- eyed. Jack Furneau stopped by Gerta and murmured something to her.
She looked back at him in what I thought was astonishment but didn’t answer. He dismissed her with a turn of his head and went to preside over the bar.
She turned to put a hand on Mal’s arm. Had he been about to follow Jack?
She dragged Mal to my boat. “Hello, Prentice. May I come aboard for a moment? To look around?”
“Gerta, you are welcome. Mal, will you help your mom in?”
He handed her in gently and then moved down the dock toward the cooler of water. Gerta sat in the cockpit to look around. “It’s really quite small, isn’t it?”
“Perfect for a two-man crew, and room to sleep in the cabin if you go somewhere overnight.” I was determined to keep a cool face. No blushing in memory of what I’d done to her son in that very cabin. And what he’d done to me, no matter how delicious.
“It’s a lovely boat.” She darted a glance at the dock and saw no one was listening. “I would have sent Mal to help if you needed it,” she whispered.
I took the hand she held out. “Thank you, but I think I was okay. Too many people around here. He wouldn’t have actually done anything at all.”
“Still.” She regarded me, her eyes bright. “You’re a very brave girl.”
I smiled. Gerta was darling. We’d had a good time traveling to California together to watch Mal on the Milt McAllister Show —and watching charming Nicky get engaged to Ian. I liked Gerta more and more. “I’ve worked on being more courageous for a long time. I told you about who saved me in school, right?”
Her face lit up. “My boy. Here he comes. What do you have there, Mal?”
“I got us two of the box lunches.”
“Oh no.” She got up, showing more spirit getting out of the boat than she had getting in. “Not those. I made you lunch. I’ll be right back.”
“I have food,” I called to her retreating back, but she didn’t listen.
Mal was waiting on the finger pier. “Permission to come aboard?”
“Of course.” Was he being so formal about honoring my captaincy because Johnston had been so dismissive? “I really do have lunch for us,” I said. He put the box lunches in the cabin just the same.
“Let the Furneaus feed us. It’s the least they can do.” His voice was hard, but he turned back with a warm smile. “And my mom makes an insane honey cookie. If she brings us some, do not turn it down.”
Gerta appeared with a large wicker basket, heavy enough that the boat shifted under the added weight when she passed it over.
“Mama.” Mal laughed. “What did you pack in here?”
“Oh, just—I don’t know. I didn’t want you both to get hungry.”
He leaned over gracefully and kissed her cheek, and she smiled, happy. Then her eyes went down the dock. To what? I turned to see.
Johnston was heading toward us. Jack was heading away, climbing the long staircase up the bluff to his hilltop kingdom, his relentless pace steady. “Maybe you should go now,” she said, her tone betraying a touch of worry.
“He doesn’t scare me,” I said. And I meant it. Not by myself, and not with Mal at my side.
But Johnston pretended he couldn’t see us. “Let’s get going,” he called. “Oliver will fire the gun at ten o’clock exactly, and we have a spotter at the Old Field Point Lighthouse, so don’t think you can cut any corners! Here we go now. And may the best man win.”
He darted an evil look at me with that, but I didn’t bother answering. We cast off our remaining lines, and Mal pushed us backward out of the finger pier. I waved to Gerta and then concentrated on not hitting anyone else in the scramble to get underway.
I explained the arcane rules of rights of way in a sailboat to Mal, who shrugged and announced that he was just going to do as he was told so he didn’t have to know which was the leeward boat.
All twelve boats were jockeying for position. Once the starter gun went off, the first one across the imaginary line between the dock and buoy would have an advantage, so we all wanted to time it just right.
“But watch,” I said to Mal in a low voice. “I can predict exactly what will happen.”
He turned back to me. “What?”
“Lower your voice. Sound travels over water like you wouldn’t believe. Okay—it’s going to be close to ten when Johnston makes a run for the line. He’ll be early, but as soon as he crosses it, the starter pistol is going to fire.”
Mal looked like he was going to protest, but I waved him off.
“In any other race, the others could challenge, but this is his race and his starting pistol. See how everyone is watching him and not focusing on their watches?”
“Are we doing that too?”
“Sure. I keep my eye on Johnston whenever he’s in sight, you know? Look—there he goes!”
He’d timed it nicely; I was on a far tack and had to come about to join the rush to the starting line. Mal and I were at the back of the pack when the pistol went off.
Mal turned back to me to express his irritation but found me grinning. “What?” he asked. “Aren’t you pissed?”
“Not even a little. Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the day.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Isn’t it nice out here?”
“Yeah,” he said, watching me with suspicion.
I smiled back at him and explained that as soon as we rounded the point, he was going to see something pretty when all the boats in front of us set their spinnakers.
“Is that something I need to do?” he asked. “We didn’t talk about spinnakers before. What is that?”
I told him about the triangular sail that belled out in front of the boat when the wind was behind us, pulling us along like a front-wheel–drive engine. “I’ll show you the line to hoist. The spinnaker comes out of a hatch at the bow. It’s all ready—I packed it myself last night. Okay, Johnston and Royal are rounding the point. See them? Watch.”
Johnston’s spinnaker was obviously custom-made; it was jet black and bore a scarlet F across the center.
“Only a little ostentatious,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Jesus,” Mal swore. We watched as all the boats in front of us deployed their spinnakers. None were as showy as Johnston’s, and I imagined his satisfaction.
We reached the right moment when I came about and the wind was at our backs. “Okay, haul up on that line. Deploy the spinnaker.”
My sail was all sunset colors in stripes of red, orange, and yellow. When it belled in the wind and pulled me forward, my heart lightened. It was such a feeling of lightness and power. Addictive.
And everything went perfectly—until the wind caught the sail, pushing against the connections at all three points.
And the cleat at the top snapped.
The sail billowed out into the wind and fell into the sea.