Chapter 6
SIX
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
Ian
I usually love sailing and relish the sting of salt on my face, the challenge of conquering the wind and water and steering the vessel out to sea.
But today, I can’t wait to dock my boat and head into the restaurant.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that girl I met out on the patio.
The server with red hair and freckles and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Josie.
The minute we’ve tied up the sailboats, the other guys from the team head for a table on the patio, but I don’t see Josie working out there today, so I keep walking into the dining room.
My gaze sweeps past the usual crowd of club patrons to search for a flash of forest-green eyes.
But instead, it stalls on the table by the window, my dad’s regular spot for holding business lunches with clients.
Dad loves to wave me over and invite me to sit in on the discussions.
Loves to tell his clients I’m going to Stanford to study Business and then will be coming back to the island to take over Langley Capital.
I’m supposed to go along with it like I haven’t told him a dozen different times that I want to study Environmental Science at Stanford, and that the property development business isn’t for me.
Oblivious to our private discussions over my future, the clients find Dad’s pride in me charming.
But then, people around here find everything about Dad charming, and interesting, and they fall all over themselves to gain his favor, even when he barely glances at them in return.
That’s what being one of the richest men in the state gets you.
I watch the middle-aged woman across from Dad prop an elbow on the table and lean her chin in her hand as if she’s hanging on every word he’s saying about the monstrous beach house he’s planning to build for her.
I can tell by the way she keeps shifting her posture as if she’s posing for a photo shoot, trying out different smiles, that she’s hoping he’ll find her attractive.
Dad keeps his eyes focused on the architectural drawings in front of him, and I almost feel sorry for her.
I don’t see Josie in the dining room, so I head back out to the patio before Dad can suck me into his meeting.
A couple of the sailing team guys call me over, but at that moment, I spot a flash of copper-colored hair shining in the late afternoon sun.
It’s Josie sitting at the far end of the dock, out past the last of the catamarans, her feet dangling over the water.
I give the guys a wave and keep walking.
My feet tap on the wooden planks as I approach, and she turns to look up at me.
Damn, she’s beautiful. At first glance, I’m hit by the way her hair pulled off her face in a high ponytail highlights her pale skin and bright green eyes.
When I first saw those red locks flying in my direction in the seconds before she collided with me, I was immediately intrigued.
Later that day, I knew every guy at the table felt the same way when she came to wait on us, though she didn’t seem the least bit aware of the effect she was having.
But it was the moment she flung that drink, and Cal fell in the water, that I knew I had to get to know Josie better. Not everyone has the kind of nerve to stand up for herself, especially against entitled pricks like Cal.
“Hey.” I shove my hands into my pockets, my shoulders tense.
“I just wanted tell you I’m sorry again for Cal, and make sure you’re okay.
” I never want to be seen as one of those entitled rich kids, even though I guess technically, that’s what I am.
But just because I have money and privilege doesn’t mean I need to behave badly, like Cal.
Or like Dad.
I shove away the thought. Dad and his indiscretions are the last thing I want to think about right now.
“You don’t have to apologize for him. I know it wasn’t your fault,” Josie says.
I focus on the girl in front of me. She has a notebook in her lap, or I guess it’s a sketchpad since she’s holding a colored pencil in her left hand.
I can’t tell what she’s been drawing, though, she flipped the image over when I walked up.
But I spot another sketch—a bird tattoo on her forearm, visible now that’s she’s rolled up her sleeve.
I don’t know any girls with tattoos, especially ones our age. It only adds to her intrigue.
“I like your tattoo.”
She slaps her right hand over the inked bird. “I’m supposed to keep it covered while I’m working.”
I grin. “Well, you’re on break, and I swear I won’t tell.”
She presses her lips together and assesses me before sliding her hand away. “Thanks. I was really hot from running around the dining room today.”
I tilt my head to get a better look at the etching. It’s a sandpiper—one of the long-legged shorebirds with a pointed beak that run along the edge of the water. “Those are my favorite,” I say. “I love the way their little legs scramble to avoid getting bowled over by the waves.”
Josie smiles. “Me too. They remind me of when I was a kid running in and out of the water all day long.” She brushes an affectionate hand over the bird. “I’m leaving for college in a few months, and I wanted to get something to remind me of home.”
“Your parents didn’t mind?”
Josie shrugs. “I have a beachy necklace that my dad gave me, and I think my mom would have preferred I keep my mementos along those kind of non-permanent lines.” She presses a hand to the collar of her shirt, and I assume that’s where the necklace usually hangs when she’s not working.
“But I’ve been doodling on literally everything since I was a little kid.
So, I don’t think a tattoo came as a complete shock to her. ”
I take a step closer. “So, this sandpiper is your drawing? You’re an artist?” I wave at the sketchpad. “Is that what you’re doing out here? Drawing?”
She nods. “Do you want to see what I’m working on?” She grins, picking up the sketchpad as if she’s about to flip it over.
“Hell, yes.” The planks beneath my feet creak as I close the distance to the edge of the dock.
I drop down on the sun-warmed wood, and my shoulder brushes hers, but she doesn’t move away.
In fact, she turns her head to give me a smile.
The water gently laps against the sailboat hulls and the sun slants lower, leaving pink and purple streaks across the sky.
She’s so close it would take no effort at all to lean in and kiss her.
But I don’t. Even if I’m pretty sure she’s feeling this same spark between us, I don’t want her to think that’s all I came for.
“Let’s see.” I gently nudge her with my elbow.
She flips the sketchbook over without hesitation.
And then it’s clear to me why she’s not shy about showing her work.
She’s drawn the image in the distance. A sailboat skimming across the water past the pilings of a dock that stretches from the land out to sea.
The water splashes away from the hull, white and frothy against the ombre cross-hatches of water.
I stare at the drawing, a lump forming in my throat.
Somehow, she’s captured the exhilaration and excitement that I feel every time I’m out on the water.
The emotions this drawing evoke are exactly what inspired me to start sailing in the first place.
“I’m amazed that with just a couple of lines and shadows you can make that sailboat come alive.” I swallow hard. “It’s so rare for an artist to be able to do that.”
She looks up, surprised. “Are you into art?”
“Not at all.” A small laugh escapes my throat. “I mean, not until right this minute, I guess.”
“Really?” she says. “Even with your parents’ amazing art collection? I heard you even have an Akiko Walker.”
It’s true that my parents have a painting by the famous contemporary artist in their collection, chosen by my dad for maximum prestige and with little appreciation for the actual images or forms. And my mom likes them because my dad likes them.
“They do, but to be honest, I never really paid much attention to it.”
“Oh, to be so unimpressed by an Akiko Walker that you don’t even notice it hanging on your wall,” she says, but her voice is teasing.
“Well, I’ll notice it now. But I promise you, Akiko Walker won’t make me feel half of what you did with that drawing.” I hitch my chin at her sketchbook.
A smile plays on her lips. She tears the drawing from the notebook and hands it to me. “Here. You can have it.”
I stare at the paper in my hand. “I can’t take this. You should do something with it. Enter it in an art show or something.” Even as the words come out of my mouth, I clutch the drawing tighter.
Her smile widens. “I am doing something. I’m giving it to you. Don’t get too excited though. It’s only so I can say my work is owned by the same family who owns an original Akiko Walker.”
I laugh. “And I’ll brag that I have an original Josie…” I trail off, looking to her to fill in the blank.
“Sullivan.”
“An original Josie Sullivan,” I repeat, turning the name over in my head. “I’m Ian Langley, by the way. But I guess you knew that if you know about my parents’ art collection.”
She nods. “I read about it in the New York Times. Everyone in my art class was talking about it.”
It’s the perfect opening to invite her over to see the art collection in person.
But then I remember Dad inside the restaurant, preoccupied with his building plans, and Mom waiting impatiently for him at home.
I hesitate, and hear a voice calling Josie’s name.
We both turn around, and I spot her dark-haired server friend waving from the end of the dock.
Josie’s eyes widen. “What time is it?” She grabs my arm and looks at the Rolex Submariner Dad got me for graduation.
“Oh no, my break is over. I have to go.” She scrambles to her feet while rolling her sleeves down, covering her tattoo again.
I like knowing this secret that nobody else here at the club has any idea about.
I follow her to my feet. “Thanks for the drawing,” I say.
She hesitates for a second, looking at me.
“You’re welcome.” And then she turns and runs down the dock.
Right where the wood planks meet the grassy lawn, she gives me one more glance over her shoulder.
I lift my hand in a wave, and the strangest feeling comes over me.
Like I’ve untied my sailboat from the dock and I’m about to launch into the ocean.
Like I’m on the cusp of the most exhilarating adventure.
I look down at the drawing and gently smooth out a wrinkle.
As I head back toward the club, I hold it at my side and hurry past the guys on the patio, and then around the side of the building so I don’t have to run into my dad.
I don’t want them to see what I’m carrying or to ask me about Josie.
She and this drawing are too special to share.