7. Gala at the Yacht Club
7
GALA AT THE YACHT CLUB
MAL
“I look like James Bond,” I said happily.
I turned in front of the mirror, which also meant I turned in front of Archer (in the flesh) and Nicky (on my laptop), since our mirror was in the room that served as both living room and bedroom. Archer and I had been so pleased to rent it, long before Aftermath was getting airplay. The fact that we’d outgrown it was only now occurring to us.
“You do,” Archer said. “I can’t deny it. That tux is hot. I’m committed to O’Connor, but otherwise I’d totally do you, Brother Malachi.”
“Thanks, man. You’re a true friend. Nicky? Does it look okay?”
She was smiling. “Aren’t you glad you got your hair cut now?”
“And had the Big Fucking Truck washed?” Archer added.
“If I didn’t look so much like an international man of mystery, I’d feel like you guys were my mom and dad and I’m going to the prom.”
“What you meant to say,” Archer corrected me, “is ‘Thank you, Archer, for not making me drive a rich girl to the yacht club in my shitty beater of a van.’ ”
“ ‘And thank you, Nicky, for hooking me up with Alfredo,’ ” Nicky added.
“Hey, that was O’Connor’s doing,” Archer protested.
I bowed to them. “I thank you both. Sincerely. I started out doing this to fuck with Johnston Fucking Furneau, but now I think Prentice is pretty great. I’m looking forward to spending the evening with her.”
“And to looking like a secret agent,” Archer said.
“Absolutely. Of course. I look like I’m going to be in a photo shoot. Nicky, did you get a good look at the shoes?” I held up my foot to show them off: perfect men’s slip-on dancing shoes. Couldn’t be more conservative and grown-up. Except they were made of zebra.
“That’s not real zebra fur, is it?” Nicky’s concern did not match my elation.
“Um, I don’t know. Arch, what do you think?”
He assessed the shoe and ran his foot along the top. “Shit. Maybe. That’s fur, you know? You’re wearing fur shoes.”
Nicky shuddered. “Don’t bring it up. Maybe no one will notice.”
“Not notice these shoes?” The thought made me sad.
“Please,” Archer said dismissively. “They all wear mink stoles in a heat wave. No one’s going to say a thing except ‘Who’s that stud in the badass shoes?’ ”
I nodded, encouraged. “Right. Okay, I gotta go. Later, you guys. And thank you.”
I felt stupid heading out to Archer’s truck in my tux in broad daylight. All our neighbors would wonder what the hell I was doing. But if Prentice needed to be at the yacht club by five, then I’d get past the super mowing the little square of grass in front of our apartment building—and I’d do it without getting grass clippings on the satin stripe of my black wool pants too.
It took less than an hour before I pulled up the driveway to the Luces’ house. Just about on time. Good for me. Her folks lived in a big, square building that screamed money, and a curtain twitched as I circled around to the garage, where I’d been instructed to pick up Prentice.
Someone was watching. I’d put my money on the terrifying mother.
I got out to knock on her door, but she appeared on the stairway above me, stepping onto the landing, and I lost my breath for a minute.
She was dressed in some silky strips of gold fabric that skimmed over two perfect breasts, down over the slim curve of her hips, and stopped short near the tops of her thighs, showing off those spectacular legs.
“Holy god,” I said thoughtlessly. “Look at you!”
She laughed at me, that spectacular mouth barely holding her pleasure—and my heartbeat. “I can say the same about you,” she said. She locked her door and started down the stairs. I didn’t know how she did it in those daggerlike heels. Her legs went on forever. “Wait, is that your pickup? I thought you drove a white van.”
“You have a quick eye,” I complimented her as I helped her into the BFT’s shotgun seat. She folded those legs into the cab as if she did magic regularly. “I couldn’t pick you in that heap. This is Archer’s. He calls it the Big Fancy Truck, or the BFT.”
She was smiling as I closed the door gently, and she’d worked it out by the time I slid behind the wheel.
“You’re sure the F stands for fancy ?” She had laughter in her voice.
“Absolutely. That’s our story, and I’m sticking to it.”
It wasn’t far to the yacht club. I was surprised by how elegant it was not . The boats in the harbor were mostly sailboats hooked to buoys in the middle of the water. There were only a few boats at the two docks, and none of them were the ostentatious mega-motor yachts I’d been expecting.
“How do people get to those boats out there?” I asked, gesturing to the tidy rows of boats bobbing in the waters of the harbor.
“The club launch. They take you to your boat. And when you get back to your mooring, you hit your air horn to summon the launch back again. Easy.” Sure. Easy. That’s just how you get to your sailboat. Of course. “That’s my boat out there. The green one. See? With the single mast? That’s The Siren .”
“You have your own sailboat?”
Her smile was a touch apologetic. “Not so unusual in my world.”
“Well, it’s a pretty boat. And no one has one of those massive motorboats with helipads and swimming pools and bikini models on the front?”
“Not the front. We call it the bow.” She laughed at me. I found a spot in a nearly empty, plain old parking lot with a view of the water. She took my arm as we walked to the building. The clamshell surface must have been hell in those shoes. “Some people probably have those kinds of boats in the islands, but this is pretty much a sailing community. Most of the guys you’ll meet tonight will refer to motorboats as ‘those stinkpots.’ Or maybe ‘those damned stinkpots.’ There will be valet parking here by seven, but we’re too early. Come on in.”
The yacht club’s building looked a little nicer on the inside. Less weathered. The rooms were large and airy, filled with windows and some not-very-spectacular easy chairs and sofas. They had the look of castoffs donated when someone redecorated the summer home. It wasn’t nearly as posh as I’d expected.
Prentice led me into the dining room, where the tables had been set with white cloths and flowers.
“There’s Lucille. Will you excuse me for a minute?”
I spotted the bartender setting up for the evening and grinned in recognition. “I see an old friend. You take your time. I’m good.” She turned back to me and examined me closely. “What? Do I have something on my face? In my teeth?”
Prentice shook her head. “You’re perfect.” She kissed my cheek, tall enough in her stilettos to do it without needing to tug me down to her level. “Thanks. I’ll find you before this starts.”
I watched her walk away with appreciation. The dress was loving her ass as much as it did her front. Girl looked nice.
Then I made myself known to Dean, who greeted me with happy surprise.
“Becker! Motherfucker! How you doin’, man? I hear your music on the radio all the damned time! I tell people I knew you when. That guy and me, we slung booze for years together every summer! Good tips, right?”
We got to talking, and since the gala hadn’t started yet, I took off my magnificent jacket and hung it on a chair so I could help him with the bar setup.
We had a great visit and were almost done with the garnishes when an ice-blue car roared past the windows. We both craned our heads to see the driver stop at the front door and leave the car right in the driveway.
“Johnston,” I said with contempt.
“That Furneau asshole,” Dean said at the same time. “What a shit heel. The valets don’t start for another fifteen minutes, and he probably knows it. But he’s just going to leave that car right there.”
Johnston blew into the room, swept along on his own self-importance. He scanned the room and didn’t see his target, who I was pretty sure was Prentice, but he did see the bar.
“Give me a Pappy Van Winkle.”
Dean didn’t visibly roll his eyes, for which I gave him credit. “I’m sorry, sir. Our bourbon tonight is Angel’s Envy.”
Johnston did roll his eyes. “If I must. Come on, hurry up. Straight.” Then he noticed who was slicing limes. “Malcolm Becker,” he said with evil satisfaction. “Back to bartending, huh? Knew you couldn’t make it in the music world.”
I smiled coldly at him, making my look menacing. “Furneau, I can’t imagine how much bartender spit you’ve swallowed over the years.” He blinked. “And how many valets have lowered their pants so they could rub their assholes against your fine leather seats while they were parking your cars.”
He reared back, shocked. “I am getting you fired, Becker. I’m getting you fired. Right. Now.”
I grinned as I came around the bar. He backed away, which hardened my smile. I could take you if I wanted. I have drummer shoulders. You have stockbroker arms . I caught up my jacket and swung it on. “Good luck with that. I’m not working tonight. Ah, here’s my date. You remember Prentice Luce, don’t you, Johnston?”
She stepped to my side. My arm went around her lightly, as natural as breathing.
He assaulted her with his eyes, so blatant that my hands formed into fists. “I came to pick you up. Your mother said you were already here.”
“You knew I was coming with Mal,” Prentice said. “I told you so last week. And even if I hadn’t, I still needed to be here by five to help set things up.”
“Someone else can do that. The help .” He spat the last words at me, flinging them like an insult.
“Bartender spit.” I laughed. Dean handed Johnston his bourbon with a polite smile. Johnston regarded the glass suspiciously and slammed it back down on the bar.
An older woman followed Prentice into the room. Her white hair was an immaculate helmet on her head, and her long gown was covered in alarming flowers. “Oh, Johnston, dear, is that your car? Could you move it like a darling? The Nortons are here, and Wendell has that bad hip, you know.”
My cold smile became a feral grin full of teeth. “Yes, Johnston. Go move your car, won’t you? Unless you’d like me to do it for you?”
His face went red, and he stormed out of the room.
I turned to Prentice. “I think this is going to be a lovely evening. Do you know my friend Dean?”
My satisfaction continued through the cocktail hour, even when I came face-to-face with Bitsy Luce, mother of the supple, lovely Prentice.
Bitsy had the same light frame as her daughter, and the same wide, generous mouth. Bitsy’s eyes were more gray where Prentice’s were blue, but the resemblance was still obvious.
“Mrs. Luce,” I said when Prentice introduced us. “Very nice to see you again. We met at Prentice’s fifteenth birthday party.”
She didn’t remember. “And you, Mr. Becker. I understand you’re a musician.”
I’d been looking at Mrs. Luce, or her equivalent, from the servants’ quarters all my life. I know you , I thought, but Prentice deserved no stress tonight. “That’s right,” I said, “but I’m afraid it’s just rock ’n’ roll. I’m a drummer.”
“Ah,” she said. She and I both knew she was already aware of my occupation. “Well, that’s important too. All music has value. Isn’t that part of why we’re raising money tonight? Prentice, dear, we’ve already surpassed last year’s total, and we haven’t even had the presentations yet! You’ve done so well.”
“You, too, Mum. It was a team effort.”
“It certainly was. And it will be nice to have a musician in our midst this evening. Oh, Johnston! There you are, dear. Do you know our Mr.—ah, Becket, was it?”
“Becker,” I offered, “but please call me Mal. Johnston and I have known each other all our lives, haven’t we?”
Johnston laughed, his arrogance setting my teeth on edge. “My mother let Mal’s mother leave Mal with my nanny when we were babies. His mother is our housekeeper,” he explained.
“Well, your estate manager,” I said. “But it’s true that I did spend my earliest days with Johnston’s nannies. Generous of Mr. Furneau, wasn’t it?” I offered a smile to the group that had gathered. There was no sunshine in my expression, but I’d be damned if they thought they were going to see me cringe.
“Very generous,” Bitsy said. “Johnston, is your father coming this evening? We can’t do this without him, you know.”
My expression froze. A social event with my father? My unacknowledged father? How would I handle that?
Johnston unwittingly ended my torture. “Bitsy, my mother got the gala in the divorce. Gigi is right over there, and I’m sure she’s prepared to be very generous tonight. I know she’d love to see you.”
I thought Bitsy’s smile had become a little wooden. “That’s lovely, dear. I must go say hello. Will you all excuse me?”
Most of the crowd left when she did. Queen Bitsy rolled with an entourage, and who could blame her?
“Sorry, Mal,” Johnston said with a big, fake grin. “Hope you don’t mind me spilling the beans about Mummy.”
“Not at all,” I replied, presenting a cool and calm face. “I’m proud of my mother. She did a hell of a job raising me.”
“With my nanny.”
“Several of your nannies, actually. None of them stuck around for very long, though, huh?”
“Probably pissed that they had to raise the help.”
I looked pointedly at the cocktail he was holding. He frowned and considered his drink with suspicion.
“Dude, man!” A voice interrupted. I turned and found a trio of young guys in white dinner jackets. “Is it true? Are you the drummer from Aftermath?”
“Yeah, I am.”
They high-fived each other but then saw Johnston, who was glaring at them. Eyebrows went up and excitement was restrained. They were no longer as pleased to meet me.
“Prentice. I’ll talk to you later.” Johnston left, his own dinner-jacketed entourage trailing behind them.
Left alone in our own bubble, Prentice considered me. “That’s why you always stand up to Johnston. The two of you grew up together.”
“We did. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hide it. I guess I thought you knew.”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. Things just make a little more sense, that’s all. I guess you knew Johnston was a bully before I did.”
Her comment surprised a rueful laugh out of me. “Maybe a little before.”
“Not such a nice playmate in the cradle, huh?”
I gestured with my chin to where Johnston was huddled with his posse, throwing black looks in my direction. “Not until I got bigger than he did. Which I did.” Prentice was smiling. “What?”
“The first time I met you, you and I were in first grade. Johnston had me cornered in that little inlet where the entrance to the playground was—remember? Brick on all three sides, and whoever was monitoring the playground wasn’t watching the door?”
I nodded. “That was a favorite place for bullies.”
“He and his friends had pushed me against the wall. I can feel the roughness of the brick to this day. They were in a half moon around me, pushing in, hissing at me, calling me names. I was so scared. And they were all bigger than me. Bigger than you. And you walked right in. Pushed them aside, took my hand, and pulled me out of the huddle and onto the playground. Do you remember?”
I shook my head. “But I don’t doubt it. He was born bad.” Even in first grade, I’d known Johnston was my brother. He didn’t know, but I did. I’d known I hated my brother.
And I’d known he, the favored son, the only son, was just like our father. So sure that most people could be ignored. Dismissed.
Abandoned.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen to my mother. I was going to take every penny of my share from the new album and put it in my mother’s savings account. Johnston Furneau wasn’t going to win. And neither would our father Jack.
“Mal? You okay?”
Prentice was looking at me. I’d been staring at Johnston for too long. “I’m good. Sorry. I lost track of things.”
“Thinking of Johnston?”
I nodded. “But I don’t want to think about him. I’d rather think about you.” Which was true. “I think I’d better tell you that you get more beautiful every time I look at you. That dress . . . wow.”
A wash of color bloomed across her cheekbones. “Thank you. You look beautiful too.”
“Beautiful? You don’t think I look like an international man of mystery?”
She laughed. “I think you could be anything you want to be. And have I commented on how great your shoes are?”
We both regarded them. “They’re good for dancing too. I’m going to show you later.”
“I look forward to it. Hey, there’s Kimmy! Come meet her and help me calm her down. She’s scared about her presentation.”
“I’ve got some thoughts on stage fright that might help.”
Kimmy was a delight, a bubbly, funny woman who clearly regarded her employee as a dear friend. Kimmy’s husband, Carter, looked nervous but willing to be social. Kimmy regarded the gathering with wide eyes.
“I don’t know, Prentice,” she said. “This group is so—you know, white.” Prentice laughed, and Kimmy leaned in to confide to me. “My mother is white, but my dad is Black. I sort of stick out in this group.”
I barely stopped myself from saying, Don’t worry about it. Who cares about color? My father is an asshole .
Prentice was reassuring Kimmy. “I know it looks like a room full of WASPs, but you’re as welcome here as anyone. My mother won’t allow any overt bigotry, and no one in her circle is anything other than a liberal Democrat. They’re all so concerned with equity that they’re going to automatically favor you because your skin isn’t as pale as theirs. For once, you can benefit from a little reverse racism.”
The two of them got to giggling over it. I got Carter going on the luxury sedans he’d seen in the parking lot, and that turned out to be a great conversation starter. We were still talking cars when we were summoned to dinner. Two other couples sat at our table, and Prentice introduced us all. She and Kimmy were working the others for potential donations, so Carter and I had a nice time of it, talking about hybrid engines and the scandal of the panel gap in the new Teslas. It was a great chat.
After dinner, three nonprofits made brief presentations about their mission to the assembled billionaires—Kimmy was first in the lineup, so at least she could get it over with—and then an auctioneer stood up to hector people for their donations. It was a strange reverse auction.
“Who will donate a hundred thousand dollars to The Arts Council? We need an angel donor for one hundred thousand. Who will donate? Hold your cards up. Who will give? Yes? Thank you, sir. That’s number sixty-eight. And madam, thank you. Ah, Mrs. Furneau, thank you. Number seven, Kelly. Anyone else? Thank you—and who will give fifty thousand?”
He went all the way down to a hundred-dollar gift, working to shame the pikers. When he finally called it on The Arts Council, I’d lost track of how much they’d raised, but Prentice and Kimmy were clutching each other in excitement. Then the auctioneer went on to the other two groups and went through the same process.
But Prentice and Kimmy paid no attention. They were whispering so much that it was suggested that maybe they’d like to leave the room while the auction was going on, after which they sat on their hands, silent and brimming with excitement.
For all three auctions, the high gift came from Gigi Furneau, still trying to buy herself into the good graces of Bitsy Luce’s old-money club. Bitsy applauded each time, her circle joining her, but her smile was chilly.
Didn’t buy your way in that way, Gigi. Keep trying.
The auctioneer eventually closed out the bids. “Time for dancing,” Prentice whispered to me.
Good. I wanted an excuse to forget about the Furneaus and pull Prentice’s supple body against me.
But who stood up like a grandstanding asshole?
“Before dinner is over,” Johnston said as he took over the podium, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I didn’t pledge a penny in this auction.”
“We noticed,” one of his crew shouted, to great laughter.
“Thanks, Stefan. You’re a real card. No, I didn’t pledge because I have a challenge to offer. A sailing challenge.”
The low murmur of chat died away. All the members of the yacht club pricked up their ears. What now?
“I’m going to host a race from our docks at the Furneau estate to the Old Field Point Lighthouse and back. Winner will split the cup with The Arts Council, the chosen charity of my very, very dear friend Prentice Luce.”
By my side, Prentice stiffened.
“How much is the cup?” Stefan called out.
“I’m glad you asked. The buy-in is ten thousand dollars. And I’m putting in a hundred thousand. We’ll have a little awards ceremony for the winner at the annual Furneau spring party at my father’s house, which you’re all already coming to anyway. I know you all want to get a look at the new conservatory Dad just had built. So how about it? Anyone want to race?”
Hands shot up, and the auctioneer stood again to call out the numbers to his assistant. It looked to me like only Johnston’s white-dinner–jacket crew was in.
“Outstanding.” Johnston was pleased. Why wouldn’t he be? He could hold a race with nothing but the stockbroker frat boys who sucked up to him anyway. Then he turned to me and leaned down to make sure the microphone picked up his voice. “Mal, sorry, buddy. I know you don’t have ten thousand. Or a boat.” His smile was grindingly smug.
I could wipe that smile off your face , I thought.
“But I do.” Prentice’s hand shot up, her auction card in her hand. “I’ll take that challenge. And Mal can crew for me.”
“Prentice, honey.” Johnston’s smile was now patronizing. “That’s a pretty long race in your little boat. You sure you want to get in on this?”
She stood, and I realized she was trembling not from nerves but from rage. “I’m sure. And I think we should make the race a little tougher.”
He laughed and spread his hands. “I’m listening.”
“Well, you’ve got that high-tech boat you’re going to take to Australia for the America’s Cup trials, and I have a one-masted daysailer. Seems to me that if you really wanted to know who the better sailor was, you’d even the playing field—like it was even when we were kids, and I beat you all the time. That high-tech sailing yacht isn’t like any other boat in the harbor, and it doesn’t seem fair to expect everyone to race when you’re in that thing. Anyway, it sure wouldn’t prove anything. After all, any asshole can buy a Ferrari. But that doesn’t mean you’re a good driver.”
The room gave a collective gasp and turned from Prentice to see Johnston’s reaction.
His expression had slipped. He recovered quickly, but I’d seen his annoyance. He leaned his elbows on the podium casually. “What are you suggesting, Sugar?”
Her jaw was set. “Old-school. No more than twenty feet at the waterline. One mast, two sails. Spinnaker if the wind is right. Two-man crew, nothing more. No high-tech sailing yacht designed for the most elite races. Just plain old sailing.” She surveyed the room. “Anyone who can’t handle it should be able to back out of the race. Agreed?”
Several hands shot into the air, holding their auction cards. “I’m in for that race!”
More hands went up. By the end, the four-man race included an even dozen eager participants.
Johnston read the room. “You like that idea better? Everyone still in? Okay, Prentice. See how much I care about you? We’re all still in.”
“That’s great. And when I win, I’ll give the entire purse to The Arts Council, not just half. People who can’t afford that, of course, don’t have to live up to my standards—if they win, and not me.” She offered her brilliant smile. “Can we do some dancing now?”
The room applauded, although I didn’t know if they were looking forward to walking their evening diamond around or if they’d just had enough of Prentice baiting Johnston. There was a collective pushing-back of chairs, and the dining room rapidly emptied.
It took a surprisingly long time to draw Prentice into my arms for a dance. She and Kimmy still needed to do some squealing (although Prentice’s excitement had been tempered by Johnston’s latest attempt to dominate the world), and she wanted to personally thank those who’d donated. She made sure to bend the knee to her mother and her friends and kissed her father in his cluster of golf buddies. Carter and I chatted until Kimmy dragged him to the dance floor, and then I hung out with Dean while he mixed cocktails from the bar in the large, now-furnitureless space serving as the ballroom.
But after a while, Prentice found me. I got a bottle of water for her from behind the bar, and she drank it gratefully.
“How are your feet?” I asked.
“My feet?” She hinged slightly forward to study her heels. “Fine. Why?”
“I wanted to make sure you wanted to dance as much as I did. May I?”
I drew her to the dance floor, where the band was playing something Ian definitely would have recognized, and I got to hold her at last.
Of course, I couldn’t hold her like I wanted. There was still room between her breasts and my chest, to my disappointment, but I had one arm around her waist and the other hand tucking her fingers against my jacket.
“I thought you said you didn’t know how to do this kind of dancing,” she said with a smile.
“I’m a drummer. I can keep a beat.” I grinned into those brilliant blue eyes. “There’s one thing I can’t do, however.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I can’t sail. And you think I’m going to crew for you? I have to tell you, Prentice, I don’t know what that means. I’ve never been on a sailboat in my life.”
She stopped dancing for a moment and then picked up the sway again. “Never? Huh. I can’t imagine. Well, don’t worry. I’ll take you on a shakedown cruise. Teach you how to be a good first mate. Or a swabbie.”
“What’s a swabbie?” She made me feel strong just by being so slight and lovely.
“The guy who swabs the deck, of course.”
“Hey!” I spun her out. Surprised, she went and laughed when I drew her back to me, a little closer this time. Yes. “I don’t want to swab the decks.”
“You do what the captain says. Don’t you know that?” Her lips had a gravitational pull. It was taking effort to hold back from lowering my head to hers.
“Prentice, can I cut in?” A perky blonde in a black gown stood at her shoulder. “Come on, give someone else a chance. You’re the drummer with Aftermath, aren’t you? I go to the Paramount all the time. You guys are great!”
After that, it was a comedy of errors to get a full dance with her. Perhaps someone was keeping us apart? Maybe her mother, maybe Johnston. Who cared? I was the one taking her home, and I could endure dancing with strangers for hours to earn that right.
She held my hand on the short drive home. I cursed the BFT’s huge console that kept us apart. The lady looked willing, and I had condoms in my wallet . . .
But when I pulled in to the parking area outside of the garage, her mother was standing outside the kitchen door in a cone of light, still in her gala gown.
“Prentice,” she called. “I want to talk to you about the gala. For the committee, please.”
“Jesus god,” Prentice whispered as she and I both looked at her mother out the window. “Cockblocked by my own mother. I need to move out.” She turned to me and found me grinning. “Want to go sailing with me? Tomorrow, maybe? We could wait until next weekend, but?—”
“Tomorrow. What time?”
She smiled. “What time do you wake up?”
“Rock god, remember? Can we do it after ten?”
She was watching my lips as I spoke. “Ten. Be here at ten. I’ll get a lunch together.”
“Good.” I was watching her lips too.
“Prentice,” her mother called. “Must I stand out here all night?”
“She would too.”
She had to put a knee on her seat to lean far enough across the massive console to kiss me. She hit me with a far-too-quick buss on the lips. Not nearly as much as I wanted, but still a kiss. Still soft. Still sweet. Still warm and tempting.
Damn this oversized truck.
Laughing at my obvious frustration, she descended from the cab, holding her spiky heels in her hands. “Thanks, Mal. I had a wonderful time.”
“Me too. Can I walk you to your door?”
“Alas, I’m not going to my door. See you tomorrow. Coming, Mother.”
I drove home on a cloud. Why had I said ten? I could be there by six thirty. I could go home, change into something a little less “man of mystery” and a little more “swabbie,” and head right back.
It was going to be a long and lonely night, but the dawn would come at last.
And then . . . what would we see?