Chapter 9 The Wrong Secret
The Wrong Secret
Sally's hand was already waiting when Sam turned with the life jacket.
He set it into her palm without looking. She tucked it under one arm, slid the registration clipboard against his ribs, and steadied his elbow while he shifted the rest of the stack. Sam caught the clipboard, passed her a boat key from beneath it, and kept walking.
Four objects changed hands in about three seconds. Neither of them broke stride.
I stopped at the top of the dock ramp with my coffee halfway to my mouth.
Sam and Sally had worked enough Brewster Bay shifts together to get good at the same things. That explained the rhythm. It probably explained the way she touched his lower back to guide him around the open storage hatch, too.
Probably.
Sally glanced up and caught me watching.
"You planning to help, or are you doing a management study?"
"I'm drinking coffee. That's a recognized management function."
"Not at this resort." She reached behind the registration table and produced a second mug. "This one has actual coffee in it. Mom said whatever you made in your cabin smelled like burned dock rope."
I traded mugs with her. "You two start without me?"
"Somebody had to." She checked the next name on her list. "Try to keep up, Smoke Show."
Sam's mouth twitched.
I stared at my sister. "You hate that name."
"I do. Deeply. That's why using it against you brings me peace. Adult life is complicated."
"You're a menace."
"Runs in the family."
She turned before I could answer and held out her hand. Sam placed a marker in it without being asked.
I took a long drink and blamed the second pause on better coffee.
Dawn left the lake flat and cool, and the Sunday clinic's first guests were forty-five minutes away. We had enough equipment staged along the rail to outfit a small navy.
Almost enough equipment.
An engine sounded beyond the point.
Every head on the dock turned as a white Rosewater ski boat rounded into Brewster Bay.
Luna stood at the helm in a fitted Rosewater rash guard, white athletic shorts, a backward navy cap, and twin braids.
James sat beside her. Tina rode behind them with one hand braced against a stack of adult life jackets.
Beginner skis lay secured along the floor, tow ropes filled the rear compartment, and the boat itself was the backup Rosewater had promised us for the trial.
Luna cut the throttle early and let momentum carry them toward the guest dock.
Sam reached for the bow line.
Luna tossed it past him to me.
"No pressure, Brewster. Half the lake's watching you dock a boat that isn't moving."
"Good morning to you too, Sundance."
I caught the line and drew them against the bumpers while James stepped off with the stern rope. Luna killed the engine, checked the gear behind her, and climbed onto the dock.
Then she caught the front of my Brewster Bay tee and kissed me.
It was quick by our standards, but there was nothing polite about it. Her mouth pressed warm and sure against mine, her body still carrying the chill of the lake air, and her fingers stayed curled in my shirt when she pulled back.
"Morning, boyfriend."
"Morning, girlfriend."
Her smile flashed before the instructor took over. "I need the east slip, the trainers sorted by weight, and somebody besides my father to confirm the fuel. He checked it four times."
"Consistency matters," James said.
Tina stepped onto the dock and kissed my cheek. "The jackets are already sorted by adult size."
"Thank you. And thanks for all of this."
"Partner resorts," James said. He gave me a warm handshake, then turned to help Sam with the skis. "Rosewater lends it. Brewster Bay runs it. One trial, exactly as agreed."
Dad and Mom came down the ramp together, Dad carrying his clipboard and Mom carrying enough folded towels to hide behind.
Luna pointed at the east slip. "Big Brew, tell me you kept that one open."
"Wide open," Dad said. "Bossy before breakfast."
"Effective before breakfast," Mom corrected.
Luna grinned. She'd spent years acting like Brewster Bay belonged to a childhood she had outgrown. Now she was ordering my dad around before sunrise in a Rosewater shirt.
Kit came down from the registration deck in a fitted Brewster Bay tank and shorts. She slipped her hand into mine and scanned the arriving gear.
"Everything they promised?"
"Everything." She kissed my shoulder. "Morning, baby."
"Morning, Trouble."
Poppy appeared with a muffin held to my mouth.
"Eat."
I took a bite. Resistance only delayed the inevitable.
"Good boy," she said. Her cropped Brewster Bay tee showed a line of sunflower-yellow bikini, and she smelled like strawberries and coffee. She kissed the corner of my mouth and hurried back toward the welcome table.
"Thanks, Sugar Pop."
Luna clapped once, sharp enough to gather everyone without shouting.
"Two-minute instructor huddle. Sam drives the first rotation. Sally spots and controls the list. Nash and I handle water starts. Lucy owns stance. Bristol owns safety. Kit and Poppy handle guests. Vina handles morale."
"My calling," Vina said.
"Parents are support," Luna continued. "Help without taking over."
Dad lifted his mug. "Understood."
Luna looked at me. "Anything to add?"
"Life jackets stay on. Spotter stays seated. Nobody drinks until every engine is off for the day. If a guest wants out, we get them out without making them feel like they failed."
Luna nodded once. "One team. No Delta-Kappa scorekeeping, no Rosewater-Brewster nonsense. We get people up safely and make them want to come back."
The first guests started down the path from the lodge, adults in new swimsuits carrying towels and nervous smiles. Sally checked the first name, Sam lifted the correct jacket, and her hand reached for it before he turned.
This time, I watched the whole exchange.
Then I went to work.
The clinic found its rhythm on the first rotation.
Sam handled the Rosewater boat like he'd been driving it all his life, easy on the throttle and alert to every signal from the dock.
Sally sat in the spotter's seat with the rotation list clipped beside her, her eyes moving between skier, rope, and water.
When Sam needed a slower circle, she told him before I raised my hand.
When she leaned out to retrieve the handle, his palm landed at her waist to steady her without either of them looking down.
Years of friendship, I told myself.
They were very good friends.
Lucy turned the dry-land station into the busiest spot on the dock. She planted her feet, bent low, and held the training handle with her arms straight.
"The boat is stronger than you," she told six adults gathered around her. "Good news, because you don't have to impress it. Let it pull. Keep your knees bent. If you try to stand before the skis find the surface, Sapphire Lake will slap you."
One of the men laughed. "Speaking from experience?"
"I was seven. The lake won. I demanded a rematch."
"She won the rematch," I said.
Lucy shot me a grin. "That's why he calls me Ace."
Fifty feet away, Bristol stopped a woman from stepping onto the swim platform with the bottom strap of her jacket hanging loose. She knelt, fixed the twist, tightened the webbing, and explained what she was doing in the quiet voice that made people lean closer instead of feeling corrected.
The woman's shoulders relaxed before Bristol finished.
Poppy moved through the waiting group with water, fruit, and enough affectionate chatter to make strangers confess their entire vacation plans.
She kept touching me whenever our paths crossed.
Fingers at my waist. A kiss to my shoulder as she passed behind me.
Her hand sliding into mine long enough to squeeze before another guest needed her.
Kit ran registration and photos with calm precision. She asked before every picture, tracked who wanted copies, and still found time to press her hip against mine while we checked the next rotation.
"You're staring at Lucy," she murmured.
"She's good at this."
"She is." Kit's smile turned proud. "So is Bristol."
I watched Bristol replace a jacket with one that fit better, then point the guest toward Lucy without adding a single ounce of shame.
"Yeah," I said. "She really is."
Kit kissed my jaw and went back to her clipboard.
Luna heard everything on the water. An engine pitch half a note too high.
A skier dragging one foot. A rope entering at the wrong angle.
She stood beside me on the swim platform, rash guard damp from spray, braids darkening at the ends, and called adjustments with a confidence people trusted before they understood why.
Every time she leaned past me to demonstrate hand position, her shoulder brushed my arm. Every time I steadied a learner in the water, her palm found my back. The contact stayed practical in front of guests. My body wasn't interested in the distinction.
"Eyes up, Brewster," she said without looking at me.
"They are up."
"They're on my ass."
"Your ass is currently up."
She bit back a smile. "Professional."
"Extremely."
Vina kept the dock loose. A man lost both skis before the boat moved and surfaced wearing the expression of someone who wanted the lake to close over him permanently.
Vina met him with a towel.
"Congratulations," she said. "You found the fastest possible way to stop water-skiing. That's efficiency."
He laughed despite himself.
"Reset and make it dramatic this time," she added. "Half-assed failure is embarrassing. Full commitment gets applause."
He tried again and made it thirty yards.
By midmorning, confidence had spread through the waiting group. People cheered strangers. Wet adults compared bruises like trophies. Mom brought down more towels. Tina refilled sunscreen baskets. James and Dad inspected the boat between rotations without trying to rewrite Luna's system.
Then the woman in the green suit climbed into the water.