Baby V (Chianti Kisses #1) (31 page)

“
This does
n’
t look like the right way, Dom
.
”

At first, I thought he was taking the scenic route. One or two turns later,
I’
m convinced we are lost.

Dom smiles, hand reaching over for mine
,
“
Our reservation is
n’
t for another hour. I want to show you something first
.
”

OK. Firstly, we do
n’
t need reservations at Albert
i’
s. Never have, never will. Secondly, the last time Dom took me on a driven detour to
 “
show m
e
”
 
something, we ended up with a new vacation house.

“
Dom, I have two days
 ‘
till the event. I was hoping to get home in time to go over the vendor lists one more time before they start setting up at the vineyard
.
”

My hand is raised to his lips, a firm, moist kiss placed on my knuckles.

“
No more working tonight
.
”

I eye him. Has he gone mad? Dom DiBenedetto swearing off work? I guess pigs are flying these days. He catches my surprise,
 “
Babe. Everything is set. I
t’
s going to go off without a hitch. Yo
u’
re only going to drive yourself crazy mulling over things again and again. Relax
.
”

Easy for him to say. H
e’
s not the one directly responsible for a four hundred and fifty person gala in less than forty-eight hours.

Our impromptu road trip finds us crossing over into Jersey City. I now know the familiar turns and roadways as we head down to the marina. ATH has shipments that come into NYC, but the docks here in Jersey accept most of our ships. So much for not working anymore tonight. Dom probably needs to pick something up or drop something off. I knew he could
n’
t resist a night without the company.

The shipments and traffic in these waters run twenty-four hours a day, although most of the administrative and clerical staff have probably left for the day. The familiar scents of sea water mixed with motor oil begin to waft about. These are scents of my childhood. Dad would take me down here every chance he could to show me the heart of his business. Even though he stayed mostly behind a desk, and Do
m’
s dad mostly in the field, he always said salt water was in our veins.

He was born near the water, in a small village on the coast of the Mediterranean. He sailed across oceans to come to his new country and found a way to support his family and earn a living from the water. This place is just as much a part of my life, my story as anything else.
I’
m glad for any opportunity to see it again.

We pass the lot for the ATH field office, turning from the commercial area of the docks toward the less used storage buildings.
I’
m truly lost now, as the only things in this direction are boats in need of repair or older storage sheds. ATH has several of these open buildings but I think
I’
ve been in them a total of fives times my entire life.

There are a couple of cars parked by one such building, with one man standing beside them apparently waiting for our arrival. Dom swings the car wide, pulling up next to his.

“
W
e’
re here
.
” He winks as he escapes the insides of the car. I furrow my forehead in silent question, following him into the evening.

The waiting man extends his hand to Dom as he approaches,
 “
Mr. D., Glad you could make it. Everything is in place and ready to go
.
”

What the hell? I step next to Dom, reminding him of my presence.

“
Tom, this is Vincenza. Vincenza, Tom Stuart
.
”
 
I shake the ma
n’
s hand as Dom narrates our introduction
.
“
Tom is a liaison between the field and home offices
.
”

I smile,
 “
Glad to meet you, Tom. Would you mind telling me what, exactly, is ready to go. I seem to be in the dark, here
.
”
 
I shoot Dom an accusatory sideways glance. If he wo
n’
t tell me, then
I’
ll find out on my own.

Dom laughs, speaking over my head to our companion as he guides me toward the hangar,
 “
Sh
e’
s not very patient, Tom. Thanks again,
I’
ll call if there are any problems
.
”

Tom nods,
 “
Very well, sir. Have a wonderful time
.
”

I look to Dom but he offers no clues. Once we clear the side of the building, I see several deck hands working around a small fishing boat. When I say small, I use that term loosely compared to the massive shipping freighters. This boat could easily fit thirty or so people.

“
Do you recognize it
?
”

I turn to Dom, wondering at his words. Recognize it? How could I recognize one of the compan
y’
s many boats? Tha
t’
s not exactly my department.

Wait. It ca
n’
t be.

I stop in my tracks, squinting my eyes to better take in the details. The boat is old, quite easily sixty years or so. I can tell by the angles and hardware, but an unfamiliar eye would never have been able to tell. It is freshly painted and immaculately restored. The navy blue of the hull is rich in color like the water itself. We are approaching from the starboard side of the boat, close to the front, or bow as it rests next to a small pier. I ca
n’
t see the block letters painted on the rear of the boat from where we are, but I now realize what they will say.

“
It ca
n’
t be
!
”
 
I exclaim in amazement as I realize what this is.

Dom grabs my hand, willing me to continue with him toward the floating piece of history.
Blu
Liberta-
Blue Freedom,
was the very first boat our dads were able to buy. It was the beginning of everything. I knew it was taken out of service years and years ago as the company grew and moved into other directions. I assumed it was stored somewhere, knowing my brothers and Dom would never have the heart to sell it. It was a piece of our family history, of the companies history.

My dad used to take us kids out for day trips on it, always saying we should know where came from even though by that time we had a sailboat much closer to our house. He loved this boat. They had scrimped and saved and borrowed to buy it. It was a true representation of the american dream for him.

My vision becomes hazy as I blink back my tears.

“
I
t’
s been prepped and fueled. Le
t’
s take it for a spin
,
”
 
Dom suggests.

The deck-hands greet us as we near the vessel. My eyes are filled with wonder, taking inventory of the small details committed to my memory. Dom climbs into the boat first, the stacked metal stepping bars bobbing with the boat. Once inside, he turns to me and reaches out, grasping onto as much of my upper body as he can while hoisting me up.

I land on the wooden planks safely, still holding tightly onto him. Not so much for physical support, but for emotional. I have
n’
t been on this boat since the last time my Dad took me out on it. It could
n’
t have been more than a month before he died. Dom holds tight, kissing my forehead long enough to offer assurances and comfort before he reluctantly releases me to help untether the boat from i
t’
s holdings.

“
Help me gather these, V. Do you remember how
?
”

I find hidden talents surfacing as I instinctually work my fingers and hands to help free the boat, the engine sounding a strong puttering as we clear the dock. The deck-hands wave to us as we make some distance, heading into the horizon.

I walk around the open area of the boat, amazed at i
t’
s pristine condition. I feel the acceleration as the captain increases speed, carrying us further from land.

“
Wh- wh
o’
s the Skipper
?
”

Dom smirks,
 “
Do you remember Brian Dougherty
?
”

I search the recesses of my memory.

“
You mean, my da
d’
s old fishing buddy
?
”

He smiles, pleased with my recollection of childhood figures,
 “
Le
t’
s go say hi
.
”

I nod enthusiastically, eager to see the old man. He and my dad were close. I know my mom still hears from him every now and again but I have
n’
t seen him in ages. The craft begins to sway some from the wake of the tide below, although I find my sea-legs quickly forming. Dom leads as we head in and up to the helm of the boat.

The radio is chiming in static-laden signals as we enter the area. The jolly looking older man in cover-al
l’
s and a cabby hat works the shi
p’
s wheel.

“
Brian
!
”
 
I call out to him, leaving Dom behind as I reach for the pudgy man.

Dom takes hold of the wheel, giving the skipper the freedom to leave it momentarily to greet me, rocking me back and forth in his embrace.

“
Vincenza, I ca
n’
t believe my eyes
!
” The sweet man holds me tight. I still smell the familiar cigars and peppermint on his clothes. He always had a hidden stash of swirled peppermint candies in his pocket that he would use to bribe us to fetch him some bait or a cold drink. Momma swears he was the direct cause of at least one of my childhood cavities.

I hold the man out to inspect him. H
e’
s aged, but has done it well. The white thinning, cotton-like hair escaping his hat is testament to it. If I remember correctly, he was about four years older than my dad was. I try to picture his aging features on the mental photograph of my youthful father, but ca
n’
t.

“I’
m thinking the same thing! You look great for an old grandpa
,
” I chide him.

Brian smiles graciously, proud of his new role in life. Last I checked, he had six grandchildren.
I’
m sure they benefit from his secret candy stash as much as I did. He turns to Dom, over my shoulder.

“
Sh
e’
s just as beautiful as you said she was
.
”

I blush at his compliment. Although, how could I not be? The last time he saw me, I was in braces and most definitely had a pubescent blemish or two.

“
You two get out there before the sun sets. W
e’
ll catch up on the ride back in
.
”

I kiss the man on his cheek and follow along as Dom tugs at my hand.

The salt air greets us, with the surf spraying a mist of droplets that we dodge like imaginary bullets as we move against the wind to the bow, or front of the boat.

Brian slows our speed, as w
e’
ve cleared the shipping lanes and settle drifting in the rolling waves. The sea is calm tonight, but I know it can change on a dime.

There is a gleaming silver ice bucket with a tall green bottle of champagne resting in it, situated in a corner. I point to it while arching my eyebrow.

Dom laughs
,
“
What can I say?
I’
m a romantic..
.
”

He pulls me into him, turning me so that I rest on him as we watch the deep amber and purple colors before us. The sky canvas is illuminated by a soft backlight, adding depth and dimension to the beauty.  I close my eyes and breath the crisp air deep. I feel my skin tighten from the invisible layer of salt accumulating.