By The Sea, Book Three: Laura (3 page)

His mother smiled distractedly and yanked
him quickly between two cars that were stalled in traffic. "Are you
planning a career with the Yankees, then?" she asked when they were
across the street.

"I might be, if I knew something about it,"
he answered in a sullen voice.

Laura straightened his hair with the palm of
her hand, amused by his martyr's air. "You claim to have no use for
New York City. Lord, look at your face. How do you get so filthy? I
can't take you into a shop looking like that!" She whipped out a
handkerchief, spit on its edge, and scrubbed his cheek clean.

He endured the mauling, then said with
dignity, "I don't have any friends, Mama. Not one single one."

"What? You don't count Billy?" Laura sighed
and straightened the collar of his shirt, then said softly, "I
know, sweetheart. Sometimes it can be hard for you."

They went into the haberdasher's after that,
with Laura worrying that her son was all too right. This was new,
this ability to articulate what was bothering him. Up until now
when he was unhappy, he tended to brood, usually up in the
forecastle which he shared with Billy. He was somewhat shy,
probably because he was being schooled aboard the boat, and
introspective. If Neil felt that life aboard a boat had become so
intolerable that he had to blurt it out to his mother, then things
must be pretty bad.

Inside the dimly lit shop, Laura pulled up
short. "Oh! I must have walked into the wrong store," she said,
looking around in confusion. The familiar bins that used to hold
neatly stacked overalls and Big Yank work shirts were filled with
more formal trousers and linen shirts. Gone were the corduroy
knickers and long socks, the school suits, breeches, and boys'
caps, all replaced by Arrow shirts and dark blue blazers, and even
a few straw boaters—out of fashion now, but still the hat of choice
for the formal yachtsman. (Even Laura knew that in Newport, the
skimmer hat was a fixture on the waterfront.)

A smartly dressed middle-aged man who had
been tidying a rack of red bow ties took one look at them and said,
"You're looking for O'Brien's Men's and Boys' Wear, I presume."

"Yes. They were here just a few months
ago."

"A change of proprietorship. We're Taylor
and Son now," he said with a lift of his brow. "Perhaps you missed
the new sign?" His look plainly said that he couldn't imagine
how.

Laura shrugged. "I never thought to look.
I've been coming here for a while … though I admit, not lately."
She looked around and sighed. "O'Brien's carried a line of the
best
overalls for boys," she said. "Such a soft denim, but
it wore like iron—which you really need, aboard a boat."

The salesman perked up. "Oh? You have a
boat?"

"We do," Laura answered. His condescending
manner was annoying her, so she decided to trump it with her boat
card. "A two-masted schooner."

She could see that he was impressed. No
doubt he was picturing a sleek yacht built by a master boat
builder, all spit and polish with acres of varnish and a crew to
keep it that way. Fine. Let him.

"A two-master!" he said. "A large yacht,
then."

"It's not small," said Laura with a coy
smile.

Neil couldn't resist. "It's the best boat in
the harbor, and that's the truth!"

"Well, young man, I have no doubt," said the
salesman. Warming to them now, he added, "You're a tall lad, I can
see. I believe that we may well have something in a man's long pant
that would suit you."

Oh, no
. There was absolutely nothing
in the shop that they could afford, so Laura said quickly, "Perhaps
another time. Today we are in search of a pair of denim overalls."
She added in a confidential tone, "You know how rough and tumble
boys can be. When we have no guests aboard, I prefer to dress him
in rugged wear."

"Mama! We never have—"

"Shh, Neil, I'm talking now." To the
salesman she said, "Do you know anyone in town who sells Moran
Mills overalls? I'm in a bit of a hurry and would love to save the
time looking."

"Ah. Moran Mills. I can see why you are
particular about the brand. We carry some of their more formal wear
ourselves. Fine, fine apparel. The workmanship is first class. I
have always said that their products are the best because the mills
are owned by a woman. The attention to detail is something you
don't always see."

A woman with an eye for detail and a head
for business. Laura, a free-thinking, adventurous female herself,
was pleased to hear it. "Have her mills been affected by the
textile strikes, do you think?" she asked the salesman. She was
wondering whether there were any overalls of any brand to be found
in the shops that lined Thames Street.

The salesman frowned and puckered his lips,
then took off his eyeglasses and began polishing them with a folded
handkerchief he took from his pocket. He was thinking.

"No," he said at last. "I believe not. Tess
Moran is known to pay her workers above-average wages; naturally
they are very loyal to her. Her machinery is also the very latest
in technology, so the conditions in her mills are more tolerable
than in most others. She has earned the respect of her employees,
that I
will
say. Never mind that she lives in Beau Rêve, one
of the biggest mansions in town—Mrs. Moran can still be found on
the floors of her mills each and every week. Hands-on, she is, as
only someone of her beginnings can be. They say not a thing gets
past her; that she is hard but fair. And that, madam, is why you
appreciate her overalls."

Laura was curious about the "Mrs." Part and
said, "But if she's married, how does her husband fit in? Or does
he have other enterprises to oversee?"

The salesman cast a quick look at Neil,
who'd wandered outside the store to pet a dog that someone had tied
to a pole. He lowered his voice and said to Laura, "Oh, there is no
Mr.
Moran. Everyone knows that. Moran is her birth name. She
does not, and cannot, hide the fact. Well, how could she, with a
scandalous past. She does have a sister who lives with her in Beau
Rêve, and also a son, now married."

He lowered his voice even more and added,
"But the son is definitely illegitimate. And that's a fact. She is
a grandmother now, and still—to this day!—is known to entertain a
certain distinguished gentleman at Beau Rêve for periods of time
every now and again. It has been going on for years. Not that there
isn't room enough in the place for a guest, mind you," he added in
a bland tone.

But his look said volumes, and Laura
resented it. It reminded her of the looks she got back in Danske
when she happily and naively announced that she was bound for Cuba:
knowing and insinuating.

"But would that be anyone's business but
hers?" she asked, coolly challenging the clerk.

He took the rebuff personally, as she had
intended it. "Well, I'm sure I can't say. As for where to find
those overalls, madam, I'm sure I can't say
that
,
either."

She was dismissed.

After combing the shops up and down Thames
Street, Laura ended up buying overalls that were far inferior to
the well-made but sold-out Moran Mills version, and paying more for
them besides. There would be no cantaloupe for Sam aboard ship that
night.

****

When they got back to the docks they found
Neil's little rowing dory tied up and waiting for them; Sam would
not be meeting them with the yawl-boat, then. Laura shaded her eyes
from the low-slanting sun, scanning the harbor. She could see no
yawl-boat hanging off the broad, flat stern of the
Virginia.

"I bet he's on Long Wharf having a pint with
Billy," said Neil, rocking back and forth on his heels, strutting
in place. He was acting much, much taller in his new pants.

"Oh, I hope not," answered his mother
grimly. She had seen the women in the taverns there
:
street
women, layabouts ... and Sam spoke their language. She had seen
that, too. She swept her jealousy aside, like fish guts off a
worktable, and compressed her lips. "All right, then. I'll have to
row us back."

"Mama!" Neil was scandalized. "It's my boat.
I'll
row."

"Not in those new pants, you won't. They'll
be crusty with salt before your father ever sees them. Didn't I
tell you not to wear them? But, no, you insisted. If you want to
row you'll have to slip between those sheds and change into your
old pants. Take your choice."

It was no contest. The thought of being
ferried by his mother in front of everyone in the harbor would have
been a humiliating blow to his self-esteem. With a long face Neil
withdrew to the place designated, to change into his old torn
pants.

Laura, feeling a bit guilty about having
taken out her odd little bout of jealousy on her son, was relieved
to see the yawl-boat steaming toward the
Virginia
from
points south. Sam had not been to the bars, then. She watched as
Sam dropped Billy off on the
Virginia,
then headed the
yawl-boat toward her dock. Neil returned, a gangly ragamuffin once
more.

Your father's coming, after all," she said,
smiling. "If you want to change back into your new pants, we'll
just tow the dory behind us, and that way you won't get wet."

It was a masterful stroke of diplomacy. Egos
were saved; spirits lifted. By the time Sam came alongside in the
yawl-boat, his son was ready for him: tall, proud and pleased.

But for some reason the father seemed
taller, prouder, more pleased than his son. Sam was bursting with
news and never noticed Neil's new pants until Laura quickly pointed
them out.

"Oh, ay, right, right. Well, you can wear
them
to shuck quahogs. I'm thinking it's fancy worsted might
look more suitable from now on."

"Have you found a sunken treasure, Dad?"
asked his son as he tied his dory to the yawl-boat.

Sam laughed. "No. The treasure's still
afloat, and not far from here. Would the name 'Rainbow' mean
anything to ye?"

"Well, sure, Mr. Vanderbilt's yacht—"

"And what have you to do with the
Rainbow?"
interrupted Laura.

"Just this: the Commodore himself wants to
add me to his crew roster for the Cup races, that's all. I'm not
guaranteed
to race," he added scrupulously. "But then again
you never know if someone won't break a leg. Of course, if the
Rainbow
ain't chosen after the August trials to defend the
Cup, then I'll be back with you in a few weeks. But the scuttlebutt
is that Vanderbilt will be picked to defend." Sam did his best to
toss off a nonchalant shrug.

"Mr.
Vanderbilt?"
squealed Laura.
"Has asked
you?"

"None other."

"But why? How?"

"Seems he was taken with my aerial act as we
sailed in, early on. Now
me,
I would've said roaring in
under full sail showed a certain lack of judgment," Sam admitted
candidly. "But around here they seem to credit that sort of thing.
Well, well, they can push the
Rainbow
till she sinks, for
all I care. Ain't
my
boat."

He turned to Neil, who was looking quite
dazzled by events, and said, "Here, boy. Take the tiller. You'll
need to know your way around the heavy traffic in this harbor for
the next few weeks. It'll be home."

A look of ecstasy lit up the young boy's
face. He jumped up, ready to assume command, but his mother said
carefully, "Neil doesn't have a steam-license, Sam. He's eight
years old."'

"Aagh. We didn't have a license to run that
load of you know what last year either, but that didn't stop us. In
times like these you do what you have to. Anyway, I expect I'd have
a bit of pull, happens we need it," he said with newfound
swagger.

"Pull, schmull. He's eight years
old
."

"Girl, what's happening to you? Every day
you tighten up a little more. We're supposed to be free spirits,"
said Sam, winking at his son.

"That may be so, but our spirits are the
only thing that's free. Everything else costs, Sam. We don't have
money for a fine, and we can't afford to lose the yawl-boat."

Sam's face darkened. "We'll talk about this
back aboard," he said, and the rest of the way they rode in
silence.

They exchanged scarcely a word for the rest
of the evening, and now it was midnight. Laura was in the small
stateroom that they'd built into the port side of the spacious aft
cabin. She was sitting on the inboard edge of their berth, dressed
in her plainest cotton nightgown, brushing out the braids of her
long brown hair.

She'd spent the evening trying to pretend
that her feelings weren't hurt. after supper Sam had dragged Billy
up to the foredeck, away from Laura and the dishes, for a pipe and
a pint and a rundown on the exciting events of the afternoon. For a
couple of hours the drunk and cheerful conversations of the two
brothers had drifted aft in tantalizing bits and snatches. No doubt
Billy now knew everything about the silks and marble and gilded
furnishings in Harold Vanderbilt's private yacht
Vara
—as if
the man cared.

At ten o'clock Sam had banged on the
foredeck hatch and called down to his son, "Neil, wake up and haul
yourself up here and join us for some man-talk." Which had tested
Laura still more.

But Neil had lasted about an hour in manly
talk before he fell asleep, and Billy, who had no idea how to hold
his liquor, had followed suit. Now there was only Sam and Laura. It
would be a fair fight.

Sam ambled into the stateroom, and it shrank
to half its size. Weaving slightly, he seemed to take up even more
space than usual; his breath, highly flammable, displaced the salt
air in seconds. His greeting was an amiable grunt. Roughly
translated, it meant, "Truce."

Nothing was further from Laura's mind. "You
never mentioned how much the job paid," she said coldly.