Gift of the Golden Mountain (71 page)

     He was already moving, his hand on her elbow, guiding her through sliding glass doors into an office. "If you'll just wait a minute while I tell the secretary, I'll help you find her."

     She started to object, then stopped herself. He hadn't said, "I'll help you look," he had said, "I'll help you find." She needed help, she knew that. If she didn't find Thea, and soon, she was going to shatter, she knew that too.

     "I really shouldn't bother you with this," was what she finally said, her phrasing formal, her voice precariously close to breaking, "but I would very much appreciate your help."

"We'll check your house," he answered, holding the door to his car for her, "in case she came and went out again. She might have left a note."

     It sounded reasonable. Yes, that was it. There would be a note waiting for her, all of this would be for nothing, she was sure of it.

     They checked the refrigerator, but there was nothing under the Minnie Mouse magnet where a note would have been. She looked on the gleaming koa wood dining table and on the coffee table and on Thea's dresser. All were empty, terribly empty. A T-shirt had been tossed on the bed; had it been there before? She was trying to remember when he called to her from the kitchen.

     He was kneeling on the floor in front of the refrigerator, grinning, holding a note out to her.

     "You've got a cross-draft blowing in here—I found it under the fridge."

     The note said: "Dear wonderful Karin, we're going to Janie's house to get some help with calculus from her jerky (but brilliant) brother, then I've been invited to spend the night and go with her family tomorrow to Kaneohe Bay. Could you call Mrs. C to say it's okay? Love ya, T." All of the i's were dotted with little o's.

     Karin sank against the cabinets, relief flooding through her. "Oh God," she laughed, "I feel so ludicrous."

     He squinted up, smiling now. "I wish my problems with my kid could be solved that easily." He pushed himself up, and for a long minute they stood awkwardly, each waiting for the other to say something, then both spoke at once.

     "Maybe you might . . ." he began, just as she said, "Can I at least offer you a tuna fish sandwich?"

     They laughed then. "Yes," he said, "except, I thought maybe . . . when you came to the boatyard just now, I wasn't really working, I was getting ready to take my cutter out to try a new jib. What would you think about packing a couple of sandwiches and coming along?"

     She hesitated, and he misunderstood.

     "But you probably have plans . . ." he said.

     "No," she came back, "no, I haven't. Really, there's nothing . . . I was just thinking how strange it feels, and how nice really, that Thea wants to spend the night at a friend's. She hasn't wanted to be anywhere but here since . . . since . . ."

     "Since Alex gave her acid," he finished, dully.

     She swallowed. "Yes, since then. I'll have to call and tell her it's fine, then it will only take me a few minutes to put a lunch together. I think I'd love to go sailing."

     It was Paul Hollowell's turn to look surprised. "Point me to the tuna fish and I'll make the sandwiches while you make your call."

     She pulled on white shorts and rummaged in her dresser until she came across a soft, turquoise blouse with gold threads running through.

     "Good," he said when she came into the kitchen. She didn't know if he meant the way she looked, or that she had taken so little time or simply that he was glad she was going. She smiled to herself. It was an old blouse, one Philip had thought gaudy. She didn't know what had made her keep it, much less put it on today.

"How much do you know about sailing?" Paul asked as he guided the boat out of the harbor.

     "Very little," she answered, "almost nothing." She thought about asking if that was a problem, but didn't. As soon as they had stepped onto the boat, words had begun to seem superfluous, she didn't know why. She positioned herself against the cabin, out of the way, and watched as he raised the sails and the wind caught in them and they were moving, free of the shore and heading out to sea. On land he seemed solid, almost awkward, but here, on his own deck, he moved with the grace of a gymnast.

     "This is perfect," she called to him, but the breeze caught her words and mingled them with the crackling of the sails and finally, spilled them out over the turquoise blue of the water which
matched, almost, the blue of her blouse.

     They ate their tuna sandwiches, shared a beer, and exchanged a few words. She asked him about the boat.

     "It's a cutter," he said, pulling it a little closer to the wind, "thirty-six feet, built so I could handle her myself on the open ocean. She may not be as fast as some of these modem sleds, but then I don't need a crew the size of the city of New York to sail her."

     "You don't like racing?"

     He took a swig of beer, peered into the sky as if he were making some calculations and said, absently, "I've done my share." Then he added, "It's really calm—ordinarily we would have run into some fairly stiff winds by now . . . we're going to have to go out a ways into the channel."

     "Fine with me," she answered, tilting her face back to catch the sun, "I could stay out here all day."

     She opened her eyes in time to catch him glancing away. To cover his embarrassment, she asked, "If you aren't that interested in racing, what is it that you love about it—about sailing?"

     After thinking for a while, he said, "This—being out here, the freedom I guess . . . the quiet. I don't remember seeing it as quiet as it is today, but we'll be moving into the Kaiwi Channel and it will get rougher."

     "That's what you want?"

     He grinned. "For a while, enough to see how the jib is setting. I just wanted to warn you not to worry."

     "I'm not worried," she said, turning over to feel the warmth of the sun on her back and the smooth, rolling motion of the boat under her belly. She had no idea how long she lay like that, listening to the soft thud and hiss of the water as the boat cut neatly through it. She felt the ocean lift her, rock her, cradle her. Now and then she opened her eyes and looked at Paul Hollowell until he looked back and smiled.

     She must have been dozing, because his words startled her. "Rough water coming up," he said, tossing her a sweatshirt. "The
winds are rising fast too . . . I've got her on a close reach, so we'll be moving, you might want to sit down here, next to the cabin where it's protected." She moved down, responding to the tension she felt building in him, and to the waves which were rising now, spraying over the deck.

     She felt a hard slap as the cutter nosed into a wave; the boat heeled sharply. She held hard to the railing and tried to swallow the surge of fear that rose in her. Then she looked at Paul Hollowell's face, and the fear subsided. His boat was doing what it was supposed to be doing. She was certain he had everything under control.

     "Just a few minutes more and we'll turn back," he shouted over the ocean rush and spray. His T-shirt was plastered against his chest, outlining the hard edge of his muscles. She pulled her legs up to her chin and let the excitement fill her, as the spray danced off her face and they moved with the wind, like the wind, fast and furiously through the deep blue water, through the froth of whitecaps, running silently.

     He was standing, ready to change course, to turn back, when it happened. The boat pitched off one wave and was caught by another, hitting soundly. The crack was loud, wrong. She looked up, saw a long thin sliver of light where the boom had cracked and parted.

     Oh God, she thought, a sour panic rising in her mouth. The thought rushed like blood to her head—what should I do? My God, what
could
I do? As if in answer, Paul shouted, "Hold this," indicating the wheel. "Right there, steady." She wanted to say no, I can't, please don't ask me, no. The boat hesitated, lurched ahead with the gaping crack in the boom. Terrified, she took the wheel and felt the awful lurch and thrust of the boat under her hands, pulling against her like some great, struggling animal.

     Paul dived below deck, vanished. A sharp spray of water caught her in the face, took her breath. She concentrated on the wheel, on holding it just there, where he had said. He reappeared with
a coiled line in his hand. The boat dipped and pitched, the waves were getting bigger, wilder now. She felt a sob escape as the fear washed through her with the full force of the sea, drenching her. Holding tight to the wheel she watched as he let the mainsail out, it luffed, flapped in the wind. Then he was up on the rail, balancing crazily—like a drunk on a high wire as the sea tossed under him, madly up and down. He was reaching for the end of the boom. He was going to fall, she knew it. He was not holding on, but trying to thread the line through a ring in the sail. He was reaching for the boom, balancing . . . he missed it, as they fell into a trough and lurched, sickeningly.
Oh God, dear God don't let him fall.
But he had to fall, he had to, anyone could see that he would have to. She could feel nothing but the fear, nothing, and then she realized what he was doing. Wrapping the line, around and around, threading it through a ring in the sail, standing above the sea and the foam and the angry rush of water, holding on to nothing, balancing in the bright sea light.

     And then he was next to her, taking the wheel, his hand pressed tight against her arm to let her know it was over, and she sank to the floor and sat there, clutching her breasts in her hands to keep her chest from exploding.

     He leaned over and shouted into her ear, "I've got it tied down, but we can't go back—we're going to run downwind to get into the lee of Molokai, things will quiet down there." She felt the fear draining out of her, to be replaced by a feeling of profound weakness. She glanced up at his face, and could see that he was angry. She began to sob quietly, her shoulders shaking in small spasms that she could not control.

     It was as he had said it would be. After three quarters of an hour the sea became quiet. She pulled herself to a sunny place against the cabin, and lay open to the sun so it could soothe and comfort and dry her.

     "Look," he finally said in a voice that sounded hoarse. She did look at him then, and was surprised to see exhaustion and misery
in his face. He said with a barely curbed anger, "I don't seem to be able to do anything right . . . for you, I mean. The damned boom splitting, forcing you to take over the wheel . . . scaring you to death . . . I never would have had this happen . . ."

     Her teeth began to chatter. He reached into a canvas bag, pulled out a sweater, and tried, awkwardly, to help her put it on without touching her.

     She dropped her head between her knees. When she looked up at him again, she was smiling. "I was so scared," she said in a tremulous voice, "horribly scared. Were you?"

     He ran his free hand through his hair. "When I had time to think about it, yes. And mad too, I guess . . . that it happened at all." He waited a few minutes, then added, "There's something else. We can't go back now, not through those rough seas with the cracked boom. The fix I've made is only temporary, but I've got everything on board to do it right—that means putting in at a protected harbor. There's nothing on Molokai, so I'm going to run downwind and head for Lanai."

     "What does that mean?" she asked.

     He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid it means staying overnight." He bit his lip. "I didn't plan for this . . . you don't have to worry that . . ." he began.

     "I'm not worried now," she cut in sharply, knowing what he meant and feeling angry that he felt he had to say it. She knew, of course; she knew what he wouldn't try, wouldn't let himself try even if he wanted to.
Even if she wanted to
, she admitted, feeling a flush of anger at herself now. Reminding herself,
You could have drowned, he could have drowned, your husband is alive and he is hurt and you are not with him, others are taking care of him while you are alone in the Pacific Ocean, taking your pleasure. Wanting to be here, with this man, Oh God. You are not dutiful, not loving, and you have no right, none . . .
STOP, she told herself, and taking a deep breath said, "It's all right, I know it can't be helped, and Thea is away for the night, I don't have to worry about her . . ."