Sail (3 page)
“KAT, ARE YOU
SURE
you don’t want me to come along?” asked Peter. “I will, you know.”
“Hmmm, let’s see,” said Katherine, playfully scratching her chin. “You’ve got a big, important trial just about to start back in Manhattan, your plane is waiting for you at the airport with the engine practically still running, and you don’t have a single change of clothes with you. Sure, honey, come aboard!”
The two stood in the parking lot of the Labrador Island Marina as the limo driver, a burly Italian man with thick arms and an even thicker accent, labored with the huge pile of luggage. Not that the limo guy minded. He knew a big tipper when he drove one, and this Peter Carlyle fellow fit the bill in every way, beginning with the fact that he owned and piloted his own Cessna Skyhawk.
We’re talking serious denaro here!
Plus Mista Carlyle was polite and not the self-centered bossy type. A pleasure in every way.
Katherine reached for Peter’s hand and played with his platinum wedding band, which still looked shiny and new. “I appreciate your flying us all up here,” she said. “It means a lot to me—to all of us, sweetheart.”
“Really, it’s the least I could do. Oh jeez, I’m going to miss you so much, Kat. I’m already missing you.”
She kissed him softly on the mouth, then gave him a second kiss. “I’ve got some nerve, huh? We’re not even married for a year and here I go leaving for two months.”
“It’s okay, I understand. I really do. The kids caught a really bad break in life. This is a good thing you’re doing. It’s great.”
“That’s why I love you so much—you
do
understand. This trip is so, so important to me, Peter.”
“And I’m proud of you for making it happen. That’s why I love
you
so much. You’re a terrific person, Katherine Dunne.” He leaned in, whispering in her ear. “And you happen to be damn sexy. Do we have time?” Peter winked at her. “The limo?”
Katherine blushed a little, something she rarely, if ever, did.
How did I get lucky enough to find him?
she had wondered. She had never thought she could be in love again after Stuart’s death, and yet here he was, Peter Carlyle, the famous New York trial attorney.
Truly, the newspaper idiots had him all wrong, just as they got most things wrong. They called him “Gordon Gekko with a law degree” and the “love child of Genghis Khan and the Wicked Witch of the West.” But Katherine knew it was all an act, a role he played to defend his clients.
The Peter she had come to know and love—the man outside the courtroom—was a kind and gentle soul and almost always considerate of her needs. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was also handsome and pretty sexy himself!
Best of all, though, Peter clearly didn’t want anything from Katherine except her love in return. Any jerk who could read the gossip columns of those same newspapers knew that she’d been left a substantial fortune by Stuart—over $100 million—and yet it was
Peter
’s idea to sign a prenup. “I have money,” he told her. “What I don’t have is a whole lot of happiness. At least, I didn’t until I met you, Kat.”
Like two lovesick teenagers, Katherine and Peter kissed passionately in the middle of the marina’s parking lot, blissfully oblivious of the passersby and their “Get a room!” looks, which Katherine equated with jealousy. And you know what, who wouldn’t be jealous of her and Peter?
He suddenly stepped back as if remembering something. “Now, tell me, do I have anything to worry about with Jake?” he asked.
“No, he’s an expert sailor,” said Katherine. “He’s first-rate all the way. Been sailing since he could walk.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant, Kat.”
Katherine broke into a smile, giving Peter a quick poke in the stomach. “I
know
that’s not what you meant, wise guy. And to answer your question, he was my
brother-in-law,
sweetheart.”
“Still, I saw the way he looked at you at our wedding,” said Peter, gazing at Katherine as if she were a reluctant witness in one of his trials.
“Don’t even try to pretend you’re jealous of Jake, or anybody else.”
“Yeah, I guess not.” Peter shrugged. “But I’d feel a little better if he didn’t look like he walked out of some L.L. Bean catalog. Guys with permanent tans make me suspicious.”
Katherine folded her arms. “What about you, stud? All alone in the big city for two whole months?”
“Alone? Aren’t you forgetting about Angelica?”
“Our somewhat overweight and uncommunicative Guatemalan housekeeper notwithstanding, maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”
Peter grabbed Katherine in his arms again and pulled her tight against his chest. “I don’t think so, Kat. I waited half my life to find you. I think I can wait another two months to get you back. Especially since you’re out here performing a mercy mission.”
“Pretty good answer, Counselor. You are a slick one, aren’t you?” said Katherine with a quick peek at her watch. “Now, c’mon, I’ve got a boat to catch.”
STANDING no more than a couple of hundred feet from
The Family Dunne,
dressed in a teal Brooks Brothers polo shirt and tan Tommy Bahama shorts, another Newport boat person was busy hosing down the deck of a sleek Catalina-Morgan 440.
Except this man wasn’t actually from Newport.
In fact, this wasn’t his boat.
Gerard Devoux was simply “borrowing” it for a while so he could blend into the Newport scene, as it were. To anyone who might look his way he was just another multimillionaire pampering his baby.
But no one
was
looking his way. So good was Devoux at not being noticed, it was almost as if he weren’t there on the dock.
A trick of the mind, he knew.
An illusion that he was very good at creating.
No wonder his nickname for himself was the Magician.
Through dark Maui Jim sunglasses—another prop borrowed just for the occasion—Devoux watched as the Dunne crew prepared to set sail. One by one he checked them off in his head, a mental roll call to make sure all were present and accounted for. That was important, of course. Devoux was in complete control of every aspect of his working plan save for one thing:
attendance.
But there they were—the pretty M.D. mother, the equally handsome but petulant kids, ranging from eighteen to ten, and the rebellious uncle who looked like George Clooney in docksiders.
Oh, and let’s not forget the loving new husband, the fancy-pants Manhattan lawyer. What’s the matter, Peter Carlyle—don’t you like to sail? Afraid to get your hair messed?
Devoux smiled to himself. This was usually a part of his work he didn’t care for—surveillance duty. Totally necessary, yes, but also boring to him; a waste of his impressive skill set, as far as he was concerned.
Only today was a little different. Devoux was actually having a decent time, reveling in the moment and, more important, in what was to come. And he knew exactly why.
This was no ordinary job; it was his biggest, boldest, most challenging undertaking yet. It brought all those impressive skills of his to bear, and then some. In short, this had the potential to be a masterpiece of planning and expectations fulfilled.
Devoux glanced down, checking the time on his brushed-steel Panerai watch. Submersible to a thousand meters, it fit right in with the rest of his nautical costume. However, it was the one thing he actually owned. Devoux loved watches but only the very best of the best. He bought them like Carrie Bradshaw bought shoes in
Sex and the City.
Ten thousand, twenty thousand, fifty thousand dollars—the cost didn’t matter. What mattered was the precision, the perfect orchestration of many different complex movements resulting in unyielding accuracy. There was no greater beauty than that. None that he had discovered, anyway.
Two oh one, declared the Panerai. Precisely.
Soon Devoux would slip away from the marina, vanishing, not unlike the noontime fog. Until then he would stand his post and keep a watchful eye, waiting for
The Family Dunne
to head off over the horizon.
Never to be seen again.
Because Gerard Devoux, aka the Magician, specialized in one trick and one trick only.
He made people disappear.
I STAND at the tip of the bow, like Kate minus Leo in
Titanic,
and take a deep breath, sucking in all the fresh air that my lungs will allow. Then, with my lips pursed, I let go of it gently, as if I’m blowing out a candle in slow motion.
I am getting thoroughly drenched, but that feels pretty damn good.
In fact, so far—amazingly—this entire trip feels pretty good. Who would’ve thunk it? Maybe I’m not so crazy after all. Or maybe I’m simply getting too much oxygen. An “ocean high,” as the boating crowd calls it.
We’ve been at sea for only a little while, but with the land fading away at our windblown backs, I’m filled for the first time with a very strange feeling about this trip.
I think it’s called hope, and it’s definitely a very positive vibe.
Jake’s sense of humor has really taken the edge off the kids—well, at least off Mark and Ernie. Carrie continues to look beyond miserable, and I’m worried about her.
Jake’s so good with them, though. Why can’t I be better? I do love them more than anything.
Give it time, Katherine. Be patient.
I do notice something a little different about him, however. Jake, that is. Usually he’s Mr. Laid-Back, and for the most part he’s that way now. But there’s something else thrown into the mix, although I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it has to do with this being Stuart’s boat.
Whatever the reason, he does seem more focused. Or is it a different word I want?
Responsible,
perhaps?
Of course, he
does
have the responsibility of being our captain, something he made clear the moment we left the marina. He gave the kids some time to settle in, unpack their gear, and get their sea legs. “Then we’ll go over the rules,” he told them.
Rules?
I didn’t think Jake Dunne knew the meaning of the word.
This is the guy who’s never much followed anything except the wind. He’s never actually owned a car or a home, never voted in his life, and as far as I know never paid a dime of income tax. He owns only two things in this world: a duffel bag full of clothes and a vintage 1968 Harley-Davidson. He bought the motorcycle the day he decided not to return for his sophomore year at Dartmouth. Instead he took a job crewing on some millionaire’s sailboat.
An “extended semester at sea,” he called it.
His father called it something else.
The biggest fucking mistake you’ll ever make, Jake, mark my words. This is the beginning of the end for you.
But Jake didn’t care. His parents already had Stuart, the golden boy, the firstborn, the one walking the straight and narrow down at Wharton. As roads went, Jake much preferred, in the words of another Dartmouth dropout, Robert Frost, the “one less traveled.”
I allow myself a secret and forbidden thought:
No wonder I’ve always been attracted to him.
“Hey, Katherine?” he calls out.
It’s possible that he’s psychic. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.
I walk back to Jake, who’s at the wheel of the boat, his absolute favorite place on earth to stand. He told me that once, and only once, since Jake doesn’t repeat himself.
“Can you gather up the kids?” he asks. “I want to go over those rules I mentioned. I know they don’t want to hear them, but too bad.”
“Sure thing.” And then I mutter, “
Rules.
This should be interesting.”
I duck belowdecks, where I immediately see Carrie and Ernie in the galley. Ernie’s snacking on double-center Oreos—no surprise—and Carrie’s looking at him as if he’s a big fat pig. Also no surprise.
While Carrie’s still too thin, at least she’s not in the bathroom throwing up lunch—purging, as it’s called. I’ve noticed that her teeth aren’t stained and her hair is regaining its fullness—good signs. Both the school psychologist and her nutrition counselor at Yale said she’s making progress, so I shouldn’t nudge her about her eating.
I won’t go there.
But would it kill her to cheer up a bit?
Snap out of it, kid! You’re stuck on this beautiful boat with all of us, so get used to it! And I’m here for you, Carrie. I am.
“Uncle Jake wants to have that talk now,” I announce. “Where’s Mark?”
Carrie and Ernie both point toward the sleeping quarters. I head in that direction while the two of them climb up on deck, as if they’re about to be drawn and quartered by good old Uncle Jake.
“Mark?” I call out.
He doesn’t answer, which is his usual response. So I check each cabin and he’s nowhere to be found.
“Mark?”
I call again.
And finally he answers. “Busy here. I’m in the head,” he says. “One minute.”
I’m about to tell him to come up and join us when he’s done. Then I hear it, that incriminating sound.
Ssssssst.
And I completely go apeshit.
I BANG ON THE DOOR so hard I think I’m going to break the lock. “Open up this instant!” I yell. “Mark, open the door
now!
I’m not kidding, buster.”
I hear the porthole window snapping shut and that telltale sound again.
Ssssssst.
Now all I can smell is the air freshener. It reeks of potpourri.
Or should I say
pot-be-gone.
Mark finally opens the door and tries to look innocent as a newborn, which is pretty hard to do with glazed-over eyes. I lay into him so hard and fast he doesn’t know what hit him. He’s just lucky it’s not my fist. That’s how pissed off I am at my oldest and most immature son.
And when he tries to deny he was smoking, I yell even louder. I’ve taken way too much of his crap lately.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I hear over my shoulder. “What’s going on?” asks Jake, who has Ernie in tow.
I fold my arms and take a deep breath, trying mightily to reel in my anger. It’s a losing battle, though. “Why don’t you ask the little stoner here,” I say. “We’re barely under way and he gets high!”
This finally brings a little half-smile from him. “Gee, I’m sorry, Mom. Should I have waited a whole day?”
“Don’t be a wiseass, Mark. It doesn’t become you. You’re in enough trouble already,” warns Jake.
“What, like you never smoked pot when you were younger?”
There it is, the quintessential teenage gotcha question. As Mark lobs it into Jake’s court, he looks like the smuggest sixteen-year-old living on the planet.
But Jake doesn’t buy any of it.
“Yeah, I smoked weed, buddy, and you know what it did? It helped turn me into a huge asshole and idiot for a while, kind of like the one you’re being right now.”
Game. Set. Match.
Mark has no comeback, no return. He’s not used to Jake’s being angry at him and he’s speechless. The only sound is a stifled giggle from Ernie.
“Rule number one of the boat,” says Jake.
“No getting stoned.”
He sticks out his palm, practically in Mark’s face. “Now hand it over. All of it.”
With a defeated sigh Mark reaches into his pocket and surrenders a tin of Altoids. Needless to say, it’s no longer housing curiously strong mints.
“Here,” Mark snarls. “Don’t smoke it all in one place.”
Jake cracks the slightest of smiles as he stuffs the tin into his back pocket. Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking how lucky I am that he agreed to come with us.
Then something dawns on me. “Who’s steering the boat?” I ask.
“I gave the wheel to Carrie,” says Jake. “She’s fine. It’s like driving a car in an empty parking lot.”
No sooner do the words leave his lips than the boat suddenly swerves hard right, tossing us like a salad!
I go down, and my head hits the floor—
smack!
I nearly black out. My brain flickers on, off, on.
“Carrie!” yells Jake, scrambling to his feet. “What are you doing up there?”
She doesn’t answer.
The boat rolls violently again, upending Jake for the second time. He falls hard on Mark, knocking the wind out of him.
“Carrie!”
yells Jake again.
No answer.
The boat finally steadies and we quickly rise to our feet. What the hell’s going on? Jake leads the mad dash up to the deck.
Frantically, we look around. Carrie’s not at the wheel.
Carrie’s not anywhere.
