Tattered Innocence (19 page)

“Happy Birthday.”

She threw her arms around the unfamiliar
muscle and bone of Jake’s shoulders for the second time in two
days.

Irish Spring from his neck tickled her
nose.

His hands settled on her waist.

She jerked back, embarrassed, and ran her
palm over the shiny finish on the roof. “Thanks.” Tears collected
in her eyes and she blinked them back.

“You like your gift?”

“It’s like Cinderella’s coach. I love
it.”

“What day is your birthday?”

“Today.” The tears spilled onto her cheeks,
but she dashed them away. Jake would think she was a PMS psycho
case.

Rachel scanned the horizon for signs of the
approaching hurricane. A crisp wind drummed the rigging against the
masts. They had monitored weather reports all day. The cockpit
radio blared the most recent forecast—twenty-four hours until
Kendra was due to hit the coast. The hazy sun burned through gray
clouds like any other October day.

Rachel tied her sweatshirt hood tighter
around her face. Jake had already alerted the guests scheduled for
this week to stand by. If and when the hurricane bypassed Florida’s
east coast, the cruise would resume.

Across the cockpit, Jake squinted at the
skyline. “We’ve got to take the
Queen
to shelter.” His lips
thinned into a grim line. “I know you don’t like sailing her
two-manned, but I can’t risk riding out a hurricane in the
marina.”

Rachel frowned. Of course, Jake had the
skill to guide them to a safe location. But if a summer squall
melted her into a soppy mess, could she hold it together long
enough to assist him? She glanced toward the
Escape.
If Leaf
were riding out the storm at the marina, maybe Jake was
overreacting. “What’s Leaf doing?”

Jake’s brow creased. “He’s probably got
enough weed stashed in his bilge to see him through a direct
hit.”

Rachel laughed in spite of herself. “You
know about his smoking? He told me not to tell you. He wants to
keep your high opinion.”

Jake sighed. “Doesn’t matter. As much as I’d
like him to replace my Gramps, he can’t.” He rubbed his hands
together and jammed them into his jeans pockets. “At the hurricane
hole, we’ll have trees for a wind-block on all four sides. At
worst, we’ll be thrown against a muddy bank—a lot less dangerous
than landing on Riverside Drive.”

“Okay already.”

Jake faced the whitecaps kicking up beyond
the pier. “We’ll go under sail.”

Rachel opened her mouth to protest. Motoring
two-manned would be easier than sailing.

“We’ll get there twice as fast. By the time
we poke along the shore at four knots under motor, the hurricane
could blow us half way to Grand Bahama.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I’ll secure things
below.”

Jake caught her hand. “We’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

He wrapped her in a bear hug. “Yes, I’m
sure.”

The combination of Jake’s words and touch
bolstered her.

He released her.

She smiled. “Thanks.” She almost believed
their relationship would be okay, too.

Stiff wind hurtled the
Queen
across
the choppy water.

Rachel gripped the wheel, nerves stretched
taut as the sheet line.

Jake crouched on the deck nearby, one hand
gripping the lifeline, the other shielding his eyes as he scanned
the shore.

Drop some sail!
Slow us down!
“Jake,” Rachel yelled into the wind. “What are you looking
for?”

“Buoy Number Eight, red. I’m going below for
the binoculars.”

Rachel scanned the water for a buoy, any
buoy. Blowing sea spray and low slung clouds nearly obscured the
pine-dotted shoreline. She glanced at the compass, keeping to the
course Jake had set. Where was the gap into Jake’s mystery
cove?

A dark speck bobbed in the distant
whitecaps.

Rachel pointed as Jake emerged from the
cabin. “Try there.”

Jake pressed the glasses against his face.
“It’s a red nun all right. I can’t make out the number.”

Rachel altered course toward the buoy.
Saltwater sprayed her face, and she swiped at it with the arm of
her sweatshirt.
God, guide us to Jake’s cove.

She reached for the binoculars. “Let me
look.”

Jake handed her the glasses and grabbed the
wheel.

She gazed south, beyond the marker. Nothing.
If there were any more buoys, they were beyond her range. A thin
mist wet her face before it clouded the lenses. She licked her
lips—fresh water. Purple rain lines slashed between the clouds and
waves to the south. She handed over the binoculars. “I’ll get our
slickers and life jackets,” she shouted.

Jake grunted, intent on peering through the
binoculars, the knuckles of his left hand white on the wheel. He
glanced past her at the sails and adjusted to a shift in the damp
wind.

Rachel slipped into the main cabin and
closed the hatch over her head.
Don’t panic.
She lifted the
bench locker and snagged their gear. She hadn’t sailed in wind this
strong. Still, it wasn’t
a
full-fledged
storm. Yet. Hurricanes veered off course. They fizzled. She could
panic later—if it actually hit. She gulped in a breath, let it out.
I can do this.

Topside, Rachel took the wheel from Jake.
Pelting rain stung her face and hands.

Jake stabbed his arms into a slicker and
life jacket. Anchoring the binoculars under his arm, he headed for
the bow. After a minute he ran back down the deck. “That’s it! Pass
on the port side of the buoy!”

Rachel blinked rain out of her eyes, her
focus riveted to the floating nun. Passing on the wrong side of the
buoy could run them aground.

Waves knocked the buoy horizontal.

Her fingers ached from gripping the wheel as
she threaded the
Queen
past the first channel marker.

Rachel dredged up words she’d memorized as a
child from Isaiah, Chapter Forty-three. “‘When you pass through the
waters, I will be with you.’”

A surreal tranquility blanketed her. She let
out her breath.

“Reducing sail,” Jake yelled from atop the
fore cabin.

Rachel nosed the
Queen
into the wind,
and their forward progress ceased.

All around her, sails flapped violently in
the gale.

Jake reefed the mainsail. He heaved the
genoa down onto the cabin.

Rachel lashed the wheel and vaulted onto the
aft cabin to drop the mizzen sail. She glanced at the staysail, the
only remaining sail, and back at the buoy. The wind had nearly
blown them out of the channel. “Jake!” She pointed at the buoy.

He sprinted down the deck and dropped into
the cockpit. He yanked on the choke, wrenched the key in the
engine’s ignition, twisted the key a second time.

The engine turned over, but didn’t
start.

He pumped the choke and tried again.

The engine sputtered.

Rachel bundled the sail into its bag,
keeping an eye on the buoy.

The
Queen
drifted south of the
buoy.

She braced her legs for the thump of the
ocean floor on the boat’s keel. Even if the engine sprang to life,
the propellers could get stuck in the mud or tangled in the seaweed
if they lolled into shallow water.

Rachel ran to the pitching foredeck to take
a depth sounding, but the
Queen
drifted north—back into the
channel.
Thank You, God.

Jake cranked the engine again.

Nothing.

The wind swept his words away, but judging
by his expression, they hadn’t been pretty.

He untied the wheel and headed the
Queen
into the narrow channel on a tack.

Rachel searched for the next channel marker.
On a clear day, several buoys would be visible. Today, she could
only make out the dark tree line of the shore. The bow rose up on a
swell and she grabbed the forestay, bracing her knees for the
impact. The bow dropped like a carnival ride and smacked against
the water, clattering her teeth together. She crab-walked
hand-over-hand on the cabin rails to the cockpit where Jake gripped
the wheel and peered through the binoculars.

“Bingo!” He brought the ship about. “There
it is at ten o’clock.” He motioned for Rachel to take the helm.
“Keep the green can on our port.”

They threaded through two more buoys, four
tacks.

Jake bracketed himself between the fore
cabin and the gunwale. He raised the binoculars once more.

Land loomed dark and immobile off their
bow.

Jake waved his arm for Rachel to ease into
the wind to slow their speed.

The ship lunged in the rough surf as they
inched along.

Seconds later, he ran down the deck toward
Rachel. “The waterway must cut in at an angle. Head for two
o’clock. See the tallest tree?” He stepped behind her and gripped
her shoulders, his face beside hers, and pointed.

“It looks like there might be a break south
of that tree.”

Jake’s voice rumbled beside her ear,
tumbling desire into her fear.

Rachel glanced at the water dripping off his
chin.

Heat flared in his eyes. He sprinted
forward, a hand skimming the rails. “Hard to port,” Jake shouted
from the bow.

She whipped the wheel around, imagining the
Queen’s
bow crunching against the seawall. Even after the
Queen
swung, she couldn’t find the slot they needed to
penetrate.

Through the rain and gray light a quarter of
a mile into the narrow waterway, Rachel recognized a condominium in
her aunt’s neighborhood and pinpointed their location. Trees hedged
them in from the worst of the wind.

Another half-mile and Jake yelled, “Cut hard
to port.”

The boom swung over her head and, at last,
Rachel saw the narrow break in the tree line.

Wind filled the sails, and they shot through
the gap as Jake barked directions from the bow.

The
Queen
arced into the cove, a
biker-chick spinning a one-eighty.

Jake sliced his arm through the air, and
Rachel jerked the
Queen’s
nose into the wind. He yanked down
the main and the staysail. “Keep her in the center of the cove if
you can.” He ran forward, and a minute later, the anchor chain
whizzed through the chock on the bow.

Amidships, she sounded for the bottom. “Ten
and a half feet!”

Jake tossed a smaller anchor off the
stern.

Even if they bounced in the storm, they
wouldn’t hit bottom. She felt the tug of the transom anchor taking
hold and sank to her knees in gratitude. Warm tears ran down her
face.

Jake dropped a hand on her shoulder. His
chin tucked into his chest, eyes closed. A line dangled in one
hand, the rest of the coil hung on his shoulder. “Amen.” He bent to
stow the rope on the cleat beside her, his fingers trailing across
the back of her slicker as he moved.

She shivered.

She surveyed the sails that had been lashed
and stuffed like half-made beds around the boat. She hauled herself
onto the aft cabin and furled the partially stowed mizzen sail into
its sleeve, her teeth chattering in the blowing rain.

Jake snapped the sail cover over the
mainsail. “Go below and get dry. I’ll finish topside.”

Warm at last in dry jeans, sweatshirt, and
wool socks, Rachel yanked a brush through her matted hair. She
stood in the amber glow of the battery-fueled bulb and listened to
the rain beat on the aft cabin.

Wind, softened by the trees, rocked the
Queen
.

Jake emerged from the head, rubbing dry his
hair. He dropped the towel around his shoulders on top of an
ancient University of South Florida sweatshirt and grinned.

Something that warmed her more than thick
socks and a hoodie crackled between them. Her heart thudded.

His grin widened as he held her gaze.

The bare bulb backlit his tangle of curls.
“We did it.” He flung his arms open to her.

Rachel stepped into his smile, noticing for
the first time a sliver of a scar at the edge of his bottom
lip.

Arms that hauled sails up the masts,
wrestled little boys into their bunks, and flung across rumpled
sheets in sleep closed around her.

She breathed in the clean laundry scent of
his sweatshirt.
This is where I belong.

He leaned back, laughing. His lips found
hers, eager, celebrating man conquering wind.

He tasted of brine, and his skin smelled
like rain. Her fingers curled into the muscles laced across his
back. The rightness of the kiss wiped out so many wrong kisses from
Bret.

The celebration ebbed, spilling kaleidoscope
colors through her that intensified to violet. The kiss morphed
into reaching and yielding, two people fusing into one.

Her name ripped from his throat in a ragged
whisper. His irises, circled with a ribbon of brown, darkened and
bored into her as if he’d funneled all the passion he held for the
Queen,
his Gramps, and Gabrielle to some pinpoint deep
inside her.

His fingers spread against her waist,
pressing her closer, and he kissed her again.

Her mind whirled in the sweetness of the
kiss. The
Queen
swayed, intensifying the sensation of
lightheadedness, and she clung more tightly to Jake. Yearning,
bonding, upheaval, coming home, whipped through her as though the
hurricane raged inside her body and not fifty miles offshore. The
kiss pushed her over some precipice—falling and falling out of
control, to a place she couldn’t scrabble out of like she had with
Bret.

Then, Bret’s cocktail of lust and anguish
pricked her conscience. Before the thought fully formed, her palms
jutted against Jake’s chest, a gut reaction, and she thrust him
away.

He fell back on his bunk. “What was that
for?”