Wreckers' Key (14 page)

“Well, Quentin, I tell you, I’ve loved being in this business for most of the years since I took it over from my dad. But this year, I’m starting to have my doubts.”
 

“And why do you say this?”

“Lots of reasons. Insurance rates are skyrocketing, and that’s making some people do crazy things—like wrecking their boats intentionally.”

“This is not something new.”

I nodded. “You’re right. People have been doing that for a long time, but this year, it seems to be worse. And it’s impacting me more than ever before.”

“Are you talking about Mr. Berger?”

“Well, you do put it right out there, don’t you? Yeah, I don’t know anything for sure, but I have a feeling that Ted Berger is tired of boat ownership. That’s another reason we aren’t running at night on this trip and taking things slow. No screwups.”

There was no sign of rain, but the night was going to be cold. I had a down sleeping bag I loaned to Quentin, and with his air mattress he said good night and headed out for the foredeck. I checked my watch. It was nine thirty. I reached for the VHF mike, switched channels, and pressed the key.

“This is the tug
Gorda
calling for a radio check.”

Catalina’s voice came through immediately. “
Gorda
, this is the
Power Play
. I read you five by five.”

Good girl, I thought. Just as I’d taught her. That meant everything was fine on her front, anyway.

I bedded down on the bunk in the wheelhouse with Abaco at my feet, and though I was plenty warm and comfortable, I found I could not sleep. My mind kept churning numbers of time and tide and depth and draft, and none of it added up.

The next couple of days were fairly boring—which, in my business, is always a very good thing. It’s when it gets exciting that I have to worry. The anchorage off Rodriguez Key was calm on Friday, and we heard no more excitement on the radio. Catalina and I checked in regularly, and her voice sounded stronger the farther we got from Key West. Saturday, we made better time than I’d anticipated and found ourselves entering the breakwaters at Port Everglades just before eight o’clock that evening, much earlier than I had planned. I towed the
Power Play
straight upriver to the yard at the New River Marina. They were expecting us and had cleared an outside dock, which made dropping off the big yacht simple. I said my good-byes to the crew and to Quentin, then helped Cat and her gear get aboard the tug. It was roughly nine thirty when Catalina, Abaco, and I pulled up to my dock at the Larsens’ place on the New River.

Light was spilling out through the open front door of my converted boathouse/cottage, and Hawaiian music was playing from some source out in the dark yard. Barbecue smoke and colored lights floated over the grounds of the Larsens’ estate. The main house was a towering structure that had suffered dozens of remodels and additions since its first incarnation in the 1930s, and now it could only be called something like neo-Colonial Moorish-Asian, thanks to the columns and towers with red barrel roof tiles and the Larsens’ latest addition of a blue-roofed pagoda. Most people would have simply added a gazebo if they wanted a little shade, but not here. The Larsens absolutely loved the place, though they rarely were able to spend time down here, assuring me of a residence and a steady job watching the place for them.

Through the years, this Rio Vista neighborhood had grown rather sedate as the homes’ values skyrocketed and the population aged and grew more moneyed. I wasn’t sure how thrilled the neighbors would be at hearing the ukulele of Iz Kamakawiwo‘ole wafting across the water at this time of night. Over the roar of my big Caterpillar engine, I also heard the laughter of kids from out in the yard, and on the periphery of the light I caught flashes of movement. B.J. stepped out of the shadows looking better than a cold beer on a hot day, and it took all my willpower to pay attention to docking
Gorda
before jumping onto the dock and throwing my arms around him.

XIII

The next one to appear out of the darkness was Zale, the teenage son of my childhood friend Molly, with whom I had recently reconciled after many years of silence. Those tumultuous days last year after Zale’s father, Nick Pontus, had been murdered had also rocked my family with the revelation that Nick had not been Zale’s biological father, that Molly’s son was actually my nephew. Every time I saw him, he looked more and more like my brother Pit. This night his light hair was tousled and he was breathing hard, squinting at me through his wire-rimmed glasses. No sooner had he stopped running, though, than two blond dervishes launched themselves at him and knocked him to the grass. It was Jeannie’s twin boys, and as the three of them rolled on the ground making roaring monster noises, Abaco leaped the gap between the boat and the dock and began barking at the scuffling kids. I saw Jeannie resting a hip against the door frame to my cottage; Zale’s mom, Molly, was now standing over the wrestlers pointing her finger at them.

I handed B.J. the last stern line and turned to see Catalina staring at all the people and commotion with her mouth open.

“Catalina, welcome to my world,” I said, and went into the wheelhouse to shut down the engine.

I was clicking off switches on the instrument panel, shutting off running lights and instruments, when I felt his hands slide around my waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around my back.

“Welcome home,” he said, his voice barely a whisper blowing warm air in my ear.

My shoulders quivered as a shiver danced up my spine. I pressed my behind into his pelvis and arched my back as his tongue flicked at my ear. I tried to hide my ear with my shoulder and said, “Hey, I just got here. No fair.” But then I ducked that shoulder down, spun around in his arms, and kissed him for so long I thought I might just fall into a trance standing there, our tongues entwined, and stay that way until morning.

I pushed him away finally and looked into his dark eyes. “So what’s going on? It looks like a party around here.”
 

“Not a party. We’re just celebrating the sailor home from the sea.”

“When I went upriver, I didn’t see anything going on here.”

“We were inside. You can hear that engine of yours for miles, you know. We wanted to surprise you.”
 

Jeannie called out, “Would you guys stop necking in there? B.J. wouldn’t let us eat till you got here.”

I stepped out of the wheelhouse and looked over at Jeannie walking down the brick path, her usual flowered muumuu billowing around her ample figure. I glanced at my watch, then back at her. “Yeah, like I believe that. You and your kids haven’t eaten at this hour?”

“Well, he wouldn’t let us have seconds or dessert.”
 

“You guys will come up with any excuse for a get-together.”

“Listen, it’s Saturday night and your yummy fella here invites us over for a barbecue—hell, you think I’m turning that down?”

I slid my arm around B.J.’s waist. “Yummy is right.”

Catalina had retreated to the afterdeck and was leaning against the bulwark, one hand resting atop her bulging belly, looking away from the gathering in the yard at the far side of the river. I headed back there and took her arm. B.J. was right behind me.

“Catalina, I know this might seem strange to you.” With my free arm I swung an arc to indicate the laughing people, the lights, and the music. “With what has happened to you.” I paused, trying to get the words right. “With the loss we’ve all suffered, it must seem strange to you that we are playing music and laughing. But this is how we deal. Most of these folks here knew Nestor, and we knew him well enough to know he felt like us. He was one of us. We don’t cry and wear black when one of us dies. We get together and celebrate life. Nestor was a gift and he brought us you. Now you’re one of us, too.” I turned and wrapped my arms around her and we stood there like that for several seconds. When we broke apart, I turned to B.J.

“You remember my friend B.J.?”

“Yes,” she said with a half smile. “You are studying childbirth.”

He nodded at her swollen belly. “And you look like you’re nearly there.”

She looked down at her blouse. “I just get bigger and I still have a month to go.”

“A big baby’s usually a healthy baby,” B.J. said.
 

“Speaking of which, this lady is eating for two. Let’s go get her some food before it’s all gone.”

“Right,” B.J. said. “You’re only concerned about making sure our mommy gets enough food.”

I made a cross over my heart and raised my hand. “I swear.”

He rolled his eyes. “Follow me,” he said to Catalina as he helped her off the boat and began to introduce her around.

The night was unusually mild for January—the temperature had barely dipped down into the sixties.

 
I saw her sitting in a rattan chair someone had dragged out from the Larsens’ porch. Her white hair was pinned up off the neck of her blouse, and her thin knees made sharp points against the black fabric of her skirt. And there were the same dirty sneakers she’d been wearing that first time I noticed her walking the streets a year ago.

“Hi, Grams,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How did you get here? I hope you didn’t walk.”

I’d discovered the existence of Faith Wheeler, my grandmother, only a year earlier, finally putting an end to a family feud that had kept us apart all my life. I was slowly getting to know the eccentric old woman who had spent most of her ninety-plus years walking the streets of this town, attending commission meetings and shaming the politicians into moments of restrained greed.

“B.J. picked me up and fed me a very nice dinner. Welcome back, dear.”

“Thanks.”

“You go on. Enjoy yourself. I’m happy watching the children play. Didn’t really get to watch my grandchildren do this foolishness. And now there’s a great-grandchild.”

We watched Zale run across the yard chasing one of the twins. The younger boy giggled as Zale let him get away.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

She nodded.

Molly was wearing some outfit that looked like black Chinese silk pajamas with embroidered red dragons. Her long black hair fell in a thick braid on her back, and with her part-Seminole features, she almost looked like a little Chinese doll. She gave me a quick hug and turned her attention to Catalina. She put her arms around her and held her in a long hug. She was whispering in her ear, and I could see Cat nodding. Molly had never met Cat, but they shared one terrible thing in common—both knew what it was to lose their children’s fathers, to be left alone to raise a child.

“Come on over here and sit down,” Molly said at last. “Your legs must be killing you.” She guided the younger woman to a wooden picnic table at the edge of the Larsens’ big yard.

It was great having Molly back in my life after thirteen long years of silence. We’d shared our childhood like sisters; now it was as though we hadn’t lost that decade in between. I’d discovered I had room in my life for two women “best friends,” and it felt great to be home and have all my family there.

“So, Molly, what’s with the fancy getup?” I asked. “You look gorgeous and here I am in salty jeans and a sweatshirt.”

“B.J. didn’t tell you? We both passed our first courses in midwifery science. That’s what we’re celebrating.”

“Oh really?” I looked to catch B.J.’s eye, but he was nowhere in sight. I settled on the table bench opposite Catalina, and Jeannie joined me.

“I never would have made it without his help,” Molly continued as she dug around in a cooler. “All those hours we spent studying together really made the difference. I took all my anatomy and bio classes about five years ago, back when I was still married to Nick and I thought I wanted to be a nurse. I really just wanted an excuse to get out of the house. Anyway, I hardly remember any of it. B.J.’s been great.”

While she talked, Molly was setting food and cutlery in front of Cat and me. Her compact body moved with startling efficiency. Without asking, she brought me a beer and a box of apple juice for Catalina.

“So are you giving up on your painting?” I asked her.
 

“No, not at all. That’s just on hold for a while. Assisting home births is not exactly full-time work. I can do both.”

When we were teenagers, we’d made an odd pair, the two friends who looked like opposites. Molly with her Indian blood and long dark hair had developed early, and the boys were drooling over her from the sixth grade on. I was tall and lanky, and what curves I had were well hidden under my oversize T-shirts and jeans. But our tastes and interests had always been similar, and she had gone on to become the artist my mother always wanted me to be. Now both our lives were taking another turn and for the first time, I really didn’t—or didn’t want to— understand this direction she was taking.

“Seychelle, I know you don’t think it sounds like a very serious school, but the Birthwise School of Traditional Midwifery has really difficult classes. It’s a tough program. We’ll be lucky to complete it in a year and a half.”
 

“Well, look. Just don’t talk about it, okay? I don’t want to think about birth canals and fluids and forceps before I eat. We’ve been cranking since daybreak to get in tonight and I’m beat.”

Jeannie’s boys Adair and Adam appeared and leaned against the end of the picnic table. “What does forceps mean?” one of them asked—which one I couldn’t say, because I could never tell them apart.

“Never mind,” Jeannie said. “Auntie Seychelle just gets cranky when she hasn’t eaten. Go inside and wash your hands if you want dessert.”

“I’m not cranky,” I said, and in that split second difference between the time I said it and the time I heard myself say it, I heard just how cranky I sounded.

All the adults burst out laughing.

We ate green salad, baked beans, and B.J.’s grilled skewers of dolphinfish, scallops, grape tomatoes, and squash while the others dug into a huge pan of boysenberry cobbler that Molly had brought over and kept warm in my oven. I reckoned that was about the first workout that oven had seen in a year or more. Zale sat next to me just long enough to help himself to a huge plate of cobbler and to tell me that he had received a postcard from my brother, his newfound dad. He pulled the wrinkled piece of cardboard from his back pocket.