Surface Tension - Kling Christine - Страница 36
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“How sweet. Seychelle . . .” He started to say something, then paused and looked around. He jingled the keys in his pocket. “I really don’t like leaving you alone if there is someone prowling around out here. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Are you sure you’ll be safe?”
I wondered what he had been about to say. “I’ll be all right. I can take care of myself, and I have the dog. You go on home. Hope you don’t mind if I don’t walk you out to your car.”
After a curt good night and a peck on the cheek—he was careful not to touch me anywhere else—James let himself out through the gate. I heard his Jag start up when I let Abaco out of the boat. After she peed on the lawn, I called her inside and locked the door to the cottage. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I slipped out of my sarong and looked down at the scratches on my legs. I needed a shower but I was afraid to stand alone and naked under that noisy stream of water. I switched off the bedside lamp, and in the dark, I sponged off my cuts, brushed my teeth, and climbed under the covers, pulling them up right under my chin.
I couldn’t seem to get warm. The sheet was soon knotted around my legs, and the little voice in my head wouldn’t shut up and let me sleep. There was no question in my mind that I had seen that figure at the window. Someone was watching me.
XII
When Gorda motored her way out the mouth of the New River on Sunday morning, it was still dark. I was astounded to see how many boats had turned up and were just circling around on the Intracoastal off the Lauderdale Yacht Club. There is a camaraderie of sorts among the folks who make their living on the waterfront, but I’d never realized before how many there were, and how much they had all liked Neal. When Neal and I broke up, for over a month I went around calling him an asshole to anyone who would listen, and most folks had agreed with me. But he was a likable asshole.
Nestor led the group with his boat, My Way. He blew once on his air horn and everyone fell in line behind him. I maneuvered Gorda up front, right behind the My Way. Jimmy St. Claire’s old Chris Craft, Rhumb Runner, followed me. Then there were a couple of water taxis, some sport boats I didn’t know, and Jack, the guy who had bought Neal’s old sailboat, the Wind Dancer. I was surprised to see Hightower back toward the end of the line on the Ruby Yacht. He had planned to spend a week in the boatyard so he must have had some kind of problem with his haul-out. He was so bad at handling the old girl, he rarely took her out, although I noticed he did have Perry along as a deckhand.
As we went through the Seventeenth Street Bridge, I looked back at the Rhumb Runner and saw there were two people on the flybridge: Jimmy, and next to him stood B.J. Moana. My stomach did a couple of strange little flip-flops at the sight of him. He smiled and waved. It couldn’t have been him last night outside my window, could it? The very idea seemed foolish in the light of the dawning day.
The Top Ten was still tied alongside the Coast Guard dock, and all heads turned to look at her as we passed. I shuffled my deck shoes across the nonskid when I saw Gorda's wheelhouse running lights reflected in the big yacht’s hull windows. I was filled with the same restless discomfort that had plagued me all night.
As we filed out between the breakwaters, the clouds on the horizon were starting to glow around the edges. Overhead, Venus had yet to vanish, but otherwise, the night was nearly a memory. Along the beach to the south, where the Australian pines at John Lloyd Beach State Park obscured the hustle of the cargo port, the shallow turquoise water near shore appeared almost luminescent against the pale pink of the morning sky. A lone pelican flew a few feet above the smooth swells with a grace and precision no man-made machine could ever mimic.
The still air felt thick with humidity. Two little open boats anchored by the channel markers rolled uneasily in the small, glassy swells, and the Sunday fishermen watched our procession with little curiosity, their eyes still squinty with sleep, coffee mugs in their hands. A large white cruise ship passed us on her way into the port with surprisingly few people on deck. One man alone at the rail lifted a small child, who waved. I stepped out of the wheelhouse and waved back.
About three-quarters of a mile beyond the sea buoy, Nestor started his wide turn. He circled around until he was following the last boat. He blew his air horn again, idled his engine down, and we all followed his lead. Soon we were all stopped, gently rolling on the light sea in a circle formation.
Nestor spoke first, through his loud-hailer, telling a quick story about how Neal had once helped him out when a fat charter guest had fallen off the dock and Nestor hadn’t been able to hoist him out of the water alone. Neal had figured out a way to use the dock fish hoist as a derrick. Everyone laughed at the comments Neal had supposedly made. They were funny, although not kind.
Then Jimmy told a story, with his loud-hailer in one hand, a can of Old Milwaukee in the other.
“Neal Garrett knew boats. He knew every goddam thing there was to know about the sea, divin’, and boats.” He belched into the hailer and the crowd cheered and applauded. “One time, down ’n the Tortugas, Neal was anchored next to me on his little Wind Dancer when a squall come through, an’ it blew like stink. Most o’ them boats dragged an’ ended up on the beach that night, but not Neal’s. She hung in there while he spent the whole night helping everybody else get theirs off. He worked his butt off, even though he was the only fucker smart enough not to drag.” He held his beer can high. “To Neal.” Everybody cheered.
Other people told their own stories after that, and I could feel eyes watching me, wondering what I would say or do, but I refused to be the star of this show. I could not eulogize a man I really did not believe was dead.
The boats were drifting farther apart and the tales had died when Nestor finally threw a flower wreath into the sea. I sprinkled the bougainvillea blooms I had picked that morning onto the surface of the calm water.
Nestor blew his air horn. On each and every boat, horns, whistles, bells, and sirens sounded, the cacophony as loud as the victory celebration after a championship game. They were celebrating Neal’s life. He would like that, I thought. It was a hell of a racket.
The circle broke up, some of the boats heading out for a day of fishing, others heading back to the port. I was among the latter group.
As I motored through the group of sailboats waiting for the Seventeenth Street Bridge to open, I saw George Rice, a broker I knew who actually wore a blue blazer and an ascot. He was puttering toward me in his launch, a varnished clinker hull with a silly-looking white awning with scalloped edges.
“How’s it going, George?” I asked as he pulled his launch up alongside Gorda.
“Fine, fine,” he said, waving his manicured hand in the air. “I saw Madagascar yesterday at Gulf Stream. He told me Gorda is about to come on the market, and I took the liberty of filling out a listing notice for you.” He looked around the aft deck, and flashed an expensive display of dental work my way.
“George, Maddy only owns one third of this vessel.”
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