her watch, barely seeing it in the darkness of her car. 10:17pm.
When she’d tried Jack’s home number before leaving the hospital, he hadn’t answered. Never before had she wanted to hear his voice so badly, but there had been no answer. Not even a machine for her to leave a message on.
That had been forty-five minutes ago.
If he’d had enough of waiting for her, perhaps he’d come to the marina for a beer with Mike Turpin. The old salt was always here, and Ali hoped Jack was going to be with him.
If not, she had no idea how to find him. He had a cell phone, but she didn’t know the number.
Climbing out of her car, Ali headed to the clubhouse. All she could do now was look for him and hope to God she found him before she broke down and cried.
Twenty minutes later however, Ali dropped into a chair at a rare empty table on the boardwalk. Hot frustration twisted through her. Not a sign of Jack, or Mike Turpin for that matter. She should be happy. Her mom was alive, conscious and cognitive. Instead, Ali was a confused mess. The knowledge that unless a miracle happened, there was no way she could afford the hospital and treatment bills wouldn’t leave her alone. It ate at her, taking chunks from her sanity. And now, just for laughs, she couldn’t find Jack. The one person she wanted—needed—to see.
Chewing on her lip, she peered out at the dark yachts bobbing in their pens. Perhaps he was aboard Suspicious Ways .
“Ali?” The yacht club’s secretary appeared at the table, holding two pieces of paper in her hand. “I’ve got a couple of messages for you. Apparently, your answering machine is on the fritz and these people didn’t know how else to get a hold of you.”
“Thanks, Chris.” Ali frowned as she took the messages. “You haven’t seen Jack McKenzie around tonight, have you?”
Chris shook her head. “Not tonight. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Ali smiled, even as her stomach churned. “Thanks anyway. If you do see him can you let him know I was looking for him?”
“Can do.” Chris nodded before threading her way back into the crowd and disappearing.
Gnawing on her lip again, Ali looked down at the messages in her hands. “Great”, she muttered, unfolding one, “now I have to buy a new answering machine. As if I can afford that.”
She opened the first note and read Chris’s neat print, each word causing her stomach to sink further and further into a churning, sickening mess. Turning to the next, she bit back a sob. “I can’t believe this,” she whispered.
Message one was from Nicholas Phillips, the male half of her honeymooning-couple charter. The bride had come down with chickenpox so they were postponing their honeymoon for a month or two. Could she ring to reschedule?
Message two was from a receivership firm explaining that Waynewrite Computer Supplies was now in their control and, as a consequence all unnecessary expenditure would cease.
Ali dropped her head into her hands, the crumpled notes scratching against her forehead. Her two large charters—gone. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to the tabletop. “What the hell am I—”
“Hello, sugar pie.”
Ali jerked up her head, finding the seat before her no longer empty.
Zane Peterson lounged in the bistro chair, lips pulled into a smirk. A navy-blue linen suite that did little to hide his bulk covered his body, and his watery, blood-shot eyes were already sliding over her in a way she always detested. Undressing her. Mauling her.
“Hello, Mr. Peterson.” Her reply was short. The man may pay her to race, but she didn’t have to like him.
“It’s rare to find you here so late on a Saturday night.” He fingered the large gold ring on his pinkie. “May I get you a drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Peterson’s slimy smile stretched wider. “I hear Jenny’s not well. MS is such an expensive disease.”
Ali’s breath caught in her throat. How did he know? No one at the marina knew about her
When she’d tried Jack’s home number before leaving the hospital, he hadn’t answered. Never before had she wanted to hear his voice so badly, but there had been no answer. Not even a machine for her to leave a message on.
That had been forty-five minutes ago.
If he’d had enough of waiting for her, perhaps he’d come to the marina for a beer with Mike Turpin. The old salt was always here, and Ali hoped Jack was going to be with him.
If not, she had no idea how to find him. He had a cell phone, but she didn’t know the number.
Climbing out of her car, Ali headed to the clubhouse. All she could do now was look for him and hope to God she found him before she broke down and cried.
Twenty minutes later however, Ali dropped into a chair at a rare empty table on the boardwalk. Hot frustration twisted through her. Not a sign of Jack, or Mike Turpin for that matter. She should be happy. Her mom was alive, conscious and cognitive. Instead, Ali was a confused mess. The knowledge that unless a miracle happened, there was no way she could afford the hospital and treatment bills wouldn’t leave her alone. It ate at her, taking chunks from her sanity. And now, just for laughs, she couldn’t find Jack. The one person she wanted—needed—to see.
Chewing on her lip, she peered out at the dark yachts bobbing in their pens. Perhaps he was aboard Suspicious Ways .
“Ali?” The yacht club’s secretary appeared at the table, holding two pieces of paper in her hand. “I’ve got a couple of messages for you. Apparently, your answering machine is on the fritz and these people didn’t know how else to get a hold of you.”
“Thanks, Chris.” Ali frowned as she took the messages. “You haven’t seen Jack McKenzie around tonight, have you?”
Chris shook her head. “Not tonight. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Ali smiled, even as her stomach churned. “Thanks anyway. If you do see him can you let him know I was looking for him?”
“Can do.” Chris nodded before threading her way back into the crowd and disappearing.
Gnawing on her lip again, Ali looked down at the messages in her hands. “Great”, she muttered, unfolding one, “now I have to buy a new answering machine. As if I can afford that.”
She opened the first note and read Chris’s neat print, each word causing her stomach to sink further and further into a churning, sickening mess. Turning to the next, she bit back a sob. “I can’t believe this,” she whispered.
Message one was from Nicholas Phillips, the male half of her honeymooning-couple charter. The bride had come down with chickenpox so they were postponing their honeymoon for a month or two. Could she ring to reschedule?
Message two was from a receivership firm explaining that Waynewrite Computer Supplies was now in their control and, as a consequence all unnecessary expenditure would cease.
Ali dropped her head into her hands, the crumpled notes scratching against her forehead. Her two large charters—gone. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to the tabletop. “What the hell am I—”
“Hello, sugar pie.”
Ali jerked up her head, finding the seat before her no longer empty.
Zane Peterson lounged in the bistro chair, lips pulled into a smirk. A navy-blue linen suite that did little to hide his bulk covered his body, and his watery, blood-shot eyes were already sliding over her in a way she always detested. Undressing her. Mauling her.
“Hello, Mr. Peterson.” Her reply was short. The man may pay her to race, but she didn’t have to like him.
“It’s rare to find you here so late on a Saturday night.” He fingered the large gold ring on his pinkie. “May I get you a drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Peterson’s slimy smile stretched wider. “I hear Jenny’s not well. MS is such an expensive disease.”
Ali’s breath caught in her throat. How did he know? No one at the marina knew about her
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