her clothes before wearing them. She hung her jeans and
shirt over the shower bar and ran the hot water, hoping to steam
some of the wrinkles free.
Once dressed, she realized she was famished.
She poked in the cabinets in the kitchenette. The coffee was cold,
and there was no creamer. The refrigerator was nearly empty,
also.
"How does this man survive?" she spoke
aloud.
Sabrina decided to head for the coffee shop
where she'd lunched her first day in town. She couldn't find her
car keys, though. She frowned, trying to recall where she had left
them.
She stuffed her clothes and toiletries in her
bag and walked barefoot down the stairs. She saw he moved her car,
so she opened the driver's door. Tossing her bags on the seat, she
looked in the ignition, under the floor mat, even the visor.
"Looking for these?"
She jumped, bumping her head on the liner.
"Ouch," she said, rubbing her forehead and turning slowly. Jay
leaned against the fender, her keys in his outstretched hand. She
slid out of the car and when she reached for her keys, he tucked
them in the front pocket of his jeans.
"Thought I told you to stay put," he
said.
Sabrina rolled her eyes. "Maybe if you had
some food, a girl would stick around." She sidled up to him,
wrapping her arms around his waist, lifting her head to nuzzle his
chin. "I'll be back," she murmured. "I'm starved." She wiggled her
fingers into his pocket and withdrew her keys.
"Besides," she said as she slid in the car,
"I need you. You've got my boat."
Jay leaned in before she could close the
door. "Is that why you need me?"
Sabrina grinned. "You want me to stroke your
ego?"
"Among other things," he said.
She whispered in his ear and kissed him
goodbye, but since Jay didn't speak Portuguese, he couldn't know
that she described, in explicit detail, what she needed.
"I hope that was a compliment," he said.
"Oh, it was, me amo ."
He grimaced as she fought the wheel of the
large car, and drove inexpertly down the alley and into the
on-coming, honking traffic.
"City girls."
Back in the shop, Brett was putting a tarp
over a wooden hull he had been sanding.
"Hey, you took Spanish in high school, didn't
you?"
"That was a long time ago, bud."
"What does 'me amo' mean?"
"Run like hell," Brett replied.
* * *
Jay and Brett usually worked in companionable
silence. Each had various projects going at the same time. They
staggered chores, varnishing teak, then repairing engines while the
woodwork dried.
Jay ignored the Zephyrus, installing an
autopilot on a new sloop.
At one o'clock, Brett turned off the radio.
"Lunch time. Maude's?"
"Sure," Jay said, wiping his hands on a rag.
He shoved the red flannel into his back pocket. "Why don't you head
over? I'll be along shortly."
"Sure. Want me to order you anything?"
"Yeah, I'll take a hoagie, no onions."
After Brett left, Jay walked over to the
Zephyrus. He touched the crack he made in the gel coat the day
before. He ran his hand along the hull, stroking the swollen belly
above the waterline. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how
Derek West must have felt when the finished boat came out of the
shop. Did he feel pride in his workmanship?
As a student, he had studied naval design,
including the Zephyrus. Now, he looked beyond the dull finish, the
pitted propeller, the broken keel, and chipped rudder. He closed
his eyes and leaned against the boat, waiting for it to speak to
him, a silent communion.
In his mind's eye, he could see her as she
once had been, with foamy waves splashing against the gleaming
white hull as she slid across the deep blue Massachusetts Bay. The
sleek double-ender sailboat with its salty cabin and proud bow
designed by Don Windham and built by Derek West had been a classic
beauty. She would be again, he vowed.
* * *
Later that afternoon, sitting cross-legged on
her hotel bed, Sabrina called Rose.
"Well, Grandmother, you're not going to
believe this, but I've met someone, and I know it's crazy, but
shirt over the shower bar and ran the hot water, hoping to steam
some of the wrinkles free.
Once dressed, she realized she was famished.
She poked in the cabinets in the kitchenette. The coffee was cold,
and there was no creamer. The refrigerator was nearly empty,
also.
"How does this man survive?" she spoke
aloud.
Sabrina decided to head for the coffee shop
where she'd lunched her first day in town. She couldn't find her
car keys, though. She frowned, trying to recall where she had left
them.
She stuffed her clothes and toiletries in her
bag and walked barefoot down the stairs. She saw he moved her car,
so she opened the driver's door. Tossing her bags on the seat, she
looked in the ignition, under the floor mat, even the visor.
"Looking for these?"
She jumped, bumping her head on the liner.
"Ouch," she said, rubbing her forehead and turning slowly. Jay
leaned against the fender, her keys in his outstretched hand. She
slid out of the car and when she reached for her keys, he tucked
them in the front pocket of his jeans.
"Thought I told you to stay put," he
said.
Sabrina rolled her eyes. "Maybe if you had
some food, a girl would stick around." She sidled up to him,
wrapping her arms around his waist, lifting her head to nuzzle his
chin. "I'll be back," she murmured. "I'm starved." She wiggled her
fingers into his pocket and withdrew her keys.
"Besides," she said as she slid in the car,
"I need you. You've got my boat."
Jay leaned in before she could close the
door. "Is that why you need me?"
Sabrina grinned. "You want me to stroke your
ego?"
"Among other things," he said.
She whispered in his ear and kissed him
goodbye, but since Jay didn't speak Portuguese, he couldn't know
that she described, in explicit detail, what she needed.
"I hope that was a compliment," he said.
"Oh, it was, me amo ."
He grimaced as she fought the wheel of the
large car, and drove inexpertly down the alley and into the
on-coming, honking traffic.
"City girls."
Back in the shop, Brett was putting a tarp
over a wooden hull he had been sanding.
"Hey, you took Spanish in high school, didn't
you?"
"That was a long time ago, bud."
"What does 'me amo' mean?"
"Run like hell," Brett replied.
* * *
Jay and Brett usually worked in companionable
silence. Each had various projects going at the same time. They
staggered chores, varnishing teak, then repairing engines while the
woodwork dried.
Jay ignored the Zephyrus, installing an
autopilot on a new sloop.
At one o'clock, Brett turned off the radio.
"Lunch time. Maude's?"
"Sure," Jay said, wiping his hands on a rag.
He shoved the red flannel into his back pocket. "Why don't you head
over? I'll be along shortly."
"Sure. Want me to order you anything?"
"Yeah, I'll take a hoagie, no onions."
After Brett left, Jay walked over to the
Zephyrus. He touched the crack he made in the gel coat the day
before. He ran his hand along the hull, stroking the swollen belly
above the waterline. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how
Derek West must have felt when the finished boat came out of the
shop. Did he feel pride in his workmanship?
As a student, he had studied naval design,
including the Zephyrus. Now, he looked beyond the dull finish, the
pitted propeller, the broken keel, and chipped rudder. He closed
his eyes and leaned against the boat, waiting for it to speak to
him, a silent communion.
In his mind's eye, he could see her as she
once had been, with foamy waves splashing against the gleaming
white hull as she slid across the deep blue Massachusetts Bay. The
sleek double-ender sailboat with its salty cabin and proud bow
designed by Don Windham and built by Derek West had been a classic
beauty. She would be again, he vowed.
* * *
Later that afternoon, sitting cross-legged on
her hotel bed, Sabrina called Rose.
"Well, Grandmother, you're not going to
believe this, but I've met someone, and I know it's crazy, but
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