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Patrick skidded his truck into a parking space at the marina, jammed it into neutral and turned off the engine. The gravel lot was nearly empty. Most of the vehicles belonged to marina employees. Their cars were easily distinguished from the boat owners’ by age, abuse and layers of dirt. Like Patrick’s Dodge: once white, it was now a dull, mottled tan and sported a V-shaped dent in the roof where a mast had accidentally landed on it.
He sat in the pickup, staring out the windshield, hands braced on the steering wheel for a long, silent minute. Then, in a burst of movement, he shouldered his door open, got out and slammed it closed as hard as he could. The truck rocked on its suspension from the force of his fury. Out of the air-conditioned cab, the hot July breeze from the Chesapeake Bay wrapped around him like a wet towel. At the back of the truck, Patrick reached over the tailgate and grabbed his bag of sailing gear.
She can’t deny me my own child!
The thought had him dropping the bag and curling his fingers over the warm metal tailgate. She has no right. But what could he do about it? With a growl of pure rage, Patrick balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the tailgate. The blow dented the panel just above the O and shot searing pain from his knuckles up his arm.
“Damn her to hell!”
He spun away from the truck, tucking his hand into his armpit. The action did nothing to soothe the agony. He sat down heavily on the back bumper, still cradling his battered appendage. “Damn her,” he repeated softly.
The pain overwhelmed his fury. Slowly, anger was replaced by an ache in his heart that seemed to complement the throbbing in his fingers. That ache was a surprise, a hurt for something he hadn’t even known he cared about. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair and lowered his head, hunching his shoulders. His mind reeled and lurched but came up with no direction. Studying the swirling patterns of gravel beneath his feet did nothing to help untangle his thoughts.
“Hey, what’s up?” a deep voice asked.
Patrick looked up to see his brother, Ian, standing over him. One black eyebrow was raised in question over his dark brown eyes.
“You don’t want to know,” Patrick said.
“The reason you just punched your truck?” Ian grinned. He held a canvas tool bag in one hand, a coping saw sticking out one end. The other hand balanced a long oak plank over his shoulder. “Yeah, I want to know.” Deftly, he swung the board down and leaned it against the tailgate. He dropped the tool bag in the bed of the truck and took a seat next to Patrick on the bumper. His long legs matched Patrick’s as they stretched out from the truck. “Spill it.”
Patrick sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He could think of no way to dress up the truth and make it sound better, so he just blurted it out. “Kate’s pregnant.”
Ian shook his head and laughed outright. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. The Berzanis are a fertile bunch.” When Patrick glared at him, Ian shrugged. “So, this is a bad thing?”
“No, it’s not a bad thing.” Patrick ground the words out from between clenched teeth.
“So why attack your truck?”
“Kate doesn’t want me involved.”
“That’s a bad thing.” Ian was silent for a moment. “How’d you screw this one up?”
“I didn’t screw up!” Patrick rose to his feet to pace. All the anger he had felt came rushing back, pushing aside the hurt. “She thinks I can’t be a good father if I’m at sea all the time.”
Ian looked at Patrick, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “I see her point. Tough to be good at something if you’re not there to do it.”
“I could be a good father whether I race or not.”
“What, you’re going to get the kid a berth in the Trans-Oceana race? Show him the ropes before he can crawl?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how are you going be around to do the fathering?”
“Who said I wouldn’t be around?”
Ian looked at his hands. “You just did.”
Patrick gritted his teeth in frustration. “I wouldn’t race all the time. I could cut back some.”
“Sounds reasonable. Did you tell her that?”
“She wouldn’t let me. She just kept saying she didn’t want me involved.” His jaw tightened. “She’s got a list.”
“A list?”
“A list of potential fathers. She doesn’t want me, so she’s, she’s…interviewing other candidates, I guess.”
“Really?” Ian was silent again. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Stop her. What else?”
“All right, then.” Ian stood and turned to grab his tool bag out of the truck. Before he picked up the board again, he ran a hand across the dents in the tailgate. “That’s number three. How long have you had this rig? Two years? When are you going to stop punching it?”
“Better my truck than your ugly face.” With his good hand, Patrick grabbed his own bag.
“As if you’d even have a chance,” Ian scoffed, but he smiled at Patrick.
They walked across the parking lot to the marina office, gravel giving way to concrete near the building that housed it. The walkway spread out to the right and joined with the large, open space where the travel lift sat idle. A blue sailboat hung suspended in its canvas slings as Bart, the travel-lift operator, pressure-washed the scum from the hull. Small piles of barnacles, dislodged from the propeller and shaft, lay under the boat. A waft of ripe algae filled the air, borne on the mist from the pressure washer.
At the door to the office, Ian leaned his plank against the wall and held the door for Patrick. “You’d better get some ice on that.”
Patrick examined his knuckles, flexing his fingers gingerly. “Doesn’t feel like I broke anything this time.”
“That’s progress,” Ian said solemnly, but his eyes twinkled as Patrick laughed.
Cool air-conditioning bathed their faces as they walked inside. Before them was a long, waist-high counter, bare except for a display of brochures at one end, a three-ring binder and a large desktop calendar. The calendar was filled with writing, every date covered, with notes made in the margins, as well. Behind them, against the window, stood two wooden chairs with a low table between them. Supposedly for waiting clients, Patrick could rarely remember anyone actually sitting in the chairs. Most of the people who stepped through the door at A&E Marine were longtime customers who walked behind the counter to grab a cup of coffee from the small break room in back. Or they borrowed some tool. Or they leaned against the counter and talked and talked, sometimes for hours.
Elaine Berzani looked up as they entered the office. She sat at one of two desks behind the counter.
“What have you done this time, Patrick Michael Berzani?” she asked, bustling around the end of the counter and taking his hand. “Ian, go get your brother some ice.”
“Ma,” Ian protested. “Patty’s the one who smacked his truck. Let him get his own ice if he’s going to be so stupid.”
Elaine leveled a glare at her eldest son. Ian sighed and dropped his tool bag with a clank, disappearing into the break room. Coming back, he thrust an ice-filled towel at Patrick.
“Here, stupid.”
“Thanks, ugly.”
Elaine frowned at her sons. “Stop it, both of you. Patrick, sit down and keep that ice on your hand. Ian, your father just called and said Jimmy Johnson is down looking at his boat. He’ll stall him as long as he can, but you’d better get there right away.”
“I told that idiot it wouldn’t be done until next week,” Ian grumbled, picking up the tools again.
“Don’t call your father an idiot.” Patrick grinned at Ian and was rewarded with a rude gesture.
“You should be handling Johnson, not me, bro. You’re the one who should have test-sailed the damn thing by now.”
Elaine rolled her eyes. “Somebody better go. I think the healthiest and sanest one. I’ll tend to the injured and insane.”
“Tell Dad I’m on my way. You want to go get a beer after?” Ian asked Patrick.
“Yeah. I’ll be down on my boat. Tell Jimmy I just got back and I’ll take his boat out tomorrow.”
Ian nodded and left the office. Elaine went back behind the counter and picked up the walkie-talkie. After she had delivered the message to her husband, she turned and sat down. Her gray eyes surveyed him expectantly. She was a pretty woman, small and sprightly. Dressed in jeans and a powder-pink polo shirt, she looked more like Patrick’s older sister than his mother.
Patrick took a chair at the desk that faced hers and propped his feet on the corner. His bruised knuckles felt better—numb from the cold, but better.
“So you punched your poor truck again. What did it do this time?”
“Nothing. I was mad.”
Elaine pursed her lips. “That’s a news flash. About what?”
Patrick shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m over it.”
The look on his mother’s face told him she didn’t believe this fabrication any more than the other lies he had told her. “That’s the third time, isn’t it?” She shuffled a few papers on her desk. “Or is it four?”
Patrick shrugged. “Ian counted three.”
Elaine kept her eyes fastened on him, as if she knew what he was thinking. Patrick said nothing and looked out the window behind her at the docks and the water.
“Well,” she finally said. “You haven’t told me the other two reasons why you hit your truck, so I shouldn’t be surprised that you won’t tell me about the third. I’m only your mother. I just brought you into this world. I don’t suppose I have any more use in your life.”
Patrick grinned. The grin turned into a laugh. “That was good, Ma. Are you giving lessons yet?”
He could see a smile trying to break out on her face, but she wagged a finger at him. “You watch yourself, Patrick Michael.”
“But, Ma.” Patrick’s eyes danced with suppressed laughter. “I’m only saying that a master at their craft owes it to the next generation to pass that skill along.”
Elaine laughed and threw a pencil at him which he caught in his good hand. “Stop it, now.” She sobered. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, you know I’m here to listen. And tell you what you should do. Like a mother is supposed to do.”
“I know that, Ma.”
The phone rang and Elaine lifted the receiver. Patrick ignored her conversation, twirling the pencil between his fingers. How could he tell his mother about Kate? Where would he even begin? From the beginning perhaps; he had been sitting in the coffee shop, when his head was turned by a peal of sharp, ringing laughter. It came from a woman at the counter. Running his gaze over her slim, lithe form, he had felt something flicker inside him. Long legs, a sweetly rounded bottom and the taut curve of pert breasts: what wasn’t to like about that? Her hair had seemed alive, too, as some stray draft of air caught the long, golden curls and sent them dancing around her head. When she turned and he caught a glimpse of her face and her chocolate-brown eyes, he knew he had to meet her.
Elaine got up, phone in the crook of shoulder and neck and went to a bank of file cabinets along the back wall. How could he tell his mother about how hot it had been between him and Kate after that first meeting? That was not information to share with a mother. Nor did he want to talk about how suddenly, today, Kate had turned so cold. It cut him to the bone that she could douse the fire so easily, even as she carried his child inside her. The more he thought about it, the more miserable he felt.
Elaine hung up the phone. “All these phone calls! How am I supposed to do any work around here? I never appreciated Tricia until after she’d gone.”
Patrick dragged himself out of his muddled thoughts. “What happened to her?” He used the pencil to gesture to the desk where he lounged. “I thought she would have chased me out of her chair by now.”
“She moved to Boston two weeks ago.”
“Boston?” Patrick gave a shiver. “What would she want to do that for?”
“Love.” Elaine smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Isn’t that what makes us do all the stupid things we do in life?” She cocked her head to one side, once more looking at her son expectantly.
“I wouldn’t know.” The words were a mutter as he avoided her eyes. He dropped his feet to the floor, rose, and tossed the pencil back to her desk. “I’m going down to the boat.”
“How’s your hand?”
Patrick lifted the towel and looked at his knuckles. The skin was blue-white and didn’t hurt, but he could see some swelling. “It’ll be all right.”
“Keep the ice on it.” The command was all mother.
He nodded, picked up his bag and swung the door open. “See you later.”
“Oh! Before I forget, Jeannie wants you to call her about the picnic on Saturday.”
“What does my darling sister need now?” Patrick asked irritably.
Elaine shook her head at Patrick. “Be nice. She needs you to help her with the coolers and ice.”
“Isn’t that why she has children?”
“It’s a family picnic, Patrick. That means everyone gets to help.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I’ll call her.”
He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Sighing, he took a deep breath. It was like sucking air through a wet rag—a hot, wet rag. It signaled the start of another steamy July in Maryland that would probably last through August. Hoisting his bag on his shoulder, Patrick walked toward the docks that stretched away to the right, past the travel-lift pad.
To his left, three rows of about fifty boats stood on jack stands. Half of those would be gone in a week, to be replaced by others in need of quick repairs or a coat of paint. The other half were serious refits, boats completely stripped of hardware and rigging. Some sported tents of plastic, behind which Patrick could hear the low hiss of an air compressor or the high whine of a gel-coat peeler. The sharp, sweet smell of hot fiberglass mingled with the fecund aroma of the shore. Behind the rows of boats were sheds for the yard’s various repair shops: one each for engines, gel coat, paint, canvas and so on. Ian’s wood shop was among the largest buildings—big enough to fit an entire boat during the winter. Fragrant with raw wood and varnish, the scent there always reminded Patrick of the childhood he had spent on his parents’ old boat.
He went down the ramp connecting the docks to land. The floats bounced slightly with each step and undulated in the wake of passing boats. Like the water they floated on, they rose and fell with the tides of the Chesapeake. Pilings spaced every forty feet or so, driven deep into the mud of Crab Creek, kept the whole maze of docks anchored in place. Patrick passed the small powerboats slipped closest to shore, where the water was shallow. Beyond those were larger, more elaborate yachts, all gleaming fiberglass and bright chrome. Last, in the deepest water, were sailboats.
Patrick turned left onto a narrower dock perpendicular to the main pier. A couple of men, fellow sailors who kept their boats at the marina, greeted him. Otherwise the dock was quiet, as it usually was during the weekdays. It would be busy later; tonight was race night. Patrick flexed his fingers, testing their strength. He winced when two gave him a stab of pain. Maybe he would have to sit this race out.
Ten slips down, Patrick arrived at his boat, Aphrodite, a sleek, white sailboat with green canvas over the boom and mainsail. He slung his bag onto the cabin top, then stepped up and over the lifelines onto the deck. The boat rocked gently as he boarded. Patrick adjusted his rhythm to that of the boat and nimbly hopped into the cockpit. There, he pushed open the companionway hatch and pulled out the drop boards to open the cabin.
He went down the steps inside the boat, and threw his bag on the settee that ran along the right side of the boat. The icy, dripping towel went into the galley sink. Moving forward through the cabin, he opened hatches and ports, letting the late-afternoon breeze wash the heat and musty smell out of the boat.
He pulled open the icebox. It held more beer than it had when he left three months ago. He took out one can and, just as he opened it, heard a knock on the hull.
“Ahoy, there, Aphrodite!”
With a smile, he grabbed another beer. “Evan, come aboard!”
Evan McKenzie climbed over the lifelines and sat on one of the cockpit seats as Patrick tossed him a can. He popped the tab and took a deep swallow. Patrick climbed out into the cockpit to join him.
Tall, blond and lanky, he looked like Patrick’s fair-skinned twin. They had been best friends ever since age twelve when they had tried to beat each other to a pulp over a protest in a sailing dinghy race. After that start, they had gotten into more trouble than seemed possible to their long-suffering parents.
“Welcome back.” Evan’s greeting was followed by a hearty belch.
“Thanks.” Patrick clunked his can against Evan’s in a toast. “Thanks for restocking the icebox.”
Evan grinned. “Only seemed fair, since I drank what you left in there.”
