Baby on Board. Lisa Ruff
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.”
Patrick often thought that his friend looked like a used-car salesman when he smiled like that, sunglasses hiding his green eyes. In fact, he was a car salesman, albeit new ones, and very successful at it. It had something to do with the charm that oozed out of Evan’s pores. He could sell a monster pickup to an eighty-year-old