The Art of My Life (18 page)

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Authors: Ann Lee Miller

Tags: #romance, #art, #sailing, #jail, #marijuana abuse

BOOK: The Art of My Life
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Chapter 15

 

November 24

Sometimes I feel like I’ve
gotten caught in the vortex of life. I’m spinning and spinning out
of control. If I am the artist of my life, I need to regain control
of the palette and brush. Who is in charge when I abdicate? I can’t
let life happen to me. I need to make choices. Good ones. Or I will
only have myself to blame when I get hurt.

Aly at
www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

 

 

Fish forgot Evie was in the car until
she spoke. “You can come over to my boat if you want.”

Fish yawned. “Long day. I’ll catch you
next time.” He pulled into a parking space in front of the
marina.


Fine. Whatever. We’ll see
if there’s a next time.” Evie got out and slammed the
door.

He didn’t have the energy to worry
about whatever set Evie off.

Missy wanted a wedding, now, at
twenty. She was crazy. He didn’t want marriage at
twenty-five.

It pissed him off.

He wasn’t ready to put his heart out
on a plate to get carved up yet.

The picture of her lip-locked to the
pubescent kid with his daddy’s 2011 Audi wagon branded into him. He
could have bloodied the guy’s face in a heartbeat. With
pleasure.

He was the one who should have gotten
up close and personal with Missy today.

One thing was for sure. Missy meant
business. And for a girl that pretty, with her personality and
brains, it would take about five minutes to land a
husband.

There wasn’t a damn thing he could do
about it. Unless he wanted to marry her himself. Which he
didn’t.

But he could stall her.

 

 

Cal peered at Aly in the glow
filtering through the screen from the garage spotlight,
half-listening to her phone conversation. What he really wanted was
to take up where they left off, preferably somewhere other than in
his mother’s kitchen.

She held the phone against her
stomach. “How long would it take us to sail to Grand Bahama and
back?”

Cal did a rough calculation in his
head. “Seventy hours give or take.”

The phone glowed against Aly’s
sweater. She squinted at the cabinet behind Cal as though she’d
forgotten Cal’s thumb was hooked in the waistband of her jeans. She
put the phone to her ear. “That’s only fifty-seven dollars an hour.
I’ve got to pay two sailors, fuel, provisions, wear and tear on the
boat, holiday surcharge, night sailing.”

Cal motioned for Aly to take the
offer. Fifty-seven dollars an hour when they’d be sitting at the
dock otherwise sounded sweet to him.

Aly gave a sharp shake of her head,
dismissing Cal. “I can cover my overhead for sixty-five hundred—up
front.” Her eyes narrowed. The ‘business Aly’ focused on what the
guy at the other end of the conversation said.

She pressed the phone to her
midsection. “Can we leave in an hour, sail all night?”

Cal nodded his head, awed at the deal
Aly negotiated.

She handed him the phone. “He wants to
talk to the captain.”

Cal assured the guy with the raspy
voice he could get him to Old Bahama Bay Marina on Grand Bahama. He
powered off and shifted into panic.


Thank God we topped off
the fuel tank after the farmers’ market. We’d never get anybody to
open a pump for us at ten p.m. on Thanksgiving. We’re going to need
a week’s worth of groceries, just in case, and we don’t have time
to find a grocery store still open in New Smyrna Beach.” He grabbed
a stack of paper bags from beside the refrigerator and handed them
to Aly. “Raid Mom’s pantry. I’ll write her a note, pay her back
when we get home.”

Ten minutes later he hustled Aly out
the door to the Jeep, their arms laden with canned and boxed food.
“I’ll make sure the water tanks are full, check our radio, GPS,
EPIRB that notifies the Coast Guard of our location when it gets
wet, personal flotation devices. I need you to search the Internet
for a chart that covers the west end of Grand Bahama to download.
Pay whatever you have to. The Bahamas are riddled with shallows.
Get me a detailed weather report, including wind
velocity.”

Aly grabbed his arm. “Wait! I don’t
have a passport. Do you?”


Passports are only
required if you travel by air.” By sea, enhanced driver’s licenses
were required, which neither of them had, but he wasn’t mentioning
it now. He also knew he wasn’t allowed to leave the state, much
less the country while on probation, but no one would find out. It
was unlikely they’d even step foot on Grand Bahama.

On the
Escape
, Aly passed Cal
her laptop with the information he needed. “I’ll go grab some
clothes and stop for milk at 7-Eleven. Be back in
twenty.”


Thanks. I should be done
charting our course and compass heading by the time you get back.”
He made a mental note to compensate for the drift of the Gulf
Stream. “With a little luck, we’ll be ready to leave when the guy
arrives.”

Fifty minutes later Vic Franco walked
up the pier. The guy had a good six inches on Cal and as many
years, thick chest and biceps, a calculating look that lingered a
fraction of a second too long on Aly. Franco looked him in the eye,
extended an olive-colored arm and an over-sized hand, toward
him.

Cal grasped it firmer than socially
accepted and shook. Franco needed to know who was in charge.
“Welcome aboard. Shall we get under way? We’re looking at a
thirty-five hour crossing.”


We’ll take payment now,
please,” Aly said.

Franco tossed two oversized duffle
bags into the cabin and pulled his wallet out of the right back
pocket of his jeans. He slipped a check out, handed it to Aly, and
started through the companionway.

Cal didn’t care if Franco’s bags were
full of alligator skins or Sunkist oranges, they needed his
business.

Aly handed Franco back the check.
“This is off Scotiabank of the Bahamas. I can’t take a foreign
check.”

Franco raked his fingers through his
wavy dark hair. “Where am I going to find a bank open in the middle
of the night on a holiday to do a wire transfer?”

Aly lifted one brow. “You can do the
transaction online and route the money to my account.”

Franco climbed two rungs and stepped
into the cockpit. “I tried that last month and had to wait until
the next day when Scotiabank opened for the transfer to fund.” He
sat down and dropped his face into his hands.

Cal shot Aly a look over Franco’s
bowed head.
Take the check.

Franco sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Let me call my brother and have him meet us at Old Bahama Bay
Marina with your full fee in U.S. Dollars.”


Call him,” Cal said. “See
if he can do it.”

Franco punched in a string of numbers,
then held the phone away from his ear.

Angry Spanish buzzed from the
phone.

The voice on the phone paused, and
Franco said, “Whoa, hermano, I wouldn’t have woken you up if it
wasn’t an emergency.” He switched to Spanish. In a couple of
minutes he slid the phone into his pocket and looked at Cal. “He
says he’ll meet us with your payment in U.S. currency.

Cal opened his mouth to answer, but
Aly spoke. “We’ll do it this one time, but in the future, be
prepared to pay in advance by cash or money order.”

Franco nodded his thanks and went
below.

Aly cast off their dock lines and
joined Cal in the cockpit. “That guy creeps me out.”


Then why did you say we’d
do it?”


Because you wanted us
to.” She smiled a little. “And I understood enough of his
Spanish—thanks to growing up in Miami—to know the conversation at
least sounded legit.”

Cal shot her a grin. “I’ve gotten into
enough fights over the years to know I can take him if I have to.”
It was navigating blue water for the first time that scared him
spitless. He motored out of the slip and toward the North
Causeway.

Four hours into the trip, a cold,
brisk wind pushed them along at eight knots. Cal zipped his lined,
waterproof jacket the last two inches and shook his head to wake
up. The adrenaline had long deserted his body, and now he craved
sleep.

Aly lay curled into a sleeping bag
with her cheek warming his thigh like Chase had a few hours ago.
She’d told him to wake her when he got tired, but watching her
sleep was a rare treat. Hope churned in his chest. Someday—three
months from now, six months—maybe he could watch her every
night.

They couldn’t expect more trips to the
Bahamas. Most people traveled from Fort Lauderdale, the closest
international port, or West Palm Beach, the closest U.S. point of
land. But this would give the
Escape
a jump-start into the
black. Maybe Aly would find a way to draw tourists from Daytona
Beach. Maybe the New Smyrna Beach snowbirds who populated the
beachside condos every winter would take up sailing on a regular
basis. Aly would think of something.

At three a.m. his head nodded over the
wheel.

Aly sat up and wiped the sleep from
her eyes. “My turn.” She yawned. “I just had a nightmare about the
Bermuda Triangle.” She shuddered.


We’re skirting the
triangle. Don’t worry about it.” Cal didn’t take much stock in the
myths about the Triangle drawn between Fort Lauderdale, Bermuda,
and San Juan, Puerto Rico. Grand Bahama was actually inside the
triangle, but since they were anchoring on the western tip, it
hardly counted. He briefed Aly and crawled into the sleeping bag,
still warm with Aly’s body heat. He looked around for a pillow, but
Aly hadn’t brought one topside. He laid his head in her lap and
passed out.

He startled awake when she brought the
Escape
about and mumbled “You okay?”


I’m fine. Go back to
sleep.” She combed his hair back into his hood with her fingers. Oh
man. He tried to stay awake to savor the sensation, but his body
refused to cooperate.

He jerked awake, then fell back to
sleep a dozen times until Aly shook him.

Dawn crept through the grit in his
eyes.


Spell me,” Aly said. “I
have to use the bathroom. And I’m three-quarters of the way into a
coma.”

He sat up and scrubbed his hands over
the gristle on his face. “Thanks, Al, I can make it now.” He kissed
her cheek. “Get some rest below.”

Hours later, Franco emerged from below
deck and took a seat on the bow. He stayed rooted to the spot all
day, chain smoking, looking toward Grand Bahama, eating the food
Aly fixed him without complaint.

The second night Cal and Aly took
ninety-minute shifts, exhaustion chasing them. At seven a.m. the
next morning, Cal spotted Grand Bahama through the binoculars. He
wanted to do a touchdown dance. He’d sailed the blue water, got
them here safely. He grabbed Aly’s laptop and studied the shoals
and sandbars.

As he neared land, he dropped sail and
motored past Old Bahama Bay Marina. Fifty boats bobbed along the
piers. Coconut palms swayed over the white clapboard
restaurant-bar. The
Escape
glided through clear glass water
with at least twenty feet visibility toward the microscopic beach
Vic Franco indicated.

Aly perched in the bow of the dinghy,
Franco and his bags in the stern. Cal rowed for the beach and
studied his passenger. Sunglasses hid the guy’s eyes. His full
mouth set with determination that contrasted with the slackness of
his hands resting near each duffle bag. Despite his stillness,
Franco seemed poised to spring ashore. Easy for him to have energy
after sleeping in a bunk for two nights.

A few minutes later Vic Franco stood
on the white sand, his duffles slumped beside him. “Let me toss my
gear into my brother’s truck and get the cash from him. Wait here
for me. I’ll bring it back.”

November sun beat down on them as ten
minutes crawled by. Maybe Vic had to use the john. Maybe some
family emergency had to be discussed. The black ink of realization
shot through him. Maybe Vic ditched them. He took off at a dead run
down the path Vic had used.

Cal halted at the road, panting. A
sole land crab lumbered across the tire tracks in the
dirt.

If he found Franco, he’d throw punches
first, ask all the questions he wanted afterward.

He raced up the road and into the
restaurant, clinging to a thread of hope that he’d find Vic. A
startled waitress and a couple of coffee drinkers looked up. He
flung open the men’s room door, and it smacked against the wall.
Empty. He tore out the back door.

Sun washed the flotilla bobbing in the
marina. A girl sprayed down a speedboat. Empty cars dotted the
parking lot. His eyes darted to the palms and sawgrass surrounding
the marina.

Aly flew around the corner of the
restaurant, her eyes huge question marks.


Gone.”

 

 

Morning sun glinted white light into
Cal’s eyes and he reached for his sunglasses. Self-disgust radiated
from his pores. He should know better than to make any business
decision. If Aly had closed the deal, she’d have insisted on at
least half payment up front and held Franco’s alligator skins
ransom for the other half.

They’d argued about going to the
authorities, and Aly had disappeared below deck. They had no
passports. He couldn’t risk being spotted out of the country. And
that was the least of his worries.

He might as well give up now. There
was no way the business would fly. He’d been fooling himself that
this Bahamas run would have made a difference. In three months, the
Escape
had left her slip three times for money. New Smyrna
wasn’t the place for a charter sailing operation. People interested
in sailing went to Lauderdale, the yachting capitol of the world.
Daytona Beach had its own sailing charters, and New Smyrna Beach
was hardly a tourism Mecca.

He knew he shouldn’t do it, knew he’d
regret it later, but wind whistled through him where hope had been
like air past a freshly drilled tooth. He had to make the pain
stop. He pulled a Ziploc baggie from the compartment under the
ship’s wheel, rolled a joint with Henna’s finest, and lit
it.

Smoke filled his lungs and breathed
anesthesia into the mess of his life.

He stared at the western horizon even
though Palm Beach lay fifty-five nautical miles and ten hours
away.

Cal took a long drag. He wasn’t going
to make something of his life worthy of winning Aly, a doctor’s
daughter with a college degree. His life was a series of
failures—failing at the business and wasting everyone’s money, the
pinnacle.

He held the smoke in his lungs. What
were his options? Enroll in college, go to class, do the work. And
in two or three years he could propose to Aly. Right. Aly would be
married to Fish or someone else and popping out kids.

He coughed the smoke from his lungs
and sucked in fresh air. Eventually he needed to dissolve the
partnership, give Aly the boat, get out of her life. But not
today.

Aly stepped through the companionway
and froze. “You’re smoking weed? How can you endanger us like this?
If you’re stoned out of your head, who is going to navigate us
home? I know how to sail and keep to a compass reading. Period. Are
you so pissed about getting stiffed that you don’t care if we die?
Is that why you routed us straight through the Devil’s Triangle for
the trip home?”

Cal clipped off his words. “I routed
us through West Palm Beach because it’s longer, but safer—only ten
hours between landfall compared to thirty-four.”

She reached for the joint he’d put to
his lips. “I want to live.”

He dodged her touch and flicked the
joint overboard. “Don’t freak. I can get us home.”


How can you even think
about smoking weed when you just spent three months in jail for it?
Are you a pothead? Is that it?”

Cal stared across the ocean, his jaw
clenched.


Where’s the
rest?”

Cal glanced at the column supporting
the wheel—a knee-jerk reaction that gave away his hiding
spot.

Aly tore into the compartment on the
column and flung the whole baggie overboard—his stash, rolling
papers, Bic lighter.


Hey!”


Have you got anymore
aboard?”


Like I’d tell
you.”

Green fire spit from her eyes.
“Cal!”

He’d never seen her this pissed.
“Since when are you the queen of sobriety? We’ve smoked together
plenty of times.”

Aly’s eyes bore into him, her lips
sealed into a white line. “Tell me.”

Cal emptied the air from his lungs.
“There’s no more aboard.” Part of him scratched around for a
come-back and part of him memorized the hazel fury in her eyes so
he could get it on canvas. And part of him numbed as the drug took
effect.

She stepped toward him. “I’ll take the
helm. Go sober up.”

The truth that he’d endangered Aly’s
life and his anger that she threw his weed away clanged in his
head, dissonant cymbals.

His shoulder knocked into hers on his
way past. Was he addicted? He certainly craved the drug
now.

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