Ties (3 page)

“So about Dante...” I trail off, taking note of the way Deo’s jaw goes tight as he peels onto the road.

“If you’re looking for him, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no information.” He grips his hands over the steering wheel and changes lanes with only the barest flick of his turn signal.

“Do you ever see him” I ask, pulling my seat belt tighter across my chest.

“He’s like a swarm of locusts. Or a mostly inactive volcano. He only causes shit in my world once in a while. What made you come out here now?” He looks over at me and makes a left hand turn. We make it safely, but I really wish he’d pay more attention to the road. “By the way, the brake pedal is on my side.”

I try to scowl as I stop pushing my foot through the floorboard, but his goofy happiness is contagious. “Eyes on the road, Andretti,” I suggest, and he looks straight ahead. “I turned twenty-one a few days ago.”

“Nice. Happy birthday. If you’d like to do some belated celebrating, Whit is a master partier. I heard there’s this place she and my sisters-from-other-misters went to that’s supposed to be the inspiration for that stripper movie with all the buff guys--”

“Er, that’s fine,” I interrupt. I try to imagine Ashwin telling his sister to take me out for a male review, and, in that instant, it hits home just how far away I really am. “I got a gift.”

“A luxury item?” Deo drawls, rolling his eyes.

I roll my eyes right back, excited to finally have someone who gets it. “Yes! A car.”

His whistle is long and low. “He’s making way better money than he was even when I was still getting gifts. So, did you put a brick on the gas and let it fly off a cliff?”

I love this. I love that he isn’t even contemplating the idea that I may have wanted the car. “I drove it here to give it back to him. Of course, I couldn’t just return it, because they need authorization from the buyer and all that.”

Deo shakes his head and runs a hand over his sun-lightened hair. “Unbelievable. Even when he’s giving a gift, he’s the most selfish asshole in the world.”

“So, did he just stop gifting things to you at a certain age?” I ask, my voice squeakier than I mean it.

As frustrating as my father’s stupid gifts are, I’m a little freaked out by the idea of one birthday waking up to...nothing. If it’s on my own terms? Fine. But for him to just disappear without my ever having confronted him?

That might just break a piece of me.

“Well, it was my mom who wanted me to invite him when Whit and I got married. So I did. And he could have made it. He could. But there was this guy who’d lost a leg and he was crossing the Alps using this new prosthesis and Dad was the only photographer the guy trusted to make the trek with him so...I can’t be too mad, because it was noble as hell. But, you know, I married the love of my life once. On one day. And he wasn’t there.” Deo doesn’t sound angry. He sounds disappointed. And weary. “We talked, and I just said, ‘Look, no hard feelings, you’re invited in my life if you ever come around, but cut the gifts. I’m a grown man, I have a job, I have a wife. I don’t need charity, and I don’t need ridiculous gifts like that.’ He said okay.”

“He said okay?” I test the words out on my tongue, and they are completely unsatisfying.

Okay.

What if I came all this way, have all this angst bottled up, and all he can say is ‘okay’?

I lean my head back on the headrest. Nothing about coming here has gone how I expected.

Deo is pulling down a long driveway to a small, warm cottage-type house with huge windows all reflecting the deep orange of the setting sun over the water.

A woman with wavy hair hanging down to her waist is running out to meet us, arms open. There are several rounds of hugs and kisses that would make me think these people had been separated for weeks on end if I hadn’t already been on the receiving end of their affection.

“Oh, Deo.” The woman pushes past everyone else and comes to me, putting both her hands on my shoulders. “What a beauty. She looks just like your Grandma Harriet.” She has the warmest, kindest eyes I’ve ever seen, and the laugh lines around her full mouth don’t go away when she stops smiling. “I’m Marigold, Deo’s mother.”

“I’m Hattie Beckett,” I say, wondering if there will be any animosity.

I’m nothing to this woman. She’s not even really my stepmother. She’s just my half-brother’s mom.

I try to imagine how my mother would react if Deo showed up on our doorstep, but I’m drawing a total blank.

I get zero animosity.

I get a long hug, a mug of some kind of fragrant tea, and an old leather photo album dropped into my lap.

3 RYAN

“I don’t think I’m gonna make it.” Simon, the lead salesman at the boat shop where I work, is leaned hard on the counter, his half-closed eyes caked with sleep. He’s in serious need of a shave and some extra mouthwash. Whatever he used this morning is only barely covering the smell of whisky that’s still harsh on his breath.

“Rough night?” I ask, pushing a box of fresh danishes his way just to see him perk up momentarily, then go solid green.

He holds his gut and moans. “You used to keep me outta trouble, man. What happened to the good old days when you’d come out and party, then talk me out of my eighth shot in a row?”

I snort and take a sip of the black coffee, which is the strongest thing I’m drinking on the regular nowadays. “Is that hangover distorting your memory? If I ever stopped you from drinking a shot, it was just so I could do it behind your back while you picked up the tab.”

“Cold, man. So cold.” He takes his Sea Ray cap off and rubs a hand over his face. “So, what are you doing with all your extra time now that you’re reformed? Listening to NPR? Doing the crossword? Maybe some really challenging yoga?”

I smile as he snickers, then burps and groans again.

“You know I’m racing. You can’t compete with the fancy boys and their college training unless you get your ass out there. If I’m gonna be green in the morning, it’ll be because the waves were ripping my ass up.”

“Dedication.” He gets himself a cup of coffee and grimaces at the first bitter sip. “You think you have a shot at winning?”

It kills me to say this. It really does. But I say it anyway.

“No.”

He watches as I flip through work orders for the week, pulling the top priority pages.

“No?” he sputters, smashing the mug down on the counter.

“No. That’s what I said.” I clip the pages to my board, and try hard not to look like the dismal asshole I am over this fact.

“Why are you racing then?” he asks, his mouth kind of hanging open. I resist the really strong urge to slap him under the chin so he closes it. “I think Darryl thinks this is in the bag.”

I grip the clipboard hard enough that it bites into my hands, trying not to think too much about our delusional boss. Especially since he’s the guy who’s bankrolling this entire thing.

“Darryl’s watched one too many of those underdog sports movies,” I gripe, but I drag my voice low. Darryl is a pain in my ass, but he’s my best shot at getting my foot in the door right now. It’ll be a decent start if I can just place high enough to draw attention my way, maybe pick up another sponsor to bolster our account. I don’t have to win. But Darryl refuses to hear that. “I’m not a fucking Mighty Duck.”

“You sure? You kind of remind me of that big goon. The one Emilio Estevez found running the streets, hitting pucks like a monster.” Simon pretends to swing and smash at a puck when the chime sounds at the door and Darryl walks in, a guy with an easy gait and a big smile at his side.

Simon stops pretending to shoot pucks and tries to look like a respectable, non-hungover sales rep. I attempt to escape to the warehouse, where I can immerse myself in pre-inventory counts, but Darryl is focusing in on me, following me into the back faster than I can escape.

“Ryan! Here’s the guy I’ve been looking for. The guy
everybody’s
looking for.” Darryl lays it on too thick as usual, clapping me on the back so hard I almost stumble. He’s smiling so wide, I can almost see his damn wisdom teeth.

Darryl is this weird combination of pathetically desperate and unexpectedly charming. Every time I’m sure he’s about to crucify any social situation, he rises from the ashes and saves the day. But it’s uncomfortable as hell to be around, and I try to avoid sweating it out with him and people he’s trying to impress at all costs.

“Hey, Darryl, I gotta do that count on those Mercruiser engine couplings we just got in. The labels were wrong, and they’re a mess, so--”

“Not so fast, kid.” Darryl’s grip on my arm is surprisingly strong. He makes a weird flourishing hand gesture to the guy standing with him and says in this borderline creepy knights-of-the-round-table voice, “Tis the gallant Sir Ryan, our worthy challenger.”

“Um, what?”

It’s the best response I can come up with as I die of embarrassment on Darryl’s behalf. But the other guy just smiles like Darryl’s not the weirdest monkey in the barrel and sticks his hand out, speaking to me like one normal man speaks to another normal man.

Not like one wannabe-Renaissance faire actor speaks to two guys in a boating goods store.

“Nice to meet you, Ryan. My friends call me Bex. Darryl tells me you’ve got a uniquely intense style, and it’s pulling you out ahead of some pretty big names in the races.”

The guy--Bex--looks like some kind of scruffy hippie, with this salt and pepper curly hair and rangy beard, a loose cotton shirt unbuttoned too far down to be business appropriate, and flip-flops that look like a bulldog used them as a chew toy for a few years.

But he’s also got these eyes, so intense they make me think of a jungle cat’s, and that killer look combined with the way he modulates every word stops me from brushing him off as another one of Darryl’s hare-brained investors.

“It’s not really a style so much as a method.” I glance over at Darryl, trying not be irritated at how he’s talking about my game behind my back.

Who knows if we can trust this guy? But I let that go pretty fast. One, because Darryl already mentioned it, so it’s all water under the bridge now. And, two, I don’t know if we can trust this guy, but I want to be able to.

I want him to join up and ally himself with us. I want him to be impressed with me, and I’ve never wanted that before.

Something tells me Bex is the real deal, and having an actual shot at living my dream sets my blood on fire.

“I love a good method.” Bex gives a slight nod, and I get the sense that he gets it on a sportsman’s level. I wonder what his line of work is.

“You sail?” I ask like I don’t give a shit what the answer is.

He chuckles and drags a hand over his neck. “A little here and there. It’s more functional for me. I do exploration type stuff, deep sea dives and that kind of thing. I’m a little bit of a Renaissance man when it comes to adventure. And I’ve got methods to all that madness.” Those eyes size me up and narrow, like he can taste blood already. “Back to
your
method. How ‘bout you lay it out for me.”

I bristle, because the request is a shade away from asking me to be his dancing monkey, and I don’t dance. Not if there’re bullets flying at my feet--I don’t dance for anyone.

But I rationalize that I may be on the defensive. I may have misread his words. Maybe what he’s saying isn’t so much that he needs me to tell him my secrets. Maybe he wants to see if it’s a bluff on my part.

Which makes sense. Most of the assholes I race think they have their own patented method. For losing maybe. For never improving. For never getting ahead. I watch them all, and I learn from what I see. It’s simple, but it’s also the most complicated thing in the world.

“My method?” I’m half afraid to say it out loud, as if I might break some kind of voodoo spell. But Bex has one eyebrow raised, like he’s daring me to impress him, and it brings out the competitive spirit in me. Fuck this. “My method,” I say, pushing off the shelf I was leaning on and looking down at him, glad for the two inches I’ve got on the guy, “is simple. Simple as it is complicated. It’s just a system of isolating and checking. Then double checking. Then triple checking. I basically have six or seven running inventory lists in my head at all times, I counterbalance them all against each other.”

I sound like I’m bragging. I sound like I’m pulling shit out of my ass. I have no clue how to explain it better to someone who doesn’t do what I do at the level I do it at.

“So you run a tight ship?” Bex asks, and he makes it sound like a joke he’s disappointed to make.

I feel myself losing my edge, but I stay the damn course.

“The guy who taught me?
He
ran a tight ship. He won more races than you could count. And I asked him, after weeks of working together, what made him so different from the other guys trying to win. He said, ‘Nothing. Except if you check that sail three times in a minute, I’ll check it seven. And while I’m checking, I’ll also be paying attention to the waves and making sure I adjust the tiller. I’ll do a million things you think are too petty to bother with, and I’ll keep doing them while I cross the finish line ahead of you.’”

I’ve got sweat slicked down my back and under my arms, and I’m winded. I’m not sure what Bex will say, and I hope I didn’t just spill the most amazing knowledge from the best mentor I could have hoped for so this guy could knock it.

Bex looks at me for a long few seconds, then speaks to Darryl, his eyes still turned my way.

“I’ll do it. Double my initial amount. Ryan needs the best, no cuts, not on a single length of rope or joist or chain below optimum standard. I know you need him here, but we need him on the water more. If you can cut his hours, I’ll supplement his pay to keep him on the boat. We’re not gonna get by with a few hours in the morning and after work. We need commitment to this.”

For the first time in so long, I feel like the twin cinderblocks that had been sitting on my shoulders are finally crumbling to dust. I look to Darryl, but he’s just grinning like a fool, like he always does, and I don’t know for sure if it’s a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’

“What do you say?” I finally ask, not prepared or worried enough to lower my voice and keep calm.

This could finally be it. After so long. I could finally prove myself.

And I can’t afford to let Darryl screw things up with Bex.

“It sounds great to me. I’ll have to pull Simon off the desk to help with inventory. He’s useless when he’s hungover anyway,” Darryl says with an upbeat attitude that shocks me, partially because we always thought he was oblivious to Simon’s shenanigans and partially because I was expecting crap to rain down on my plans like it always does.

“Are you serious?” I double check.

Bex’s smile has me a little nervous. I get the feeling like I may have just signed my soul over to the devil, but I shake that nonsense.

That’s loser thinking, paranoid Irish-legend superstition that comes from growing up in a house where your grandmother kept open scissors hanging over the cradle to protect the babies from the fey. I’ve got to think about this like an athlete, like a winner.

The winner I am and will be if I keep up what I need to do.

“Send him by my place later today,” Bex says to Darryl, like I’ve suddenly disappeared from the room completely.

“Will do,” Darryl answers, but Bex is already walking out the door without so much as a ‘so long’ or ‘fuck you’ to either one of us.

“What the hell was that all about?” I mutter, flipping through my inventory sheets with a distracted edge.

“He’s like that,” Darryl rationalizes. “His focus can be kind of scattered. But he seems to like you, and he’s got the money to back this in a bigger way than we were thinking. This will be good for you, Ryan. Keep the course. You can stop by Bex’s place after we finish these itemizations. I’ll give you the address.”

Darryl walks away, and I swear I hear the eerie echoes of demonic laughter. Something makes me think I may have just signed away more than I bargained for.

***

“Ryan, sit down,” Bex says. He paces behind his massive desk in his huge office, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

He finally settles in the chair and leans back, towards the credenza. It’s covered with pictures of standing next to people I don’t ask about, because--frankly--I don’t care. So far Bex has given me some seriously mixed vibes, but I need to keep in mind that he’s the bucks behind my sailing career, plain and simple.

             
“Yes, sir,” I say.

I start to sit on the arm of the leather wingback chair, but the way Bex works his jaw back and forth while he watches me makes me rethink my seating arrangement. I take a seat across from the guy and wait.

He had the whole laid-back hippie vibe veneer, and now I’m starting to think that was mostly a disguise to throw anyone off his true scent, because the man sitting across from me might be wearing beat up flip-flips, but there’s also this undercurrent flair for the dramatic and a serious sense of power-hunger coming off of him in waves. I have a feeling he gets off on making people squirm, that he likes to have you begging for details.

After a few long seconds of me refusing to squirm or beg, he pastes that smile back on. “You must have questions.” The smile doesn’t last long when I take my time and finally answer,

“No, sir. I work hard, I race my best. The rest? I try not to get caught up in the details. It’s distraction no racer can really afford.”

When we were back at Darryl’s, he was no doubt testing the waters. Now that he decided to take a chance on me, I get the vibe that he wants me to play his games by his rules. I can tell from the way he slits his eyes and drums his fingers, he doesn’t especially dig that I’m sending a clear message that I’m not down for games.

If he wants to talk, I’ll talk anything that has to do with boats and method and racing. But I’ll talk to him on the straight, and I’ll expect it back that way.