Water Lessons (30 page)

Brianna fought it, but her lips gradually formed into a smile. "Okay, Cajun boy, enough of the wisecracks and all the pleasantries. Is it true you're dating Maureen Henretty?" Brianna held her glass to her chest and placed the other hand on her hip.

"I take it you know her?"

"We attended Phillips Andover together. You have your work cut out for you."

Jim blushed. He wondered if the many people who said that ever detected any confirmation in his face.

"She's great," Jim said. "She just comes off the wrong way to some people."

"I don't believe you, Rhett. I think you're taking it day by day."

"Not at all. I'm even moving back to Boston in a few days to be closer."

"That's unfortunate. But at least you'll be near more of the action. Boston's a fun town."

Jim hummed in assent. His hand trembled as he held his beer.

"I was getting my MFA in painting from Amherst but the college pace became a bit too much. I took a year hiatus to clear my head. I'm staying in my parents' property on the Cape, in their mother-in-law cottage. Not in their house, or we'd just fight endlessly."

"I was a broker at Walter Henretty's securities firm in Back Bay. Now I'm in Osterville running his boat business."

"I also heard you're a writer. Fiction?"

"Primarily."

"Interesting." Her sly, leopard-like quality increased as she batted the long lashes of her green eyes.

"Hey, where's the restroom? All this bourbon and beer is gettin' to me."

"Bourbon and beer," Brianna said in her best Southern accent. "Go through that door there. Take a right, then a left. Then you'll see a stairwell. Go up the stairs and the bathroom's right there."

"Be right back."

The crowd still mobbed the television, immersed in a fit of shouting and clapping. Jim followed his recommended route through the downstairs and up the stairwell. After he flushed the toilet and washed out his mouth with a handful of tap water, he realized the bathroom was not meant for guests. A towel lay on the tile floor and a toothbrush rested on the countertop.

He shook his head, chuckled, and opened the door. Jim knocked into something. He took a step back, blinking rapidly.

Brianna placed a finger on his lips. Her mischievous eyes narrowed, her lips parted. She pushed him with both hands into the bathroom and shut the door.

"Brianna, come on now—"

She thrust her face forward, her lips onto his. Grabbing the nape of his neck, she pulled him even closer. Jim yanked his head backward. In his mouth swirled the taste of cherry lip-gloss, wine, and a trace of cigar.
 

"Brianna, back off!" Jim whispered as loudly as he could. "I can't."

"Sure you can," she shot back, half in anger, half in amusement. "She doesn't deserve you and you know it."

Jim untwined her arms and started for the door.

She grabbed his open hand and planted it on her breasts. "You're just letting life pass you by, Jim!" she hissed as he pulled his hand away. "You need to get rid of that bitch Maureen Henretty!"

He jerked her aside, lurched for the knob, and yanked the door open. He stepped sideways through the door, and then turned back. Panting, Brianna's eyes flashed with outrage, as she leaned against the wall in a half-crouch.

Jim walked down the stairwell, through the downstairs and out onto the front patio. He waited for an awkward moment at the crowd's edge. The senator stood in the midst of the crowd, which chattered and laughed away under the porch lights. Jim approached him, said that he was feeling ill, and excused himself from the party.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Jim kicked off the covers. The nightmare's remnants lingered for a few seconds. He turned over on the bed, his eyes wide open.

In his dream, Jim attended a party one spring afternoon in the well-landscaped backyard of a great Uptown New Orleans home. Freddy played trumpet, before a jazz quartet. In the yard, all of Jim's closest friends assembled, from down south and from New England, and a few from his Sewanee days, including Damon. A great table on the lawn featured catered ŽétouffŽée and jambalaya and a well-stocked, fully-manned outside bar. In an instant, the yard started to flood. Moments later, they all fought to reach the surface. Jim did, but Freddy and many of his friends did not…

It is Friday, he thought. We finished the boat with time to spare. The old man will want it tested in the water fairly soon. At least Walter didn't enroll in this year's Figawi. That ought to free him up a bit.

Jim rolled over once more. He recalled phoning Maureen as he drove from Jack's party toward Osterville. To Jim's surprise, she did not turn out too grumpy or snappy. Perhaps she was happy over his upcoming move.

The wine he consumed at his apartment before bed left him with a decent hangover, thankfully not one of the caliber following a long, wild night of partying in Boston. It bore no similarity to those following his old weekend benders, the kind he began to indulge in after his evacuation last September to New Hampshire. And it was not one of the vicious hangovers after his move to the North End last November. Those wild times all ceased when he met Maureen.

His Blackberry rang. Such a harsh sound for so early in the morning. Surely it was Maureen. Jim groaned and snatched the device near his head.

"It's MEEEeee," his mother's voice sang. "How are you, sweetie?"

"Not bad, Mom… morning," Jim said. "'Bout to start work at the shop."

"Oh, I'm so glad you love that new job of yours," she gushed. "I think you will for some time to come. More than the one you had with investments."

Her voice was musical, and too upbeat for his throbbing cranium and his grogginess. "I just got back from Mass. Who do I see out here on the patio but someone you know well. I'm handing off the phone. Love you, Jim."

Before Jim could reply he heard a quite different voice on the line.

"Rise and shine,
shuuuger
," it sang. "
Now you know ah miss mah sonny boy
." Jim knew the voice well, its musical inflection, its soft baritone accented by its first two decades in Georgia, South Carolina, and Mississippi.

"Morning, Dad," Jim said. "How's it goin'?"

"James Ewell Scoresby. Well, I'm sittin' out here enjoying my Fresh Market coffee and it's still nice and cool out and I'm lookin' up through all these magnolias and big oaks out here and I've got my trusted li'l buddy Pooh on the table here beside me. He's guardin' me," referring to his loving companion, his adopted tabby cat.
 

"Been thinkin' here, dreamboatin' a bit before I set in on my logs. I love that old sea captain Walter, I love that you're seein' more of the world but I wantcha to come home. Be with me and take another stab at Paw Paw's house. It's gutted but nothin' more's been done. And grab beer and oysters and crawfish at Morton's with me, and we'll catch all the festivals around."

"Haha, Dad," Jim said. "I love you, too."

"Ah miss ya, boy. Time's runnin' out. Ah, and it's so precious, more than you know. Well, I'll have a few cold ones and some raw ones in your honor in a few hours."

Jim could hear the protests of his mother and his father's infectious laugh. She was perpetually opposed to their affection for raw Gulf bivalves.

"Now someone wants to talk to you, shug. Love you."

"Jimmy, how's it crackin', man?" said his brother's voice, already well caffeinated. As
 
many noted, it sounded eerily like his own. "I'm having Dad's roof replaced by my guys this week. Hey, you're missin' out on lots of good work, not here on the Northshore but over in the city, Uptown. Some good profit. Anyway, when are you coming to visit?"

"I just started that new gig here but I want you to come up soon, now that it's warmer. I've got to run to work now but let's talk tonight, make a plan."

Paul agreed and they said their goodbyes. Jim lay there for a few seconds longer, staring at the ceiling, his spirit aching, remembering his mother and his brother but even more so, his father's voice and words. What was it? What troubled him about them? Regardless, the man could be overbearing to those he loved but he sure was a charmer. And that life-loving, dynamic spirit—it reminded him of another charismatic man he had seen much, as of late…

A cold shower and two large cups of coffee later, Jim descended the stairwell into the shop.

"Don't look so groggy, ya Highness," Bill glanced up and smiled. "The journey's over. The ship's finally come home. Or rather, it's about to set sail. We did it, pal."

"We did indeed," Jim murmured, keeping his eyes half-closed to further illustrate his fatigue. The two men reached out and half slapped, half shook hands.

"Too much enjoyment, my friend?" Bill said.

"Well,
how
does one put it?" Jim rubbed his eyes. "I
have
had more."

"I bet you have!" Bill gave a belly laugh.

The outside door alarm beeped. In stepped Walter, thermos in hand, and clad in his shorts, green polo shirt, and brown boat shoes. "How are ya, men? Tired? Happy? You guys should be proud!"

"Morning, Commodore!" Jim said. "I'm very proud. Of the men."

"I am, too, Jimmy. Look at this beaut! Man alive!" Walter raised a fist aloft as his eyes greedily scoured the boat. "Look at the new paint on that hull! Now only one task remains."

"We gotta see if she floats," Donovan said, striding up to Walter.

"Yes. I must confirm she's seaworthy. That's precisely one reason I stopped by. I wanna flood the graving dock here, put her out in the Sound. Today."

"We could do that," Jim said in a shaky voice. What if the boat took on water in the dock? And if not, he would have to be ready to be out on the water immediately.

"I caused a stir yesterday at Spaulding's when I disclosed that I wasn't racing this year in the Figawi. Very early this morning, I reconsidered. I have one race in these old bones yet!"

Jim hesitated. "My, that's great, Walter." He wondered if the weather conditions would be sound, and if Walter would run into any danger.

"Spaulding is absolutely elated. Last night he gave me the offer. If I race, I can skipper his boat, use his crew. It's a marvelous racing yacht, a fifty-six foot Pearson. He's raced her a few times, just never won. Racing's not his bag. But his crew's pretty practiced, pretty strong."

"Now I can see," Bill said, "why you wanna close the book today on the schooner."

"So let's flood this drydock and lift her off those blocks," the old man said. "We'll see her leak in the dry dock here if she's not ready. Assuming all is well, we get her in the water."

"She ain't gonna leak, no way," Chief said. He and his ever-present sidekick, DaSilva, watched them from the ship's rail above.

"My team has done quite well." The Commodore slapped Bill's shoulder. "More work, and at a faster pace, than I could've asked for."

"On behalf of the men, we thank you," Jim said, his heart warmed yet again by the old warrior. "But the work I did was nothing compared to what you guys did here."

"You can say that again," Donovan cracked. He peered at Jim with mock hostility. "Just joshin' ya, guy!"

"Hey! I just heard Jim say 'you guys'!" DaSilva exclaimed from the rail above. "He's on his way."

"Kid's got a point," the Commodore said. "Jim will be one of us soon enough. Now let's get cranking, lads! Billy, you flood the dock when I give the word. Jim and I will join the others up there in the boat and keep an eye open for leaks. We'll get this baby in the water, assuming we don't meet any surprises."

Walter climbed the stairwell and swung deftly over the rail. Jim followed suit.

"That looked easy, son," Walter whispered, "but it felt worse than you might suspect! Those old captains of yesteryear were just gritty. Or that's why they drank their grog!" Louder, he said, "Now, flood it, Billy!"

A siren rang out. The dry dock, like a square concrete valley, slowly filled with water. Jim's heart thudded faster in his chest as the water reached the blocks and began to rise around them. The old man stood at the rail, his arms proudly on his hips, looking straight down off the boat, as if he aimed to see the keel.

"Be watchful for any leaks, men," Walter shouted.

He ordered Donovan and DaSilva to station themselves below deck at opposite ends of the vessel. "Now Jim," Walter said. "Let's conduct a run-through of the ship. The engine room, the galley, all the cabins, everything."

As Jim turned from the rail to follow the old man toward the hatch, he glimpsed Bill watching him from across the dock. He stood, one hand holding a cigarette to his lips. Bill blew out the smoke, smiling.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“So you guys made it to Hyannisport." Bryce turned toward him, away from the window. They just finished dining at one of the most coveted tables at Sonsie on Newbury Street, while watching the passersby outside the huge patio door, which management had slid open.

"She was more than seaworthy," Jim said. "And she made great time. And passed Coast Guard inspection."

"Obviously," Maureen said. "Or you wouldn't have come to Boston to enjoy your Friday night. And to spend the weekend with me."

Jim put an arm around her shoulder.

"Yeah," Patrick said, "now you can hobnob with all of us city folk. In the hottest lounge in Back Bay. You never know: Tom Brady and Bridget Moynahan might enter at any second."

"I'd rather see Teddy Kennedy or Whitey Bulger," Case added. "But if it was Senator Teddy, man, I don't know if we could drag him from the bah."

Patrick blinked slowly and shook his head from side to side.

"Bryce," Jim said, "you once told me Brady lives a block away and used to pop in here all the time. But I think he moved to New York, to be with his girl."

"His stay here was kinda short-lived," Bryce said. "He and a lot of the other Pats, and a lot of the Sox, they love 'Daisy Buchanan's' pub down this street. I've seen them there."

"I like that place," Jim said. "You and I've gone there, remember?"

"So, Jim," said Bryce's girlfriend Cara, "will you miss the Cape? And your boat job?"