Water Lessons (7 page)

In his months in New England, he had often neglected to write, and instead spent all of his time exploring a region far different from the one in which he had been reared.

He must write more, he resolved, as he stared at the lone, bold window cleaner.

A firm hand on his shoulder startled him.

"Hiya, bud. How's it goin' this morning?" The old man smiled, his narrowed eyes gleaming down at him, both wolf-like and benevolent. The silver hair, clipped short on the sides and back, was youthfully preened about two inches upward. Jim envisioned some bird of prey, its head feathers jutting upwards from the rain.

"Sluggin' away like always."

"I liked your results, my man! Come with me. I want to chat with you."

Jim rose and followed Walter's brisk optimistic march into the corner office.

"Take a seat, Jimmy boy."

Jim sank into one of the two leather seats facing the large mahogany desk. The old man gently shut the door. Jim's gaze swiveled about the room, taking in the framed black-and-white photos of naval and yachting crews, and then the excellent vista through the windows.

"I tell ya this desk was from an old custom house in Havana? From the days of the Spanish-American War."

"It's a beauty, Walter, definitely."

"I'd like a ship captain's desk, ideally a whaler's, something early nineteenth century. And you keep selling your tail off and I'll getcha something. A fella like you might prefer one of those old tall plantation desks with a copper spittoon, Luzianna boah! I know how you guys are! Now don't try to fool me!" The old man cackled mischievously, pointing at Jim with mock accusation.

"That's not me, sir." Jim shook his head. A frequent thought crossed his mind again: Walter was not very serious for a senior military officer, especially one who retired just shy of attaining an admiralty. But he liked that about the old man. Walter revealed irreverence and jest where Jim imagined many of his former rank—despite their virtues—might harbor stodginess, even moroseness.

The old man's eyes locked onto him, cobalt as the plane-dotted skies and the seas they had gazed upon for decades—seas the old commodore once thought to master, Walter once told him, but soon learned he never fully could. Eyes that had seen, he told Jim and Maureen, men braver and younger and brighter and stronger than he was, blown apart by torpedoes and fifty caliber shells, eyes that had seen both enemy pilots and his own flotilla's sailors alike perish in battle from his very own commands.

Jim realized those eyes across the desk had seen a depth of experience his own would never see, eyes that revealed both triumph and defeat that perhaps he would never know. Those eyes could probably see straight through him.

"Well, I know you heard me go on this morning about you. It appears sales is something at which you are quite adept, son." Walter motioned around the room with his hand. "We both know Kauffman and Dougherty lead in terms of monthly revenue. But they're dinosaurs. They're near-lifers who know thousands of people in the region and they've each accumulated a massive clientele."

Walter leaned forward. "But this is all, and I repeat all, those guys will ever do. Buy and sell money, a lucrative but dull, and possibly meaningless, pursuit. One day they'll leave me and probably get an office and sell as independent brokers."

Leaning slightly backwards at Walter's sudden gruff negativity, Jim said, "Well, they could run Henretty & Henretty here for you."

"Ah, yes," Walter sighed. He stood and spun to face the table behind him. Walter grabbed the decanter of amber liquid, along with two glasses. "Scotch, my boy? Macallan 18?" Walter had already poured himself a single.

"I can't now, Walter," Jim laughed. "I've got to call this client in a bit and—"

"Nonsense, it's the lunch hour. And you're from the town that invented the cocktail, for Pete's sake. Eat after this, then just down a coffee."

Jim took the glass and reclined in his seat.

"So, Jim… I'm saying that those who excel now in this venture here… that is all they will ever do. I'm a Bostonian through and through, so I'll ask you directly: how long do you see yourself in this business, son? Do you see yourself managing this thing? What do you see yourself doing down the line, for the majority of your life? Settling down and writing, perhaps? Becoming the next Updike?" Walter reclined in turn, sipping once from the glass and resting it on a crossed knee.

Jim felt his brow sweating over the directness and seriousness of Walter's inquiries. He could detect a glimmer of humor and affability both in the eyes and mouth. But overall with the stare crowned by raised, slightly beetling salt-and-pepper brows, Jim sensed the old man was quite serious and wanted an answer, and a pithy one at that.

"To be completely honest with you, sir, as you've always been nothing but honest with me, I have skill and a work ethic. And I've had a run of good luck. I hope I don't get myself in trouble now, but…"

The old man's gaze remained fastened onto him, but an eyebrow had playfully arched in what was clearly amused anticipation.

Jim proceeded with caution. "But oftentimes… I don't see myself… as a broker for good. I can do this for a while, maybe running a ship like this, but I want to settle into something with a slower pace. Maybe teaching a bit, travelling, but most definitely I'd return to my writing. That, I believe, is my true purpose."

"From you I'm hearing, '
not a broker for good
' and '
running a ship
' and '
slower pace
' and '
travel
'. And then you mention destiny, by the way, which is quite impressive, I must say, in this day and age. Good to hear that again."

"Thank you, sir."

"Jimmy boy, I believe you have paraphrased the job description for this new opening in another one of my ventures."

Jim's anxiety lifted. His friend was perpetually intriguing.

Walter took a large sip. "
Wicked pissah
! To use the old Bostonian expression. So young Scoresby. Where do I begin?" Walter slapped his hands on the desk. "I've come to trust your word in the last few months, so to put it in a military light," —Walter motioned with an open palm toward him—"or in a Southern manner: you, I believe, are '
a man of honor
.' So I entrust you to tell nobody that I've decided to sell my share of this firm to my brother Dewey. It
must
stay in the Henretty line. My father would've wanted it that way. With this enterprise, sonny, it's hard managing my other pursuits."

Jim remained silent, for fear of interrupting the old man's train of thought. The news was unnerving, but fascinating nonetheless. Jim clung to every word, studying the scrimshaw in the hutch behind Walter. He sipped from the glass, savoring the Scotch.

"What really got those mental gears turning was my little discovery last week of Billy McTierney's embezzlement and theft. He managed my boat brokerage, ran a lot of the errands and deliveries and accounts payable and sales himself."

Jim remembered meeting McTierney at the Cape house. He could sense where the Commodore was going. With anticipation, he kept his mouth shut and his ears open, like one of the old seafarer's lieutenants of decades past.

"He was not just fibbing, son. Flat out doctoring up the books, pocketing several hundred, several thousand in cash here and there, borrowing my boats behind my back. I terminated him last week. Truly a sad case. Given your passion for boats and all, I thought I'd broach the idea, the invitation, that I personally train you to run the business. You do know less than the men in my shop. But I'd put my money on it, son, that I can at least
trust
you. You're a quick learner and I can teach you the rest. I'd give you thirty-five percent commission on all the crafts you sell. I'll even pay you a base, full benefits, to boot. I need someone to start—and very soon."

Jim made a move to speak, but found he couldn't.

"Now, son, you'd make out well here in spring and summer and the first part of fall. And you'd winter boats down in the Carolinas, Georgia, Florida. I'd pay for your 100-ton, then your 500-ton license. As a perk, you could join me on
Avalon
in the Figawi race in May. You know, every Memorial Day weekend from Hyannis to Nantucket. We'd compete with old Teddy Kennedy's schooner,
Mya
. A top-of-the-line sixty-footer. Whaddaya say, son? Drink some more of the Macallan if you can't decide and the immortal fairies will whisper to you their counsel." The old man cackled again.

Jim felt the heat creep up from his neck. The old man really did hold him in such high esteem. Jim knew what he wanted, and there was no need to deliberate.

"I'm in, Walter. This all sounds amazing, a great opportunity."

"You can finish the week here. Dewey will announce you are moving on. You can manage your extant accounts, or Dewey will personally manage them. Either way, you should let your people know their money's in excellent hands."

"Where would I live?"

"You could
conceivably
stay in your apartment and commute to the brokerage in Osterville. But seriously. It's an hour and a half drive. I could buy you immediately out of your lease in the North End. You could move into that condo attached to my warehouse in Osterville. Or I could put you up elsewhere on the Cape. I suggest one of the latter options. I know what you're thinking… about Maureen… but she comes so often to visit, you'd be together all the time. She's the very person that lobbied for you to get the job offer. Regardless, I thought of you before I ever told her about my little idea."

"She knows me! But I'm surprised she'd want me to leave stocks as I've excelled here. And to move away from Boston?"

"She thinks this job would be just your cup o' tea."

Jim wondered if this opportunity was her new surprise.

"Well, my boy, you say you're in. Excellent. You're set to move on this soon?"

"Yes, sir, Walter."

"Great. Now if you'll excuse me, I have business to tend to with my brother. You should break for some lunch, Jim. Be responsible: put a little food in that belly along with all that Macallan. And Jim, consider what you want to do with your open accounts. Dewey can work them. Or we can give the money back, or one of your colleagues can work them. You can mull over the living situation at lunch."

"Yessir, I will! Thank you for the opportunity," Jim said, shaking Walter's hand, noting its steely grip.

The old man guffawed, slapping his young friend's back.

Jim turned toward the door, and before opening it, angled his head toward the window. He narrowed his eyes and smiled with contentment. The Charles idled past with its daysailers and occasional sailboats, their sails puffing in the wind like the breasts of eagles on the verge of taking flight.

Jim hoped he could meet the challenge. It had been years since he had worked on a boat.

CHAPTER TEN

The belfry of Saint Cecilia's rang in noontime a block away as Jim strolled down Boylston toward Whiskey's Smokehouse and Saloon. Inside, he held up his identification to the doorman.

"
Louisiana
? You're a long way from home! There for Katrina?" The brawny man in the muscle shirt squinted down at Jim.

"Unfortunately, yes," Jim said, immediately regretting his glib response.

The roar of the lunchtime crowd was befitting Fenway Park. Music videos played on all screens, and the place was almost as glutted as it would be in five hours with young professionals and students from Boston University and Berklee College. Jim glanced across the room, then meandered through the teeming crowd and took his seat with his three friends.

Most of his closest friends in New England were there except his good friend in New Hampshire: Liam, the actual reason for his move to the region. Jim spotted Bryce Donahue, who hailed from Simsbury, Connecticut. Bryce lived in an apartment a few blocks away on Newbury and Hereford.

"Greetings, Jimmy!" Bryce said. A CPA at Ernst and Young, Bryce often met Jim for lunch at Whiskey's for the famous ten-cent wings, lobster specials, and beer. Bryce shared Jim's near-fanatical love for seafood and they knew all the good spots in town.
 

"Good to see y'all. Glad we could meet up at 'the club'!"

"You've got some important news for us, Jimmy," said his friend Duff, an inside salesman and native Bostonian who lived on Bowdoin Street in Beacon Hill. Duff was blind from birth, yet his wizard-like skill at maneuvering through the meandering streets of Boston without a fall or any impact with man or car ranked second only to his zest for meeting and conversing with young women.

"I've got some news, yes indeedy!" Jim said.

"Well, Mr. Scoresby," his friend Patrick Brauner said. Patrick was in his residency at Harvard Medical School. Maureen seemed to be one of a handful of young females not impressed with him. Maureen was even repulsed, detecting a womanizer.

"Cough it up, man," Patrick said. "Alas, you have decided on moving west and pursuing a career as an '
actor
' of ill repute."

"It's a good thing I didn't invite our friend Father Esteban from Saint Cecilia's across the street." Duff was the only friend who did not care for Patrick.

"Yes, this time the priesthood might actually recruit him," Patrick sneered.

"Alright, man, enough of the suspense!" his friend Case said, beating a drum roll with his hands on the table. Though well liked by the entire group, Case cut a unique figure there at the table. He was longhaired, six-three, gangly and his face was weathered a bit past his years from mountain climbing and hiking out west.

"I've told y'all that I've opened most of my firm's new accounts in the last four months," Jim began.

"You yuppie!" Case said.

"Of course, Case," Bryce nodded over his chicken wings. "And well done, Jim."

"Thanks. Walter Henretty has commended me many times. But he's moving me out of the firm. He's transferring me to a totally unrelated side-venture of his, putting me in charge of the Melville Yacht Brokerage down on the Cape, in Osterville. Selling, buying boats, delivering them up and down the East Coast. Wintering them down south! I'll be making out well in terms of pay and benefits, too."