Where Dreams Are Born (Angelo's Hearth) (11 page)

A loud splash sounded beside the boat, and he spun about looking for Nutcase. The cat stood with its nose pressed against the safety netting he’d added to the lifelines, staring down into the water off the starboard side. As he leaned over to follow her gaze, a massive wall of black and white whale shot out of the water and crashed down beside him. He shouted in surprise as the orca crashed back into the water less than twenty feet away.

A wave of spray showered onto the boat. Nutcase howled and scrambled below, her coat dripping with seawater.

Russell caught half a dozen photos of the orca before it sounded and disappeared.

Damn!

Angelo was going to be so jealous.

Excellent!

# # #

Russell shook any errant sawdust off the paper towel and wrapped it around his sandwich. He grabbed a beer from the cooler and a box of crackers. He set the meal on the table he’d finished this morning.
He lifted the top once more to admire the chart drawer built right into the tabletop. Room for four around the settee or drop the table down level with the benches and it could sleep two. Especially if they were feeling cuddly.

He pulled out his laptop and set it beside his dinner just as Nutcase crawled out from behind a pile of books. He plugged in a mouse and booted the machine while she ambled over to check out his roast beef sandwich. When he flapped a hand at her, she just moved to the other side of his beer and plopped her butt down on the table. Then she started on the impossible task of bringing order to her fur.

Russell took a bite of the sandwich and shoved a Springsteen CD into the car stereo mounted in its little cubby. He flicked a switch to turn off the speakers in the cockpit so that he didn’t disturb anyone else in the marina.

Once the laptop was up, he licked the mustard from his fingers, and plugged in the chip from his camera. It started transferring the pictures automatically. Almost three hundred. Shit! He hadn’t done this in a while.

While the copy bar chugged along, he started sorting them out. Lighthouses. Boat remodel. Nutcase. Angelo. More Nutcase. Melanie. Flying. Melanie.

That one stopped him. It was
a short of just her face. Her watching him as she lounged in the rooftop hot tub with the steam rising into the chill Valentine’s Night. A vase of a dozen long-stem reds floated nearly rim deep beside her. A glass of wine perched on the edge of the tub behind her. But it was her eyes he couldn’t get away from.

She was right.

There was something he didn’t get.

The computer dinged that it was done. The last was a series of shots he’d taken of Angelo cooking, plating, greeting customers, visiting tables. And close-ups of many of his dishes.

That’s when the idea caught up with him. He did a quick Internet search, there it was. The Bite of Seattle. Twenty-five years old, now one of the major trademark festivals of the city. A Seattle institution. It was perfect.

He popped up
his layout software and began tinkering. The first ad came together so fast it worried him a bit, but the first draft was good. It had sharpness. It had edge. He’d have to run the comps past Angelo, but it was the right answer. Seattle, Tuscany, great food, all in one pitch.
Angelo’s –a bite of Tuscany.

No, not homey enough. Angleo’s remodel had turned the Pike Market address into a cozy Tuscan family room.

When Russell was there the worries of the world feel away. Safe. Comfortable. A lady just beside him. As if sitting with his feet stretched toward—

Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth.

Bloody perfect! Damn he was good.

He e-mailed it off to a print shop to run a full-size for Angelo.

Another bite of his sandwich and he cranked up the Bruce a bit before turning back to sorting the images, an action almost automatic with the years of practice. No more waiting for contact sheets. No darkroom tinkering, though he missed that part. Load ‘em up and crank ‘em out.

Nutcase’s folder grew faster than he expected. The kitten afraid to leave its box that first night. The kitten discovering that there were things worse than crawling into the bilge, like being washed with soap afterward to remove the
muck. Sleeping on the boom was her latest trick. Russell had almost catapulted her overboard when he came about one day. Now he knew to check the boom and Nutcase had learned to dive for the deck when he shouted, “Helms a-lee!”

Nutcase was about halfway through her preening. He reached over and mussed her fur as thoroughly as he could until the cat batted at his hand, rolled over on her back and starting to wrestle.

He recovered his hand with only a few scratches and knocked back the rest of his beer.

He created subfolders for each lighthouse. There. That was the shot he’d print out to give to Angelo’s mom. Lighthouse blurry with the distance off the stern.
Angelo sitting with the tiller in one hand and a stainless steel, travel mug of cocoa in the other. Rain hood blown back off his dark, curly hair, a smile of sheer bliss on his Mediterranean-dark face.

Russell
started marking the best images for printing. He’d ship them to Arnie in New York. No one else could do what she did with digital-to-paper. The woman was a magician.

West Point lighthouse was easy. His favorite shot of the Alki light had a red blemish in one corner. It distracted the eye from the lighthouse and ruined the balance of steadfast lighthouse and transitory, upscale homes clustered about it.

Maybe he should check his camera.

The next image had the same red mark. But it wasn’t in the same spot in the frame. He flipped through half a dozen before he found one where the mark was a different shape.

He zoomed in. The mark wasn’t a blemish, it was a person. They wore a bright red coat, but he didn’t have enough resolution. The blemish might have brown hair, or maybe red, or maybe neither. A head made up of three pixels wasn’t enough information for any detail.

“Well, man or woman, you’re messing up my picture.”

Nutcase stuck her nose around the corner of the screen to peer at it intently. As Russell pulled the mouse to select the more recent Lime Kiln lighthouse photos, she pounced on the mouse’s wire. He almost picked up the camera, but he must have a dozen shots already of her doing just this.

He opened everything in the Lime Kiln folder. Not many shots of the lighthouse, about as many as of the whale. There were far more of the stupid cat.

He reached for his beer, but his hand never made it there.

“Red coat.”

Nutcase ignored him, watching the mouse intently waiting for movement.

Again no close-ups, though better than Alki. Brown
hair, rich russet-brown and long. This was not a guy and a guy wouldn’t wear a calf-length red coat.

The hair.

Long enough to reach well past her shoulders if it weren’t being blown about. He zoomed in, but her face was just a tiny cluster of tan pixels in a sea of russet.

Lime Kiln in March
and Alki lighthouse in February.

He pulled the mouse back from Nutcase’s grasp and pulled up the West Point photos from January.

No red coat. No one at the lighthouse. That would be too much of a coincidence. He pulled up the spoiled images from the trashcan.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The one where he’d misjudged a wave and snapped more of the north shore than he intended. It was the shot where he’d caught part of the wastewater treatment plant.

Huddled among the lee side rocks, a banner of dusky red hair caught in the wind.
She had a tan coat and black pants, but it was definitely the hair. And she was very slender.

Someone had the same calendar he did. H
e double-checked the file dates; the first of every month which proved he wasn’t losing what little remained of his mind.

He pulled Angelo’s calendar off the bulkhead and flipped to April. Slip Point
lay out on the peninsula, and most of the way down the straits of San Juan de Fuca. Treacherous water there, but it would be good practice, especially if he was going to go deep sea by year end.

He buzzed through the calendar and looked at the last lighthouse. He dug around until he found a pen and put a note on December first.

Wow! He was really going to do this. He was going to unplug from society and sail into a dream that his thirteen-year-old brain had painted across a New York City bedroom ceiling. He reached for the beer, but it was empty.

He’d go to each lighthouse first, by then he and the boat would be ready. It was taking longer than he’d expected. No real hurry anyway and he wanted to be around until Angelo was really up and rolling. Then who knew where his next port of call would be.

He checked the December note once more before he closed the calendar.

“Leave.”

# # #

“I’m telling you, Angelo. It sucks out there.”

“What does?”

“This.” Russell turned around this bottle of Birra Morena aiming the label in Angelo’s direction. The beautiful Italian girl on the label was impossibly beautiful. Black hair, blue eyes, perfect skin.

“
Mi’ amico della gioventù.
You are so sad. You know this. That’s my sister.”

“You don’t have a sister.” Russell considered heaving some of the tiramisu at Angelo, but his kitchen staff was mostly done with cleaning up for the night, so he ate it instead.

“You worry too much. She is pretty Italian girl and probably nice girl. Nice like your Melanie and almost as pretty.”

Melanie. Shit! He still couldn’t figure out how he’d screwed that up. He dug at the edge of the label with the rough edge of his thumbnail.

Angelo stopped clowning and pulled up a stool next to his.

“Russell. My friend since youth. What’s up? This is me, Angelo. Every time I mention her since you bring her here two weeks ago, you clam up like an oyster. Come on, buddy. Give.”

“I don’t think she had much fun here.”

“Duh!” Angelo took a sip of Russel’s beer and set it on the stainless steel prep table.

“What do you mean?” Russell grabbed his bottle back and took a deep pull that did nothing to slake his thirst.

“Tell me you didn’t show her the boat?”

Of course he had. Why wouldn’t he? He shrugged and finished the bottle.

“Shit, man! You never been dumb about a girl before. Think man. Think about Melanie.”

Every time he did that he saw her eyes watching him from across the hot tub. Eyes filled not with lust, nor was it playfulness, though that was there.

“That boat is what you want. What do you think she wants?”

He planted the bottle back on the table with a crash and started to get off his stool. Angelo grabbed his arm and jerked him back down to his seat before he could turn away.

He pushed his face so close to his that Russell wanted to pound a fist into it.

“I know what she wants. Even if you’re too damn stupid.”

He let fly and caught Angelo on the point of his jaw. Angelo flew backwards off his stool and crashed against a rack of storage shelves.

Seconds later a dozen hands had grabbed him and shoved him down on the wet, tile floor. He tried to fight back but they had him pinned until all he could do was scream out his frustration.

They let go of him so abruptly that he didn’t move for a moment. He regained his feet to face Angelo who was rubbing his chin. A circle of dishwashers and cooks stood to either side of him. All ready to tackle the bull who’d wandered into their fucking china shop.

“Good thing you’re half drunk or that wussy-ass excuse for a punch might have hurt.”

“Shit!” The heat roared to his face. He hadn’t taken a real stab at Angelo since junior high.

“Great! Just fucking great!” He sat back down on his stool. “Now I’m damn stupid and a jerk.”

Angelo moved forward and clapped him hard on his shoulder. One by one the cooks and dishwashers faded back to their cleanup tasks.

“You are always both of those. In spades.”

“Fuck you.”

“Man, it just makes you sick that I’m smarter than you, and better looking too. We Italians, no one as good as us.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s your chin that’s hurting, not mine.”

Angelo opened a fresh pair of beers and sat back down across from him.

“Okay. I’ll give you that much credit. Now, you gonna shut up and you gonna listen to your best buddy Angelo.”

Russell sipped his beer and nodded. He could still feel the heat on his cheeks. He was a complete and total jerk.

“How do ya feel about Melanie?”

“She’s a lot of fun. We’re good together.”

His friend waited but Russell couldn’t think of what else to say.

Angelo slapped his forehead with his palm.
“Figlio di puttana.”

“Calling me a son of a bitch really isn’t helping my mood. Remember who taught me to cuss in Italian.” He aimed a finger at his friend’s white-smocked chest.