It was wise to be prepared for any eventuality. After the boat drifted off he would drop a stern anchor with very little scope.
The boat wouldn’t go anywhere. He wanted a smoke and a drink, but first he should take care of an emergency escape method. Rummaging around in a locker he found the kid’s raft and pumped it up in the wheelhouse, wondering how long it would take for Anna Wade to stop pouting or whatever she was doing. He lashed the small rubber boat to the lifelines midships where it could easily be cut loose. As he was turning to go back inside he noticed that the rubber boat had lost its turgidity. Leak. Typical with kids’ rafts. Then he remembered the relatives’ kids in the early part of the summer and the barnacles. After dinner he would try to find the little pinhole and fix it. In the meantime, if he and Anna had to leave they would use the dry suit and an air mattress.
When he returned to the cabin, he opened a cupboard and took a look at a bottle of Caymus Cabernet, 1996 vintage. He considered it. He had quit the hard stuff completely, and would have a glass of wine only when he knew he could stop at three. Or even more likely, a German beer with similar limitations. So far he had never been wrong. Taking a careful measure of himself, he closed the cabinet. The arrival of Anna Wade and the near destruction of his sailboat could put a man on the bottle.
He filled his wineglass instead with sparkling water and fed Harry. Judging from the homey little galloping noise, his guest was running water in the sink. It made him smile that in the midst of begging to jump overboard and swim, this woman was still going to be well groomed.
He closed the companionway hatch and turned up the diesel heat. The sound of the sink pump stopped. Like a lot of landlubbers she ran the water whether she needed it or not. He proceeded to clean the galley and main salon of the few items that had fallen from cupboards. Most of his things had stayed put behind heavy-weather barricades.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a blow-dryer. Quickly he started a generator so she wouldn’t drain the batteries through the inverter. At the rate she was going she’d find his mother’s curling iron. Better whip up some vegetables and rush the spaghetti sauce; it seemed she was settling in for the evening. If it was that easy to persuade her, perhaps she wasn’t desperate after all.
He went to the cupboard, and beside the wine was an unopened pack of Marlboro smokes. He studied them.
“Come on, Harry,” he said. After he was up topside, he tapped the carton until a cigarette slid partway out. “I know,” he told the dog. “But I’ve got Miss Manhattan on board. One smoke is understandable.” He lit up and took a drag, inhaling deeply. The wind was still whipping and he could feel the chill even in goose down. Once more he pulled the smoke into his lungs, the ember a tiny glowing furnace.
After the third drag he ground out the smoke with a pinch of two wet fingers. Then he took one more look around with night vision and was reassured by the isolation. Never before had he left his sat phone behind, but it had broken last week and it hadn’t seemed a priority until now. At this moment he would give a lot to call Grogg and get Big Brain started on some probing questions about Anna Wade. He figured he’d better get down to his guest. As his last act topside, he opened a lazzarette and put the butt in a plastic garbage bag.
“Filthy damn habit,” he told Harry, promising himself it would be his last.
It would take two hours to cook the spaghetti if he did it half right, twenty minutes if he sacrificed quality and cheated. She could drink wine while he decided exactly how nosy he was going to be.
He had the pot full of Italian-spiced tofu balls, beer, more Italian spices, tomato paste, and stewed tomatoes.
The curlicue pasta was on and he was marinating the avocado for the salad when she walked out of her stateroom. It was a mere fortuity that he had fresh lettuce. He had bartered it from the captain of a packer boat coming down from Alaska.
“What you been doing up there?”
“After my makeup, shivering under a blanket, looking through your books, and snooping.”
“Least you’re honest.”
Her hair was soft now, her lipstick even, smooth, and warm; the touch of eyeliner and mascara made pools of her eyes. He saw it coming-at any moment the next assault would arrive.
Harry trotted over to her for a second pat.
After fussing over Harry for a moment, she came to Sam and put a hand on his arm. “Can’t you think of some way to get us out of here?” These words and the warm hand were accompanied by her truly charming smile. It would make most men want to please her. It made Sam want a drink with another smoke. This was the old life and it had come roaring back with the adrenaline rush.
He shrugged. “I’m sorry you don’t want to stay for dinner. It’s a good recipe. Ever had beer in the red sauce?”
“Beer?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“Could you use your radio to call someone-a seaplane maybe?”
“We went over this. It’s a line-of-sight VHF radio, we’re in a natural bowl, the shortwave radio is in the shop. I don’t have a sat phone that works. There is no cell signal here.”
“Get me off this boat. Yes or no?” This time she was direct.
“No.”
She looked at him with a level stare and he looked right back.
“Don’t you have a beacon?”
“An emergency locator beacon won’t get anyone here tonight.”
She folded her arms and exhaled as though it were her last breath on this earth. It moved him but not enough to overcome his own determination. He made it a point not to be impressed by celebrities.
“The Mounties could get me off the beach,” she said.
“With some luck we’ll find a way out of here tomorrow. Of course if I knew what was going on, I might try to figure some way off this boat… some way that didn’t entail freezing my ass in the salt water and then facing death from exposure on shore. Maybe.”
He returned to the stove and stirred the spaghetti sauce. Without a word she walked back into the stateroom and closed the door.
So it’s going to be like that, he said to himself. Maybe she really can’t even pretend to be like the rest of us.
Three
Anna Wade had been aboard a few yachts, some lavish, some ordinary. Sam’s seemed compact but cozy and tasteful. In the forward stateroom there was a walk-around queen-size pedestal bed and a small vanity next to a door to the forward head. Additionally there was a desk. The woodwork was lustrous and warm, a little reddish in tone, and looked very custom-similar to handmade furniture that she had specially ordered for her Manhattan apartment. Obviously expensive. The fixtures were also unusual. From what little she had seen of yachts in this size range, they usually had flimsy doors and elf-sized handles that rattled in their holes. Everything on this boat was substantial and solid, nearly as large as the fixtures in an expensive house. Sam cared about his things.
She couldn’t tell if she was making headway with him or not. For a second she had thought he might be about to give in. As a last resort she would try a few minutes of the silent treatment-just sitting with the door closed while he wondered.
The way the boat was stocked-the books, the stuff in the drawers-it was owned, not chartered. There were scented candles, and she couldn’t put that together with the man who had yanked her from the sea. So Sam was a man of some means. Definitely not a reporter, and no garden-variety businessman either. Despite his firm insistence on secrecy, she felt for the moment that he was trustworthy even if stubborn. Something told her he’d had a hand in nabbing Peter Malkey’s thieving accountant. Perhaps he was some sort of high-powered investigator.
The shelves held books about Native American mythology; one compared New Age mysticism with Native
