by Aidan Thorn
“What kind of wine do you like?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “White.”
I waved at the waiter, a new guy I didn’t recognize. He still made it over quickly enough. That’s what I liked about this place. Great service.
“Sir?”
I ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I’m sure she thought it was something exotic, or mysterious. My guess was that she grew up in a world where Chardonnay was just another word for white wine, and no other varietals existed.
Not that I wouldn’t have preferred a good beer instead. Anything but the Mexican piss water Boyd drank. I mean, I liked Mexican beer, but Dos Equis was never a taste I could acquire. Besides, the girls in places like this one tended to think they were supposed to drink wine if they weren’t having something with an umbrella in it, so I rolled with it.
We talked about her senior year of college that she spent abroad, which further confirmed her age, until the wine came. The waiter and I went through the ritual of the taste and the pour while she looked on. These sorts of social dances were mostly bullshit in terms of substance, but on another level, they mattered a lot, so I mastered all the steps. It wasn’t that hard.
We toasted Florida, vacations, and new friends.
“So are you, like, the captain?” she asked over the rim of her glass.
I shook my head. “My partner and I are co-captains.”
She pursed her lips. “A ship can have two captains at the same time?”
“No.”
“Then…”
“Well, technically, I’m the first mate,” I admitted. “But I’m the majority owner of the boat, and the business.”
She looked perplexed. “Then why aren’t you the captain?”
“It’s not like the military. Captain is a job, not a rank.” I drank some of the wine, letting it roll around in my mouth. True, beer was better, but there was a certain appeal to a good wine. The taste buds really stand up and pay attention. I swallowed, then let some air in to savor the finish.
“So the captain of your ship works for you?”
“It’s a boat,” I corrected gently. “The Harbinger.”
“Ship, boat, tuh-may-toh, toe-maw-toe.”
I smiled easily. Funny how in this world some things are incredibly important to some of us and don’t matter even the tiniest bit to others. Makes you wonder if there’s some objective truth about it out there in the universe or if the whole goddamn thing is just perspective.
“Harbinger,” she repeated. “Did you pick the name?”
“Nope. My dad did, though.”
“What’s it mean?”
So much for college abroad, I thought. “It’s a sign. Or an indication. As in, things to come.”
“Ohhhh,” she said, nodding. “Like a gypsy lady.”
I laughed. “I suppose. I imagine there are a lot more boats out there with ‘gypsy’ in the title, anyway.”
“I still can’t believe you own the boat but you’re not the captain.”
“The captain pilots the boat,” I explained. “He handles navigation, checks weather patterns, currents, all the technical stuff.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It’s important, but yeah, it’s boring as hell.” I widened my smile, giving her my full wattage. I may be Florida born and raised, but one thing I made sure to pick up on the rare visits my dad took me on to Louisiana was a trace of that soft Cajun drawl. “I’d much rather enjoy the company of my guests and put them on the fish so they can go home happy.”
“You send a lot of people home happy, do you?”
“Without fail.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You’d win.”
She finished her wine and I poured us both another glass. A light dance number floated out the windows and I asked her to dance.
“Here?” She glanced around the patio area. No one else was dancing.
“Right here,” I said. “These people won’t mind a bit.”
The idea had a hint of the forbidden to it for her, I knew. I wished the thought of violating minor social conventions still had any sort of thrill for me, but those days were long past.
We stood and found the rhythm of the music, standing close but not linking hands just yet. She avoided my gaze at first, but then seemed self-conscious about the others around us and so she focused her eyes on me. The locked stare grew slowly in intensity, building tension as the song progressed. By the end of the song, I had slid my hand around the small of her back, and our chests brushed lightly together. I soaked in the heat that radiated off her body and the heady scent of her perfume.
When the song ended, we sat down to some scattered clapping. She tried to seem embarrassed, but I could see she was more exhilarated than self-conscious. Most of them were.
The last of the wine gave us both about half a glass. I held the empty bottle above her glass, letting the last few drops dribble out. “Time for another,” I said, my tone somewhere between a statement and a question. I always shot for casual but suggestive with that tone. Safe, but with the promise of a little danger, if you wanted it.
She did. “How far’s the beach from here?” she asked.
“Close,” I said. “Down here, the beach is never far, no matter where you are.”
“I want to walk on the beach. I want to feel the sand under my feet.”
I waved at the waiter and made a check signing gesture. He brought the bill a few moments later and I gave him my credit card.
She sipped the remainder of her wine, making lots of eye contact and smiling. “How do you stand living here? I mean, all this paradise?”
“It’s a rough life,” I joked. “But I manage.”
“I just want to live here forever. It’s so gorgeous.”
“You fit right in.”
“Such a charmer.”
I shrugged. “There’s nothing charming about telling someone the truth, is there?”
She smiled and swallowed the last of her wine.
Moments like this one were nice, and I soaked it in. Some men enjoyed the chase, some the conquest. Not me. I liked these in-between periods, when the fish was on the line but not in the boat. When she was smiling from across the table but not in my bed. That curious mix of the beginnings of success while the risk of failure still loomed. And what mattered next in either of those scenarios was how I played it.
“I just realized something,” she said, her lips curling in amusement.
“What’s that?”
“That old TV show? Gilligan’s Island? He was a first mate, like you.”
“How do you even know that show? It’s ancient.”
“TV Land shows reruns. My college roommates and I used to watch and play drinking games.”
“And how would that work, exactly?”
“You drink when certain things happen. Like, every time the Skipper calls him ‘little buddy’ or if the rich guy says ‘lovey.’ Things like that.”
“And to think I missed out on that, not going to college and all.”
She shrugged. “You own a ship…sorry, a boat.”
I lifted my glass in salute. “You’re learning.”
“I have a good teacher.”
“Now who’s being a charmer?”
“Touché.” She sipped. “Anyway, you have a career. So why go to college?”
I thought about how I spent my college-age years, getting an education from Uncle Sam and Hadji in equal parts. Semper Fi University, you might say. Not a lot of electives, all courses were pass/fail, and graduation was a bitch.
“Sir?”
I turned to the waiter, and instantly recognized the faux contrite look on his face, as well as the contempt barely concealed underneath. Still, I didn’t want to believe it what was coming. “Yeah?”
“Your card, sir. It’s been declined.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw her expression change just a smidge. Or maybe I imagined that part, but th
e energy coming off of her definitely shifted a little. I ignored it, and favored the waiter with an easy smile. “That must be a mistake. It’s an unlimited credit line. Did you run it again?”
“Yes, sir. Three times, sir.”
“Well, thanks for trying that. I’ll have to call them in the morning and give them hell.” I reached out for the card.
He hesitated. “I’m supposed to keep the card, sir.”
I widened my smile. “But you don’t want to. Because you know this is some sort of computer mistake that I’ll clear up as soon as the bank opens in the morning.” I reached into my wallet and dropped enough cash on the table to cover our tab and a generous tip. The gesture tapped me out, but it was the only thing that was going to fix the situation with him, or with her. “Tell Miguel I said thanks for understanding,” I added.
Dropping the manager’s name was the final straw and the waiter relented, giving me back my useless card. Only, it really wasn’t so useless, was it?
We left and strolled down the street toward the beach. She took my arm and tried to play off what happened. I shrugged along, pretending it was nothing. “Computers are supposed to make our lives easier, but they just change what gets complicated, is all,” I offered, as a way to close the line of conversation. “It’ll all work out in the morning.”
Only it wouldn’t. And not my easy confidence or the promise of this woman’s attentions in the soft darkness of the beach was going to change that. Reality was similar to death in that way. You can keep either one at bay for a while, but no matter what, it always comes for you in the end.
Click here to learn more about Harbinger by Frank Zafiro and Jim Wilsky.
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