Bearded Bean, Incorporated owns a total of 10 vessels. Randy and Kathleen still run the company from the comfort of their home, now in Seattle. While I am the owner of record, I don’t have anything to do with Bearded Bean, except to review the annual reports. I didn’t go to St. Paul Island when they retired the original boat. Much to my uncle’s despair. He’s tried for years to get me involved in the company, but truth is, that company took everything away from me, so I couldn’t see giving it the rest of my life.
My mother, who pretty much drank herself to death because she couldn’t handle being a fisherman’s wife, and then my father died doing what he loved as a fisherman.
I couldn’t do the same.
March second of this year marks 20 years since the sinking of Killer Whale and the death of my father and his crew.
This year is special.
I didn’t attend the retirement ceremony. I have no doubt Randy and Kathleen would do anything to have me back in Dutch Harbor for the annual memorial.
But I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it.
Go back there.
Finally face my past.
“Good morning, Ms. McKay,” Dawson, my longtime assistant breaks my reverie as the doors open.
“Morning, Dawson,” I fight to smile at him.
While I love Dawson as a person, I have a hard time being too personal with my staff.
He smiles at me. “Today’s agenda,” he says as he hands me a sheet of paper. “You have some free time from ten until two, and I’ve compiled a list of people that would like to meet with you today.” He hands me another sheet as we walk toward my office. “I have six things that need your signature before noon.” He hands me a stack of file folders, purple ones. Today’s color, apparently.
One perk of the many perks to having Dawson in the office is he’s not one for the hum-drum-drab of standard office décor. It works well for me.
“This,” he hands me a pink folder, “I need a signature on right away. It’s the confirmation for your upcoming trip.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “What trip, Dawson?”
“Um, Alaska?” he hesitates.
“Excuse me?” I try not to snap at him. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
He looks sad for a moment, then he gives me a small smile. “I had to try,” he says sheepishly.
I take the pink folder in my hand and add it to the bottom of the pile. The truth is, I haven’t fully decided one way or another. Dawson smiles because the last six years, I’ve shoved it back in his face.
I remember the first January he worked here when the annual email came in, with a side note from Randy and Kathleen. Dawson, normally good with keeping his nose out of my business, did his best to hide his interest in the email until I finally explained it to him. Ever since then, he’s tried, without success, to get me to go. Although, after that, I gave Randy and Kathleen my personal, private email, Dawson still manages to know. I can only assume they still email my general office email. Which Dawson reads.
“I’ll hang on to it,” I tell him, “for now.”
He smiles again, and we start walking the last 50 feet to my office. “Your first meeting isn’t until eight,” he tells me then hands me a stack of messages. “These are your incoming calls and voicemails.”
“Anything else?” I ask as we reach the threshold of my office.
He smiles, “Coffee?”
I hold up my cup. “I have some, but maybe in an hour.”
“I’ll have it ready.” He smiles, turns on his heels, and heads back to his desk. There are two receptionists out front, but Dawson is mine and mine alone. Hope is a general assistant. She helps some of my right and left hands with things they need, but her primary is Dawson. Basically, she gets all the scutt-work Dawson hates doing, like copying and errands.
I put my purse on my desk, toss the light morning stack in the center of it and pull my phone from my purse, setting it in the charging cradle and flicking my mouse. At the same time, the 50-inch flat screen kicks on with the news on mute.
After an hour or so, I’m left with nothing but the pink envelope on my desk. I’m sitting there staring at it when Dawson comes in with my coffee. He sees me staring at it.
“Wanna talk it out?” he asks.
I give him a sad smile. “If it were that simple, Dawson, I wouldn’t be staring at it like it’s on fire.”
He chuckles a little, “What’s the worst that could happen if you go?”
I look at him blankly.
I don’t know how to respond to that without revealing too much information. I learned early on in my business adventures to keep personal shit private.
I look at Dawson with his olive skin, dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, purple tie, and black slacks. His hair is closely trimmed, and he has gorgeous milk-chocolate colored eyes. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s my assistant, we would have a very easy friendship outside of the office. Though you can’t see them, he’s got several tattoos. I discovered a couple years ago that his belly button is pierced. I found out about that one on accident right after he got it done. He’d caught it on his desk right before coming into my office, the spot of blood on his shirt a dead giveaway. It made my own piercing hurt thinking about catching it, which I do, often.
“People might start to think I care,” I answer him, deadpan.
Dawson sighs, “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
His tone softens me a little bit, and I give him a small smile. “Dawson, are you close with your parents?”
“No way, honey. Those assholes threw me out when they found out I’m gay.”
“Well, now don’t I feel like the bitch,” I chuckle. “Then tell me, what would you do about Alaska?”
He smiles. “Depends on why you’re avoiding it.”
“Fair enough, it’s the 20-year anniversary of my father’s death…”
He scoffs, interrupting me, “And they’re celebrating it?”
I snort, “It’s a little more complicated than that.” I grab a note sheet from my desk and write down the name of the boat and hand it to Dawson.
He looks at it. “Killer Whale?”
“You’re the Google God, go look it up.” I figure this will be easier than trying to explain it. Or maybe I did it out of pure selfishness over not wanting to see the look of sadness and pity in his eyes as I explain my tragic past to him. Dawson nods before he leaves my office.
All of Bearded Bean’s business is handled privately, outside of the office. I never merged that company with Rebel Industries. Though, my company handles Bearded Beans financial investments. They were, for all intents and purposes, my first clients. I couldn’t stomach the idea of having both of those worlds merged into one. I wanted to keep it entirely separate because, again—I’m selfish. I don’t need everyone here knowing my personal business, and Bearded Bean is exactly that—personal.
Randy has done an assiduous job running the company. Because I’m the owner, I simply take a small cut at the end of every season. The money I receive goes into a foundation I created. My first business venture during college. Randy doesn’t agree with the foundation. He doesn’t believe I should be paying for the sins of my father.
I have about an hour before my first meeting. I do the math in my head and realize it’s only four in the morning on the West Coast.
Even earlier in Alaska.
It’s January, which means the boats are out.
I lean forward, pulling up Google on my web browser and type in Killer Whale, just so I can see what Dawson will see. Of course, the obvious appears, then about halfway down the page is the first article about the sinking of the crab boat Killer Whale.
I click the link.
The article’s dated two years ago and covers the accident and the final findings of the investigation. I’ve known all of this—Randy made sure I did. It took reporters over a year to catch on and remember one of Alaska’s tragedies.
It also does exactly wha
t Dawson will need to see. It explains who perished in the accident and goes into detail about the Bearded Bean’s company and where they are today.
“Skylar McKay, eldest daughter of Captain Erron McKay, could not be reached for comment about the upcoming anniversary.”
“You’re shitting me?” Dawson chortles as he comes into my office as I finish reading the final line of the article. “He was your father?”
I nod. “Sperm donor might be a better word for it.”
He snorts and takes a seat across from me. “That bad?”
I shrug, stand, grabbing my pack of smokes from my purse. “Come on,” I tell him. We leave my office toward the stairwell around the corner. I lead him to the roof.
As soon as I step outside, I light up, pulling in a long cleansing drag and exhale slowly before turning toward Dawson. I offer him the pack, and he takes one for himself. He doesn’t smoke, except around me. I take another drag while he lights up. “He was there as much as he could be. In the early years, he worked on a boat—several in fact. Then with age, time, and experience, he started running them. It was hard fucking work and came with an amazing pay out. As a Captain, he made even more money, and he managed to save for years until he purchased his boat. Bearded Bean was christened three weeks before I was born.” I pull another drag from my smoke, and I lean against the ledge looking toward Central Park, my mind three-thousand miles away in Seattle.
It all pours out of me. “I don’t remember much leading up to my mother’s death when I was eight, but I remember he was gone for months at a time. He usually spent his summers at home, with mom and me.” I take another drag and continue, “Then, for about two years, he was gone more and more. I vaguely remember something about putting the boat in the water for the summer, pulling in extra cash and so on.” I take another drag, my mind still on the West Coast. “My mother hated it, hated him, for always being gone, and she drank herself to death.”
“Daammmmn,” Dawson breathes. “What’s Bearded Bean?” he asks.
“My father’s boat.”
“But he died on the Killer Whale?” His brows knit together with confusion.
I pull another drag and let it out slowly. “Erron McKay was good at what he did. That year, the Killer Whale was without a Captain, and Erron had quota to fill.” Dawson cocks his head at me, confused. “It’s the number of pounds the government says you can catch. Each boat is capped to a certain amount. The Bearded Bean had already received its quota when it went in for repairs. So, with that quota, he leveraged a spot on another boat for himself, his best friend, and a few of his crew members.”
I take one final drag before stomping out the half-smoked cigarette. “It was four years after my mother died. The Bearded Bean was dry docked for a major overhaul, but my father, hating to be home, found another boat to run for the crab season.” I look at Dawson. “The Killer Whale.” He nods, the article and my tale filling in the pieces. I sigh, “He never came home, but neither did a lot of other guys. My best friend’s father was one of them. When my father was out, I stayed with his First Mate’s wife and their son. Went to school, lived a relatively normal life, had anything and everything I needed or wanted. When he died, I moved to Portland with my father’s sister and her husband. I’ve never been back to Seattle since.”
“So, Alaska?”
“They want me there for the anniversary.”
“Who wants you there?”
“My aunt and uncle, probably.” I shrug. “Maybe more people. I don’t know.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve never told anyone any of this,” I hiss and narrow my eyes at him.
He puts his arms up in defense. “After six years, I’m pretty sure you know by now that you can trust me.”
I nod. “Bearded Bean remained my father’s vessel. When I turned 18, I inherited it, along with my father’s house in Seattle, and a bank account with millions because of my father’s life insurance and the boat’s income for six years. I promptly sold the house, and then I had a choice. I could sell the boat or keep it up and running.”
“You kept it running, didn’t you?”
I smile at him. “Of course I did. Though, about two years ago, the original Bearded Bean was retired. I own 10 more crab boats just like it.”
“Holy shit.”
I laugh, “Something like that. I have nothing to do with the business besides reviewing the financial reports on a seasonal basis. I continue to receive a cut of the profits, and I’m involved in major business dealings, like ship acquisitions. But I’ve avoided everything to do with Alaska, Seattle, and crabs for the last 20 years.”
“But now?”
I look him straight in the eyes. “Now, it may be time to go home.”
To Ryleigh: Are you in court today?
To Ryleigh: Lunch?
From Ryleigh: We have dinner tomorrow.
To Ryleigh: We can’t do both?
From Ryleigh: LOL – of course, where?
To Ryleigh: Bryant Park?
From Ryleigh: What time?
To Ryleigh: Free til 2.
From Ryleigh: 11:45
To Ryleigh: C U then.
I make the arrangement with Diem to pick me up, and I email Dawson, letting him know I’m busy until two.
About 20 minutes later, Diem notifies me that he’s downstairs.
I stare at the hot pink folder, still on my desk from this morning.
I open it.
It’s an itinerary of a flight from here to Dutch Harbor, arriving the morning of the memorial service and leaving the following morning for New York. Car service information for Diem and hotel reservations are unavailable, but Dawson’s found a house to rent for the night.
I cross out New York and put Seattle for the day, then leaving Seattle the following day for New York. I put a note for a reservation at W Seattle and car service.
I also note that I’ll need both Diem and Scott to accompany me.
I add one final note.
Use my personal account.
Plans subject to change.
I sign the bottom and close the folder with a sigh. I press the intercom. “Dawson,” I say and release the button. There’s no response, I don’t need one. A few seconds later, he’s standing in my doorway. “I’m leaving until two. I’ll be available on my cell,” I tell him as I toss my cell, my smokes, and my wallet back into my purse and grab it off my desk. I grab the pink folder I just closed and walk toward him.
I hand him the folder. He opens it and a huge smile spreads across his face.
“No way,” he squeaks.
“Subject to change,” I warn him.
“Understood!” he exclaims. His voice is low, but excited.
“Not a word,” I remind him.
“Mums the word.” He motions with his fingers like he’s zipping his lips. I roll my eyes.
“I’ll see you when I get back.”
“I’ll have this all arranged by then.”
“You’re very determined today, aren’t you?”
His smile fades a bit. “I think it’s important, you just don’t realize it yet.”
I nod. “What would you do, if it were your parents?”
He shrugs, “I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s something that will ever happen.”
“How long has it been?” I ask, curious.
“Um,”—his eyes point upward as he tries to count—“almost 10 years.”
I nod. “Well, they’re the ones missing out,” I say sweetly and mean it.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
I leave my office and head for my elevator. Yes, I’m a snob enough to call it my own.
When I reach the lobby, I see Diem waiting next to the Audi outside. The lobby is pretty empty, considering it’s about 10:30 and no one takes lunch this early.
Diem opens the door for me. “Coffee then Tiffany’s, I need to pick up something for tonight. I’m meeting Ryleigh at Bryant Park at 11:45.”
He touches his hat and shuts my door behind me be
fore climbing into the driver’s seat.
Twenty-five minutes later, coffee in hand, I’m stepping into Tiffany’s when my phone rings. I don’t bother looking at the caller ID when I click the green button and answer, “McKay.”
“You obviously didn’t look at who was calling,” a male voice says.
“Hello Uncle Randy, out to torture me today, are you?”
He laughs on the other end of the phone. “Not really, I just wanted to make sure you got my email.”
I roll my eyes, despite him not being able to see me, and step back outside the store, back in the pedestrian traffic of Fifth Avenue. It doesn’t matter the time of day or week; these sidewalks are always busy. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good, does this mean you’re coming?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Oh, so you’re actually thinking about it, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes again. “Why? What is so important about this year?”
“We’re sinking the Bearded Bean.”
“What?” I snap, unsure of what he means.
“Relax. The boat’s been decommissioned for more than two years, we’ve removed everything and it is nothing more than wood and metal. Sinking it means it will rest on the bottom of the ocean, eventually, in years to come, it will be teaming with life.”
“Well, shit.”
“Exactly. It’s a great way to recycle the boat. Plus, it’s what he would have done.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
Now I know Randy rolls his eyes. “Because, I didn’t think it would mean as much if I discussed it with you before. Besides, it would have given you an excuse not to come because somewhere in that brain of yours, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”
I shake my head. Randy knows me all too well. “True enough.”
“So, are you coming or not?”
I sigh, “I gave Dawson the plans today.”
“You mean it?” His voice goes up about three octaves.
Always Love Me: A Standalone Second Chance Romance Page 3