Her father actually laughed.
****
At sunup Quinta was crouched over the nearly dried mess on the wheelchair ramp, scraping it clean. She washed down the ramp with paint thinner, then went inside and cleaned up and had a quick breakfast of yogurt and toast, glancing outside repeatedly to make certain that the Reebok man didn't toss a lighted match at her work. It was a measure of her paranoia that she considered such an event was actually possible.
Her father was sleeping in. The door to his room remained shut, and she wondered whether it was because he'd had a terrible night's sleep, as she had, or whether he was ashamed to face her after having faltered in his courage the night before. She wanted desperately to comfort him, but of course he would reject any such attempt, just as he always had. Maybe it was time to let one of her sisters know what was going on. Maybe tonight.
Quinta drove to her office, explained to Frank that her father had "had a little turn," and packed up her monitor, keyboard and computer into a cardboard box. When she returned home, her father was up, looking not so much embarrassed as thoughtful. And very tired: the lines around his eyes seemed to have developed into deep grooves, as though he'd passed the night squinting into some void, trying to distinguish between shades of black.
"I took Leggy out myself this morning," he said, scooping into a bowl of bran flakes, "and had a look around. I saw old Mrs. Salantis up the street and asked her if she'd noticed anything last night. She didn't actually see anything—her osteoporosis is much worse, did you know that? Which is why I haven't seen her in months; I'll have to drop by—but she did hear a car that was parked in front of her house bump hard into the car behind it, then tear off squealing. 'Like a bank robber,' she said. So now we know it isn't kids."
"If that's who she heard, Dad. It could have been a drunk."
He shook his head. "Too early for a drunk. She said it happened about nine-thirty." Everyone who lived in the downtown harborfront knew that the true drunk didn't crawl back to his car until after the bars closed .
"Too bad you didn't see the car. Or better yet, see him," Quinta said wistfully. "You have such great recall of faces; you'd be able to pick him out of any lineup."
"I suppose I could," Neil agreed. He downed the last of his prune juice. "Sooner or later I'll have my chance."
It was no longer a question between them of if, but of when. When they caught the evildoer, when they had him arrested, when they prosecuted him. They were partners now, each pledged to contribute his or her particular skills to a common end. They seemed more comfortable with one another; there was less game-playing, less second-guessing. Like soldiers in combat, they were learning to trust one another.
****
A week later the Pegasus was being wheeled out of an old wooden shed in the shipyard that Quinta's step-grandfather had briefly managed half a century earlier, its latest round of modifications complete. The boat would be sailed for a week, then hauled again and broken down for the trip to Australia aboard a freighter. A bright blue plastic skirt was taped around her waterline, hiding the top-secret keel from spies and well-wishers alike. Like a skittish thoroughbred on her way to the gate, the Pegasus edged ever closer to the water. The white winged horse that was painted on each side of her dark-blue hull did exactly what it was supposed to do: convinced the onlookers that the Pegasus could fly.
Convinced Quinta, anyway. She was there, covering the event for Cup Quotes, and she was properly dazzled. All 12-meter yachts looked fast, but this one seemed to have an aura. Or maybe, she admitted as she positioned her camera, Alan Seton is the one with the damn aura.
She lifted her camera to frame the obligatory shot for her paper and was surprised to notice, in the view-finder, one of the three young protesters who had come to the Cup Quotes office the previous week. The girl looked like anything but a troublemaker: she was polo-shirted and pretty, with brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses that gave her a scholarly, almost timid look. Obviously she had had no problem slipping past the guard. On her arm hung a canvas carrier. She was walking along in the same direction that the boat was being moved
Pardon me," Quinta said to her. "It's ... Kirsten, isn't it?"
The girl turned around quickly, reddening to the collar of her shirt, and said, "Oh! I know you. You're from the Cup newsletter."
"Right. We met when you came to tell Frank about the escalation in your protest. I wanted to ask you then: have you had any luck talking with someone in the syndicate?"
"Be serious. They keep referring us to Mavis Moran, and she keeps telling us to mind our own business."
"Will your people take to your inflatables again, once the Pegasus is back in the water?"
"Yes, and we'll have better video than we've managed to come up with so far. We finally have someone behind a camera who knows what he's doing. It'll be very dramatic."
Quinta let out a sigh of professional envy. "That doesn't help those of us in the print media very much."
The girl was becoming increasingly fidgety as the lift carrying the Pegasus rolled to a stop in its tracks above the water. "No, I suppose not. Look—if you want a picture, keep your camera on me."
Kirsten edged away from Quinta, who tracked the protester in her view-finder as she ambled nonchalantly up to the sleek 12-meter yacht, flipped reached into her carrier, and brought out a ripe red tomato the size of a cantaloupe.
"Uh-oh," whispered Quinta to herself, but she began shooting as the protester hauled her arm back and let fly the tomato, which landed with a splat in the middle of the white-winged horse. Kirsten reached into her basket and came out with another one. Splat. It was no big thing, a ritual desecration, but the sense of shock among the crew and syndicate members was palpable. Kirsten never got off a third missile; two crew members pounced on her and held her while a security guard came scurrying. Quinta kept shooting, then slipped her camera discreetly into her bag and left the yard. Not front-page news, but not a routine launching, either.
It was eerie. For the past week she'd been expecting malice and finding none. And then, out of the blue on a lovely day—bang. You just had to know where to look.
Chapter 12
Candlelight became Mavis Kendall, and the single taper that flickered on her table in the Commodore's Room at the Black Pearl was no exception. It lit up the rich red shades of her hair and made her skin glow; it praised the perfection of the lines of her face. It danced over the satin subtleties of her pale green dress and skipped in tiny fireballs along the gold band she wore around her neck. It suggested a vulnerability that did not exist, a softness she preferred not to possess.
Candlelight made Mavis Moran's life just a little bit easier; in candlelight she didn't have to make the effort to act seductive.
By the time poor Fred Garrett polished off the last of his escargots, he was under her spell. Something about the dazzling green eyes that lowered their gaze from his gaping stare; something about the woman's low and easy laugh and the way she touched his hand across the table to emphasize a point—it was all too much for him. He had no idea where her attractiveness ended and where the attractiveness of the idea she was proposing to him began. All he knew was that he was well on his way to signing on with the Pegasus syndicate as a major corporate sponsor, to the tune of a quarter million dollars. For starters.
Alan Seton had sat across from Mavis Moran by candlelight before. He was by no means inured to the magic, but at least he was aware of the danger. Not that he felt sorry for Fred Garrett. The man owned a fair piece of Napa Valley and his wine coolers had taken the country by storm. But Fred had an image problem: his coolers were big with the plastic-cup crowd, and he was lusting for the Waterford-crystal set. So he'd decided to put a new name on the same grape and was shopping around for a marketing ploy.
'"The President will be there, and a Saudi prince, you say? And British royalty? Well, well. That's just the ambience I'm looking for. An international event to see and be seen at." Fred's Chill-Wills voice boomed in
discreetly across the Commodore's Room, forcing Mavis to suppress a wince.
"Without question you will have cachet to spare in your advertising campaign," agreed Mavis quietly. "The crème de la crème of society will descend on both Perth and Freemantle tor this event. Imagine a four-color ad featuring the after-deck of an impressive yacht in the harbor, in the foreground of hundreds of other huge yachts or some of the twelves or even the Queen Elizabeth II. And on that after-deck, at an elegant cocktail party, the steward is serving the wine cooler of choice: Nicklebys.
"That's it! That's what I had in mind!" cried Fred, overcome with emotion by the picture Mavis had painted for him. Alan, what do you think?"
"I think Mavis knows what she's talking about. After all, she does own an ad agency," replied Alan genially. It was her favorite tax shelter; she took it more seriously than the others.
"Naturally we'll look forward to having your special clients aboard the syndicate boat to observe the trials—and of course the final races," Mavis added. "They'll have the best seats in town. Depending on how committed you want to become, we can put your clients up in Perth, where the trophy itself is being held, or in Freemantle, where the racing will take place. We will wine them, dine them—the sky really is the limit."
She gave Fred a mesmerizing smile. "But you already know all that, Fred, from having read our presentation portfolio. And meanwhile, I'm keeping you from your grilled lobster. You must be famished; we've had you on the run all day."
"Well, I gotta say, I've never been attacked at sea by an inflatable before," Fred chuckled. "Makes a fella work up an appetite."
The protesters had been out in full force that afternoon, harassing the Pegasus and being harassed in turn by syndicate boats. Push had come to shove, and the protesters' inflatable was bounced nearly out of the water by Pegasus's high-powered chase boat, in which Fred Garrett and his camera happened to be riding. At that point both Mavis and Alan—quite reasonably—wrote off the potential contribution from Nickleby's Wine Coolers. Fortunately, Fred was a Texan before he was a Californian. He'd had a high old time. He wanted in.
"It wouldn't surprise me if those kids were paid by some other syndicate to harass you," he said, flagging down a waiter like a railroad signalman. "Who's to say it ain't a put-up job?"
"We've thought of that," answered Alan, fighting a yawn. The hour was late, and he would have been in bed long ago if it weren't for the fact that his ceremonial presence was required. "The group seems to have rallied around a new leader, the guy who had the video camera—"
"—the son of a bitch who gave me the bird?"
"That's the one. He seems to be upping the ante; he's not above a threat or two. We don't know much about him. One of our crew swears he saw him hanging around the docks in Perth last winter while we were practicing there. Could be he's an overzealous spy, and the protesters make a nice cover."
Mavis had tipped Alan off earlier that Fred Garrett wanted "a good bang for his buck." Well, Fred was getting it.
The wine-cooler king picked up his fork and stabbed his lobster. "They want a fight? Let's give it to 'em."
After that the conversation turned to the fortune Fred could have made if only he'd known to invest in Perth real estate. Alan admitted to socking a little something into the western Australian city, and so did Mavis. But Fred had never even heard of the place until two months ago; now Perth was about to become a household name and he was too late. Dang.
And so it went for the rest of the meal, with Alan smiling numbly at Fred's well-meaning but utterly boring observations of the America's Cup scene. Every once in a while Alan would roll his eyes in despair at Mavis, hoping somehow to be excused from the table so that he could go back to the crew house, lay his head on his pillow, and sleep. He was finding it more and more difficult to spend good energy on public relations. He was going at it too hard; tonight he felt like a pitcher who was losing his fast ball.
He and his crew in Newport would be breaking camp in another week. There was a phenomenal amount of work to do to be tuned up in time for the October trials in Perth. It seemed stupid to be sitting here holding Fred's hand and trying to work out how many syndicate polo shirts half a million dollars in corporate sponsorship funds would entitle him to. There were too many Freds and not enough hours in the day.
Suddenly Fred jumped up and said, "Got to go. I'm expecting a call from California at ten-thirty." Alan shook his hand, resisting the urge to thank him profusely, and then he and Mavis were alone with their Courvoisier.
"You look beat, mister," Mavis said softly. Alan looked more than beat, she thought; he looked haggard.
Alan shrugged. "It's been a long haul."
She swirled her brandy in her snifter, not to release its bouquet but for something to do. "Do you think it's been worth it?
Alan shrugged again. "It's been a long haul."
She gave him a level look. After—how long?—four and a half years, they were still at it, this cat-and-mouse game, with neither one of them willing to reveal himself to the other. After all that time, it still annoyed and hurt her that he would not answer a simple question. She used to blame herself. But lately she'd decided that they were simply too much alike. For a relationship to work, someone has to start trusting first. But she had been taught not to trust men, and he had learned not to trust women. "A waste of time," her grandmother Tess Moran would have said. "Spend your effort on something else. Make money. It brings power."
"Mave? What're you thinking about?"
She shook her head sadly. "Nothing much." To change the subject, she reached over to the slim handbag that lay on the table next to her and took out a news clipping. "Have you seen the latest Cup Quotes?" she asked, knowing perfectly well that he had not. Alan Seton made a point of not reading about himself in the media; he said it destroyed his concentration. "Check out the 'Quintessence' feature. It nearly brought tears to my eyes," she added dryly.
Puzzled, Alan took the clipping from Mavis and held it close to the candlelight. As he read it his face flushed; a muscle in his temple began to work. He cleared his throat. The signs of embarrassment were there, but so were the symptoms of anger. Mavis studied his face carefully, dismayed to find that she had no idea whether he wanted to tear up the article or frame it.
He finished the piece, then handed it back to her with an expression as new as it was indecipherable. "Kids say the darnedest things," he said.
"I liked the part about your beat-up deck shoes somehow being a reflection of your battered psyche. Think she made that up herself?" Mavis asked, determined now to provoke a clear reaction from him.
"I can't believe she remembered what I was wearing," he answered noncommittally.
"She was very discreet, don't you think? There was no way to tell from the article that her father was—well, who he was. She makes it sound as if you two met quite by accident in the hospital. And that business of your having offered to be at her service—quite chivalric of you, Alan. I couldn't tell whether she was admiring your good intentions, or trying to call in a three-year-old promise."
Mavis knew she was turning up her cattiness level, but she couldn't help it. She wanted to know—she really needed to know—what Alan was feeling just then. He was walking a razor's edge emotionally, and she was doing her best to push him off.
He slipped and fell on the side of anger, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "What the hell has all of it got to do with my going after the Cup?" he wondered.
The smile on her face faded as she thought about it. "Actually, Alan—quite a lot."
****
Two days later Quinta heard the clap of the brass lid of the mailbox slot. "Want me to get the mail?" she said to her father.
"No, no. I'll get it," he said quickly. "You can pour the tea." He saved the last few paragraphs he'd been writing and then took off eagerly for the hall.
Like most shut-ins, Neil Powers loved to get mail. It was his way of keeping in touch vicariously with the world he'd rej
ected and that seemed to have no use for him and his wheelchair. He was on an astonishing number of mailing lists, mostly for travel brochures and magazines. Recently he'd been on a come-see-Africa kick, with the emphasis on safaris and river expeditions. It was all done with a rather grand sense of irony, as if he were daring some travel agent to satisfy him.
Do you think they have wheelchair lifts on their Jeeps in Nairobi?" he'd ask dryly. And then he'd file the brochures alphabetically by continent. He had seven boxes one for each continent, and a separate box for the Bahamas.
The Bahama Islands were his continuing obsession. For as long as Quinta could remember, Neil Powers had collected information on them. It was part of his fascination with the wreck of his parents' schooner on a reef there, and Quinta had long ago stopped considering it morbid. She'd learned to think of it more as a hobby. Neil received books or brochures or guides to the Bahamas once every couple of weeks. Today he'd picked up the top envelope and waved it at her and she knew immediately that it was something on the islands, always a special treat.
Her father leafed through the rest of the mail quickly, then yanked a piece out from the bottom and frisbeed it to Quinta over the specially built low kitchen counters. "You're on some junk lists of your own, kiddo," he said. "That's from the Pegasus office. Looks like an invitation."
"No kidding?" She snatched the heavy linen envelope out of the marmaladed toast where it had landed and opened it. Inside was a note on a small white slip of paper torn from an ordinary scratch pad. It read: You seem hard pressed for material about me. Come to the ball. Maybe I can do better.
"For goodness' sake!" she cried. "It's a ticket to the Pegasus send-off ball."
Her father jerked his head up from his Bahamas brochure. "The fund-raiser? I read that those tickets are two hundred and fifty bucks a pop."
By The Sea, Book Four: The Heirs Page 16