by Nell Stark
Corrie shifted so that she could look directly into Quinn’s eyes. They swirled from blue to gray and back again. Like the ocean on a partly cloudy day. “You know...you know it’s okay if we don’t, right?” she asked, frowning. “If we don’t beat them, I mean.”
Quinn gazed back at her steadily. “I understand why you need to say that to me right now, but I also know that it’s not exactly true.” She gently stroked the back of Corrie’s head. “I want to help you win, because it’s important to you. And I care about what’s important to you, because I care about you. Okay?”
Corrie nodded, not daring to trust her voice. I really, really don’t deserve you, she thought as she stared out the window toward the waiting ocean. Her gut twisted painfully. Don’t think about it. Not now. Later. After. “I guess we should get down to the boat,” she said, finally.
“Yes. The boat.” Quinn leaned in for a kiss. “Unofficially, though,” she murmured against Corrie’s lips, “I’d rather stay right here.”
Corrie laughed as they both rose to their feet. “You’re good for my ego, you know that?”
Quinn shook her head, reached for Corrie’s hand, and pulled her toward the door. “And you’re good for mine.”
She led Corrie out into the brilliant sunlight, blinking as her eyes adjusted. A dozen questions still pounded against the walls of her brain like the surf against a cliff—big questions, frightening questions, questions about the future, about relationships, about love. Hopeful questions. But for now, the wind and water beckoned.
*
Jen and Drew were helping to orchestrate the distribution of sailing equipment from the shed as Corrie and Quinn approached. “I was beginning to wonder about you two!” Drew called, tilting his head toward their boat on its cart. “Everything’s in there—sails, rudder and tiller, vests. Some spare line as well.”
“Thanks,” Corrie said. She squeezed his shoulder, just before Quinn stepped up to give him a quick hug.
“Good luck, Q,” said Drew. “Kick some ass for me.”
“You betcha.” Quinn tried to look brave.
“What am I?” asked Jen, arms folded imposingly beneath her breasts. “Chopped liver?”
“Yep,” said Drew, grinning from ear to ear.
“Not at all,” Quinn answered graciously. “Thanks for the extra-crispy sail.” She indicated the brand new tube of material in the bottom of their boat, and gave Jen the thumbs-up as she unfurled its foot along the boom.
“Don’t forget to tell the staff to fire up the grills at five o’clock,” Corrie said, fitting the tiller and rudder together. “If we don’t have food for the masses when the races are over, we’ll be hoisted on our own petards.”
“How àpropos,” Jen scoffed.
“Yes’m,” said Drew, snapping a smart salute.
At that instant, Will walked by, hand-in-hand with Denise. She balanced a sail on her right shoulder while he hefted the tiller in his free hand. The pair was clearly headed for the piers and their waiting boat. “Hey Cor,” he said jovially. “Hi, Quinn. See you out there.” Denise nodded at them.
Corrie nodded back frostily and began running the tapes of the spinnaker with far more vigorous movements than were strictly necessary. “Sure, see you.” Her head turned to follow them and she muttered a string of obscenities under her breath.
I guess Corrie’s fighting spirit is back in full force, Quinn thought. She was more than a little relieved. Now was not the time for Corrie to feel vulnerable.
“Who’s the girl?” Jen asked, once they were out of earshot.
Corrie ground her teeth. Quinn winced at the sound. “His fiancée.”
Drew frowned. “What’s her deal? Why are you making that awful noise?”
“I’m ready for the chute,” Quinn said matter-of-factly, holding out her hand. As the sail was handed over, Quinn made sure to brush Corrie’s knuckles with her fingertips in an effort to soothe her. Don’t think about them. Think about me. Think about how you kissed me, and how I felt inside you. Forget she ever touched you. “Pay attention while I rig this now,” she said. “I don’t want to do it wrong. Not today.”
With an effort, Corrie turned away from the retreating forms of Will and Denise. “Okay.” She even mustered up a half-grin. “Right. I’m watching.”
“Is she evil?” Drew persisted, still watching Denise.
“How about we make sure the judges’ boat doesn’t leave without us, Harris?” Jen asked sweetly. Quinn shared an appreciative smile with her before turning back to the rigging. Drew was so hopelessly illiterate at subtext.
“But—”
“Come on,” Jen said, grabbing his elbow and shepherding him toward the dock.
For a few minutes afterward, Corrie and Quinn worked together in silence. “I think we’re good to go,” Corrie said finally, surveying the boat one last time. The spinnaker sheet clearly extended around the outside of the forestay, and the pole was tucked securely under one hiking strap. Quinn had tied figure-eight knots in every important piece of line. Both sidestays sported telltales made from unwound cassette tape that would flutter in the wind to help them navigate.
“Shall we?” Corrie asked, taking a deep breath and looking out toward the water. Wind still looks steady. Good.
“You’re the skipper.” Quinn grabbed one side of the cart’s handle and began to maneuver their boat toward the nearest pier.
“Yeah, but you’re calling most of the shots these days,” said Corrie. She slid her right hand over the back of Quinn’s before taking hold of the other side of the handle.
“Careful now,” said Quinn, her voice soft. “You’ll give me ideas.”
Corrie sucked in a quick breath as her body reacted to Quinn’s innuendo by breaking out in goose bumps despite the eighty-five-degree temperature. “Hold that thought,” she said, resolutely willing the sensation into the background. “We have some races to win.”
*
Quinn flinched noticeably as a boat that had been about to broadside them ducked below their stern at the very last minute. “Way too close,” she muttered, keeping one eye on the jib and one eye on the crowd of boats off starboard.
“Don’t worry,” said Corrie, her own gaze intent on the starting line. “We’re doing just—oh!” By now, Quinn knew that an exclamation like that one was a good reason to duck.
“Tacking,” Corrie called belatedly as the boom swung above Quinn’s head. There was no time for the normal sequence of commands during the mêlée just before a race’s start. The precious gaps that suddenly developed between boats would disappear just as quickly if they didn’t act fast.
As the boat returned to a close haul on port tack, Quinn noticed the bright flash of Megan Dougherty’s orange windbreaker off to their left. “Look, Megs and Brad,” she said as they first pulled alongside and then began to pass the familiar pair.
“Howdy, strangers,” Corrie said jovially. Her quick eyes picked up on a developing gap on the other side of Brad’s boat and she raised her voice. “Hole off starboard, Brad, two o’clock!”
“Thanks, Mars,” said Brad as they quickly tacked to take advantage of the room.
Corrie made a minor adjustment to the tiller and returned her focus to the mass of boats between her and the starting line. “Never hurts to lend a helping hand,” she answered Quinn’s curious look. “Besides, we’re gonna whup them anyway. May as well be sportsmanly about it.”
When Quinn laughed, Corrie winked, and at that moment, three short whistle-bursts pierced the hazy air. Thirty seconds.
“There!” Quinn cried suddenly, her left arm snapping out to point as the paths of two boats just in front of them diverged to create an empty space.
Corrie looked along the line of Quinn’s trembling muscles and realized that it was the ideal trajectory. Just inside the port buoy, on an excellent course for the windward mark. They’d be in perfect position. She pushed the tiller hard to starboard, even as Quinn anticipated the movement and hurriedly brought t
he jib across. Their tack was flawless and fast, and within seconds they were darting forward toward the starting line.
Two whistles. Twenty seconds. The mainsail snapped taut as they surged ahead, and Corrie watched in supreme satisfaction as they passed Will and Denise in their twin US Sailing uniforms. She couldn’t help it, she war-whooped. Loudly.
“All we have to do is stay ahead of them!” she shouted. She spared a second to meet Quinn’s gaze. “You did this; your good eyes.”
Quinn hiked out further and smiled. Ahead of them, the last short whistle sounded. Ten seconds. For the first time since they had climbed into their boat an hour earlier, she felt her nervousness abate, to be replaced by a surge of exhilaration. We can do this. And then they were crossing the starting line, passing near the judge’s motorboat, and she could distantly hear Drew and Jen shouting words of encouragement that were almost immediately lost in the wind. Ahead, several boats were struggling to point as high as they could, as they made for the bright orange windward buoy. Behind, the majority of the pack was trying desperately to catch up to the leaders.
Quinn glanced back at Corrie and was immediately reassured by her intense focus on the boats ahead and her steady hand on the tiller. She’s so beautiful like this. Her tan, freckled face, the strong muscles in her arms that leapt into definition as she trimmed the mainsail, the swell of her breasts beneath her tight shirt—she belonged exactly where she was. Really, incredibly beautiful.
The epiphany was as swift as their tack had been—a change of direction, a sudden crossing of the wind. I don’t want this to end. Quinn felt the truth of it in the pit of her belly—in the joy and fear that rippled under her skin like static electricity. The odds were against her, of course. Could she really keep Corrie’s attention? Would she grow too needy and scare her away? A night here and there would never be enough. Not for me.
“Prepare to tack!” Corrie called, reading the wind on the water before it reached their boat.
“Ready,” Quinn replied automatically. Stop thinking. Now was not the time for ogling or introspection. Later. Now was the time to focus. To put to the test every skill she’d learned in the past two months. Resolutely, Quinn crossed the middle of the boat and swung her weight out to port, settling in for the upwind leg.
*
“Quinn,” Corrie said to Quinn’s back, as they made their way from the shoreline toward the boathouse. “Quinn,” she called more loudly, when there was no reply.
Quinn stopped and turned back so quickly that Corrie nearly crashed into her. She pulled up short just in time and stood looking down into profoundly unhappy blue-gray eyes. “I know,” Quinn choked out. “It’s completely my fault, and if I don’t get my act together this afternoon, we’ll have no chance of beating them!”
Corrie reached for her hand, but Quinn pulled away. The agony on her face felt like a sucker punch to Corrie’s gut. Idiot, idiot, idiot, she berated herself. She’s taking this way too hard. What have you done?
“It doesn’t matter,” she said urgently. “I never meant to make you think—”
“We’ve been over this already.” Quinn’s eyes were far too bright. “It does matter. You want to show them that you’re better. That you don’t need either of them. And I want to help you, and then I go falling out of the boat...” She paused, bright eyes flickering across Corrie’s face. “You know I’m right.”
“One bad race is not a big deal. It’s not. I mean it.”
Quinn’s shoulders slumped and she turned away, swiping at her eyes. “Please don’t lie to me,” she said, beginning to trudge toward the boathouse. “That’s not fair.”
Her heartfelt words slammed into Corrie’s gut like an uncontrolled boom. How will I ever come clean? I’ve been lying to you for weeks. But then she realized that Quinn was moving away, and she shoved her guilt to the side. The sand churned wildly beneath her feet as she darted to catch up.
“But I’m not lying.” Not now, anyway.
This time, when Quinn tried to pull away, Corrie would have none of it. She squeezed Quinn’s hand gently. “Remember that we can get rid of one of our times. So let’s just pretend that last race never happened.” She grinned winningly. “Shazam. Poof. Gone. We’re tied with them, one to one.”
For the first time since Quinn had hiked out too far on her trapeze, lost her balance, and swung out to collide with the bow of their boat, she smiled. Sort of. “We did beat them by a good margin in the first race.”
“Yeah!” said Corrie, nodding enthusiastically. “That was an incredible sail.”
“So, we should be okay, as long as we win twice and don’t lose another one badly—right?”
Corrie nodded again, and finally gave in to the urge to move forward and tuck a few stray strands of Quinn’s wavy brown hair back behind her right ear. Quinn leaned into her touch. “It’ll all come down to how the times add up in the end,” she said quietly. Quinn’s face was soft and smooth and she leaned down to press her lips to where her fingers had been. “But that strategy sounds good to me.”
Quinn took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Corrie raised both eyebrows. “You’re still with me, then?”
Cute, thought Quinn. “It looks like I am.” Corrie’s evident relief made her chest hurt, but in a good way. She took another deep breath and looked toward town. “I’m going to take a walk and grab something to eat. I want to get away from this for a while.”
“Sure.” Corrie let go of Quinn’s hand with obvious reluctance. “I understand. See you in an hour.”
Quinn walked briskly toward Main Street, but just before she turned out of Corrie’s line of sight, she looked back. Corrie was watching her. She even gave a little wave. Quinn’s heart flip-flopped again.
This is bad, she thought. Apparently, falling in love was the same as any other kind of falling in its rapid acceleration. Very, very bad. Who knew what would happen after all this excitement was over? She’ll just be left with little, boring me. How will that be enough?
But despite the familiar doubt, she was smiling.
*
Corrie tugged hard on the mainsail and hiked out even further as the boat heeled up in response. Testing her line of approach, she turned the bow just a bit further into the wind, and when the sail did not begin to flap, she crowed in triumph.
“We’re pointing better than they are,” she shouted to Quinn over the sound of the wind. “Just keep her steady and we should catch them at the mark!”
“Okay,” said Quinn. Her body was extended completely over the water, her knees only slightly bent. She rigorously watched for puffs, even as the ocean spray battered her face and soaked her shirt and shorts. The wind had picked up since this morning, which meant that Quinn had literally been trapezing for hours. Her quads were on fire and her biceps ached, but this was the last race.
Just hang on, she told herself. Hang on and don’t mess up. The windward mark drew rapidly closer with every passing second, and she mentally prepared herself for the flurry of activity that would attend their rounding of the buoy. Keeping the boat balanced on the windward leg was a piece of cake compared to raising and flying the spinnaker. And as soon as they rounded the orange sphere now bobbing just fifty feet away from them, she would have to do just that.
The race leaders had already made the turn, but ten feet ahead, Will and Denise were clearly visible against the deep blue backdrop of the late afternoon sky. Quinn caught her breath in excitement as she realized that Corrie was right. They were gaining on the pair. And as long as they could nose their way even with the stern of Will’s boat, Corrie would be able to demand right of way around the buoy.
Quinn held her breath as they edged closer, and closer, and even closer.
“Room!” Corrie bellowed, as soon as the bow overlapped. “Get the fuck out of my way, Will!”
When Quinn saw Corrie let out their sail by several feet of line, she jumped back into the boat, immediately reaching for the spinnaker pole. As quic
kly as she could, she attached the topping lift before hooking one end of the pole to the mast and the other to the edge of the sail. For once, the entire process didn’t take more than ten seconds. “Raise, raise, raise!” she shouted, as soon as all three points of the pole were attached. Corrie pulled hard on the spinnaker halyard, and the blue and white sail began to inflate off port.
As the boat tilted precipitously, Quinn secured the guy, grabbed the sheet, and launched herself backward until only the balls of her feet were in contact with the gunwale. From her precarious position on the trapeze, she continually trimmed the spinnaker, testing the fullness of the sail by alternately tightening and easing the line. As soon as the boat was level in the water, she felt its bow rise up powerfully out of the waves.
“Planing,” she whispered reverently. She risked a quick glance backward to watch the water stream behind them and realized that they had somehow managed to pull ahead of Will and Denise by a little more than a boat length. Five seconds. Jen said we need to beat them by five seconds to come in ahead overall.
“Nice!” said Corrie, grinning broadly at their sudden lead. She tucked her feet under the hiking straps and leaned out slightly to help balance the boat. “Long as we keep the chute full, we’ll hit the jibe mark ahead.”
Quinn nodded, never taking her eyes from the spinnaker. She played it delicately as Corrie worked the tiller and watched for sudden gusts. Keep it full, she told herself, over and over. Just keep it full. The rest of the world receded. There was only wind and water and the impatient tug of the sail, straining hard against her aching palms. Just hang on. Just keep it full.
“Jibe mark in fifty,” Corrie said. “We’re still a boat length and a half ahead.”
Quinn nodded again. Moment of truth. Last chance to make this perfect. Denise and Will were former Olympians, and Corrie had once told Quinn that most Olympians could jibe their spinnaker pole in under five seconds. She took a deep breath and visualized what she was about to do, even as she continued to trim the chute.