“Maybe he’s just being careful.” Chris glanced back at Yves and Meagan.
Ted followed his glance. That son of a bitch had his arm around Meagan’s waist.
“My dad says that people steal each other’s trade secrets all the time.” Chris turned back to Ted.
“I dunno, dude. I’m in the security business. That much security is because he doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s up to.”
****
On Board the Star of the Northwest
“Candace.”
Candace felt a tugging at her arm
“Can I . . . ah . . . talk to you?” Sarah, dressed from head to foot in black, pulled Candace towards the ship’s rail.
She looks like Morticia Adams, Candace thought. “Sure, what’s up?” Candace eyed the younger woman suspiciously.
“I, ah . . . have a problem.” Sarah looked everywhere but at Candace. “I don’t know who to talk to. . .”
In the six months that Candace had dated Harry, neither of his children had shown her anything but hostility. It surprised her when Sarah accepted her offer to be maid of honor, but she hoped she might be winning her over. She waited for Sarah to go on.
Sarah leaned against the rail with her arms folded over her chest. An awkward silence filled the air.
She’s waiting for me to start.
“What is it, Kiddo?” Candace nervously fingered the string of pearls around her neck. “What can I help you with?”
“Maybe we should just forget it.” Sarah turned away. “This wasn’t a good idea. Forget I said anything.”
Candace took Sarah’s arm as she tried to slip past her. “Sarah, please. Go ahead.” Candace held Sarah’s shoulders. Sarah felt so bony and frail. When’s the last time she ate a decent meal? “You can talk to me. I want to help.”
“I . . . I just don’t know.” Sarah wrenched free. “You’re not my mother . . . I don’t have anyone else to talk to.” She sagged back against the rail.
“Go ahead. What is it?” Candace leaned against the rail, next to Sarah.
“I . . . ah . . . it’s school.”
“What about school, sweetie?”
“The U. Dad wants me to go to the U.” Sarah, staring out into the night, spoke in a mechanical monotone. “He’s got everything set up. . . I just . . . can’t stay here. Candace, I have to get out. I can’t live in this town another minute.”
“Why not?” I’m not cut out for this touchy-feelie stuff. I can’t be a mom to this anorexic Goth.
“It’s the way Dad looks at me.” Sarah slowly turned to Candace and finally met her eyes. “Like he’s always angry. He looks at me and sees Mom. He wishes she was here and I was dead.”
Candace drew a deep breath. She pictured Sally as she had seen her in old photographs. She’s right, except for her dark hair, she’s the image of her mother when Harry married her. No wonder she tried to change her appearance so much.
“That’s not true, Sarah.” Candace struggled for an answer. “Your dad loves you. He just can’t think of what to do to make you happy.”
There was a long silence between them. Candace waited for Sarah to say what she wanted. Sarah stared down at her black combat boots.
“You can talk to him. He listens to you. Can you tell him?” Sarah paused. “I’m not going to school. Tell him that I want to move to San Francisco. I can’t live in Seattle, his house another minute. I have to get away. Can you ask him for me?”
Just for an instant a thought flashed through Candace’s mind. If she moves to San Francisco, she won’t be here to mess up my marriage.
“Ask him what?”
“My college money. . .” Sarah shrugged her shoulders. “Since I’m not going to school . . . Can you ask him if I can just take the money with me? . . .”
This is as vulnerable as she’s ever going to get, Candace thought. I have to win her over now.
Candace put her arms around Sarah and pulled her close. For an instant Sarah warmed to the human contact, then went rigid. Sarah pulled violently away.
“It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll figure this out. We girls have got to stick together.”
Oh-oh. I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Here give him these,” tears streamed down Sarah’s cheeks. “I don’t want them.” Sarah pressed a set of keys into Candace’s hand. They went to the red Mustang convertible Harry gave her for graduation. “I’m not like Chris. He can’t buy me.”
“Sarah, your dad’s not like that. He’s not trying to buy your affection. He just wants to see you happy for once.”
“This was a big mistake.” Sarah voice went up two octaves. “Forget I said anything. Don’t bother telling Dad. I’ll handle it.”
“Sarah, I can help. Trust me. Let me help you.” She was talking to the empty deck.
Chapter 50
Port McNeil, Canada
The sky lounge had a more nautical feel than the lower deck. Glossy white walls contrasted with the dark-stained teak woodwork. Brass fixtures gleamed everywhere. The teak and holly deck reminded Ted of the Defiant’s cabin.
Ted took his drink and settled into the large, over-stuffed sofa opposite Yves. VH-1 played on a huge plasma TV on the bulkhead. The soft leather of the sofa felt supple under Ted’s hands. He stared at the plates with nuts, dates, several kinds of olives and crackers that covered the teak coffee table. He looked at Chris, not quite sure what to do next.
Chris reached for an olive.
“Etienne, my chef, says he has quite a treat for you tonight.” Yves waved his hand in the air. “He loves to have, how you say? . . . The chance to show up.”
“I think you mean ‘the chance to show off,’” Meagan corrected.
“Oui, the chance to show off.”
“Is there anything you don’t have on this boat?” Ted nibbled a cracker.
“We manage to be quite comfortable.” Yves, sitting across the coffee table from Ted, stretched his arms along sofa’s back and crossed his legs. “You have been long on the Inside Passage?”
“About a month.” Chris popped the olive in his mouth.
“Where have you been?”
“We came up the Straits of Georgia, went up to Princess Louisa Inlet. All the usual stuff.”
“Oui. It is most beautiful there.” Yves leaned forward in his seat. “You are all very young. How do you come to have such a big boat?”
“It’s my dad’s. He let us take it for the summer as a graduation present.”
A small round man in whites and a tall chef’s hat entered the lounge with a tray.
He’s as wide as he is tall, Ted thought.
“Le moules, monsieur.” The chef presented the tray to Yves. He said something in French, speaking softly so that Ted couldn’t make it out.
As if Teddy understands French anyway.
“Local catch,” Yves translated. “From today.”
The chef seemed quite pleased with himself.
“Mercí, Etienne.” Yves motioned to the others to sample the hors d’oeuvres. “Etienne steams then in a white Burgundy with lots of fresh garlic and shallots.”
“Hey, dude,” Ted looked at the platter filled with black shell fish. “That looks like bait.”
“It’s just mussels, silly.” Meagan put a couple of mussels on her plate. “They’re no different than clams.”
“I dunno. When I was a kid my uncle used to take me fishin’ on the Santa Monica Pier. We’d go down at low tide and scrape these things offa the pilings for bait.”
“They’re fine, Ted.” Chris picked the meat out of a mussel with a tiny oyster fork and dipped it in butter. “These look great.”
Ted reluctantly forked a mussel onto his plate. Next thing you know, they’re gonna be servin’ Teddy snails and goose poop. . .
****
After drinks, Ted and the others followed Yves down the spiral staircase to the dining room.
Yves held Meagan’s chair for her, much to Ted’s chagrin. As she took her seat, a hard-looking man entered the roo
m and whispered in Yves’ ear. Yves nodded.
“This is Jean-Paul, my chief of security,” Yves said as the man left the room.
Ted’s eyes followed the man as he left. I don’t trust him for an instant.
“Why do you need a chief of security?” Chris asked.
“I am in a highly competitive business. Some of my competitors are somewhat, how you say?” There was that sissy-assed hand gesture again. Yves flipped his palm open as he found the right words. “. . . without Ruth?”
“Ruthless?” Meagan touched Yves hand.
“Ouí. Ruthless.” Yves smiled at her. “They would not think twice about sabotaging my equipment so that they could sell theirs. I like to have capable men around me.”
“These guys on your crew look more like commandos than sailors.” Ted said.
“I am very particular in the staff I choose. They all have military backgrounds. Captain Evans, he was a seal in your Navy. Jean-Paul, he was a paratrooper.”
“And Mrs. Trufaunt?” Meagan pulled at her bra strap.
Does she have to be so obvious?
“Oh, Madame Trufaunt.” Yves laughed. “Despite her diminutive size, she is the most dangerous of all, no? In addition to her other talents, she can fly anything with wings.”
Meagan leaned forward and cradled her hand seductively on her chin. With her elbow on the table and a low-cut top, her boobs practically jumped out.
Jesus, Chica, put those babies away.
“Your crew,” she cooed. “The ex-military guys. How many do you have?”
Yves stared momentarily at her chest. “I have eight altogether. Do you need a sweater perhaps? You look a little chilled, no?”
Meagan sat up straight. “No. I’m fine. . .” An embarrassed look spread across her face. “How come you have so many? Does it really take eight guys to run this boat?”
“I have a captain, an engineer and a chef. Of course, you have met Madame Trufaunt. The other four, they are deck hands, but they all have particular skills. Underwater demolition,” Yves paused momentarily and looked at Chris, “communications and such.”
“Demolitions?” Ted butted in. “What do you need a demolitions expert for?”
“Sometimes, my customers need things . . .,” this time he stared into Ted’s eyes, “removed . . . “
****
Madame Trufaunt entered the dining room carrying a tray covered with a silver dome. She removed the dome at the side table and served the diners without a word.
“Ah, l’aperitif.” Yves said.
“Hey, this stuff is great,” Ted said stuffing his mouth.
“Ah, yes. The salmon mousse. It is one of Etienne’s specialties.”
God damn, he has a corny accent. Yves pronounced specialties, “spec-y-al-ah-tees.” He probably thinks it’s sexy.
Meagan took a taste of the mousse. “This is the bomb.”
“You have good taste.” Yves smiled at her. “Madame, the champagne please.” Yves motioned towards the two bottles in ice buckets.
The steward shot him a glare, then popped the cork and poured a few drops into Yves’ flute.
“Excellent.” Yves waved at his guests, indicating that Madame Trufaunt was to pour the champagne.
Ted stared at the label.
“I know,” Yves said. “Dom Perignon is a bit cliché. But 1996 was such a lovely vintage. Notice the nose.” He took a loud sniff from his flute. “You can smell walnuts, chocolate, spices. I think you will find this a worthy wine.”
Chris leaned over and whispered to Ted. “This stuff costs two hundred bucks a bottle.”
Ted reached for another portion of the mousse.
“Hey, amigo,” Chris said. “Take it easy. This meal’s going to last a while. We may have food coming at us for the next two hours. The trick is to eat small portions of each so that you can taste it all.”
Ted stuffed the bite into his mouth. “We’re eatin’ so damn late that I’m starvin’,” he mumbled.
Madame Trufaunt cleared away the dishes. Ted felt like he lost his last friend as she reached for his plate.
The steward replaced the appetizer dishes with elegant china soup bowls and silver spoons. Meagan stared at the bone-colored porcelain tureen with red roses and gold trim that Madame Trufaunt placed in the center of the table.
“Ah, yes, you notice the tureen. It is Louis Quatorze,” Yves smiled.
Madame took up the soup bowls and ladled a rich, brown broth into each.
“Mushroom bisque. I think you will find it interesting.” Yves picked up his soup spoon.
“Ted don’t eat fungus.” Ted eyed the soup suspiciously.
“It is a far cry from your condensed mushroom soup, my friend.”
Ted sipped tentatively at the soup. The flavors danced on his tongue. There was an earthiness, a saltiness, to the broth. The tiny pieces of mushroom had a texture and taste similar to beef, yet wildly different.
****
Ted put down his soup spoon for a moment. Damn, he thought as Madame Trufaunt cleared away the bowls. I wasn’t finished yet.
Madame Trufaunt left the room with the soup tureen. Etienne swept in pushing a little cart draped in a burgundy cloth with a large domed silver platter and chafing dishes on it. Bunches of green and purple grapes entwined with grape vines and leaves around the serving dishes.
I wonder what the little bastard has for us next, Ted thought.
With a flourish, Etienne removed the dome and set it on the sideboard.
“For le plat principal,” Yves smiled, “The main course, Etienne has prepared filet mignon aux oignons et pommes with gratin dauphinois. He finishes the filet in a sauterne sauce.” Yves clapped his hands. “You must appreciate the sheer artistry of Etienne’s work.”
Ted had to admit that display on the cart was beautiful. That serving dish must a cost more than my car.
Etienne sharpened a carving knife, looking directly into Meagan’s eyes, while the blade of the knife slipped up and down the steel.
I’m getting’ a little sick of them looking Meagan that way, Ted thought. She’s not a piece of meat.
“That doesn’t look like any filet mignon I’ve ever seen,” Chris said.
“Ah, this is the filet d’ porc. I think you Americans think only of the filet of beef.”
A light brown sauce smothered the small round piece of meat already covered with onions and apple slices. Enticing aroma filled Ted’s nostrils.
“So, you have been up here a month now.” Yves kept his attention on Etienne as he addressed Chris. “What will you do next?”
“We’re gonna stick around Port McNeil for a while.” Chris responded quickly. “We have some business to take care of.”
“Business?” Yves looked away from the serving cart. “I thought that you were on vacation.”
“Yeah. . . This is boat business.”
He’s no good at lying. The secret is to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“We need to talk to the Coast Guard about something,” Chris finished
“The Coast Guard?” A worried look crossed Yves face. “What business do you have with the Coast Guard?”
“Ah . . . when we ah . . . crossed the border, we lost our safety inspection sticker. We need to get the boat re-inspected.”
Before Yves had a chance to react, Etienne lifted the lids off of the chafing dishes. Ted breathed a sigh of relief when Yves attention diverted to the potatoes au gratin and fresh steamed asparagus, beautifully presented. Then Yves eyes fell on a silver platter.
“Etienne! You have outdone yourself.” Yves clapped his hands again. He and Etienne exchanged a few words in French.
“We are fortunate indeed,” Yves beamed. “Etienne tells me that he has managed to procure some white truffles, fresh from Provence. He presents them in a champagne sauce”
“Truffles, aren’t those the mushrooms that’re found by pigs?” Ted asked.
“Oui, mon ami. The white truffle, it is the most rarest of
all. Calling them mushrooms is like calling the Hope Diamond a rock.”
Etienne’s fingers flew. He deftly arranged the potatoes and topped them with slices of the fillet, then gently ladled the rich sauce over it. He bundled the asparagus together and tied them with a scallion, then topped them with Béarnaise sauce. Finally came the truffles, which Etienne handled like a new lover. The plates he produced were works of art.
When Etienne filled a plate, Madame Trufaunt was there to serve it. They worked silently with clock-like precision. They is good. Ted had helped his father cater a few events in LA. He knew that this was special.
“Madame has managed to acquire a little red Bordeaux for this course.” Yves nodded to Madame Trufaunt. She took a cut crystal decanter from the sideboard and poured the wine into tall broad wine glasses. Ted hadn’t even noticed when the champagne flutes magically disappeared.
“Wow! This is beautiful,” Meagan whirled the wine in her glass. “I could get lost in it.”
“A fine wine is a feast for all of the senses.” Yves words came slowly, as if he was thinking deeply before he spoke. “Once again, I ask you to notice the nose.” Yves took a long sniff of his wine. “The best taste of the bottle is always the first. It explodes upon the senses, excites the palate. The sips to come grow more subtle and you taste all the diverse flavors as your palate becomes more accustomed to the taste. But the first sip, it is like the first time you make love with a new partner.”
I’ve had just about enough of that shit. Ted’s temper rose as Yves stared into Meagan’s eyes.
“So, what are you doing in BC?” Chris asked.
“I have a client interested in oil drilling. I buy oil field equipment from a client in Calgary, and sell it to one in BC. It is a good business, no?”
“There’s no oil in BC.” Chris sipped at his wine. “There aren’t any oil fields between Southern California and Alaska.”
“That’s what we think now. Who knows? Maybe my client is right. What if he could find oil off the coast?” Yves twirled his fork in the air. “It could make Canada a major player in the oil market.”
“I’m not buyin’ it,” Ted spoke through a full mouth. “If there was any chance of oil here, don’t you think someone would have found it by now?”
The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1) Page 25