The Whiskey Sea

by Ann Howard Creel

  Frieda, try as she might, couldn’t find anything specific to oppose about the man Bea had chosen to marry, only that he had snatched the buds of her sister’s dreams and crushed them in his hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After Bea and August left, Charles took Frieda back to his summer house, freeing her from the brutal bevy of her memories, both of Silver and Bea, which held her in their grip inside the house where the three of them had lived for so long. And there she would stay with him for almost two weeks until rumrunning duty would call them back to business. There above the town and the sea he cooked for her, surprising her with big breakfasts of eggs and ham, and dinners of sautéed fish, roast beef, salads, and fresh vegetables. He walked to the market daily for groceries and also brought bottles of wine, for which he’d developed a taste while in Europe and about which he sought to educate her over nightly candlelit dinners on the veranda.

  Overcome by his kindness, Frieda allowed herself to be babied. How sweet it was to escape from the rest of the world within the walls and crystal-knobbed, heavy doors of this house. Inside she listened to the sighing of silk draperies, walked the solid, polished plank flooring in bare feet, and experienced nights of love.

  Each morning the passion of the previous night cooling, Frieda returned—at least in part—to the outside world, her thoughts invariably drifting to her sister.

  “I’m afraid that with Silver gone, there’s no cord that binds Bea and me together anymore.” The day was crystalline with blinding early sunlight shearing off the far ocean. Still in underclothes, they had wandered onto the veranda to watch the sun rise. Fishing boats and runners streamed flat scars across the bay and headed out for a day’s work.

  Charles sighed. “She’s in the early throes of love. And in my experience, love is the grand excuse so many people employ for absurd behavior. It may pass. Give her time,” he said as he donned his robe and sashed it around his waist.

  Frieda turned to him. “So you agree she should go to school?”

  “Of course. What do you know of this new chap of hers? It might not last, after all, and then where would your dear sister be?”

  “What a cynic you are when it comes to love, to matters of the heart.”

  He waved a hand through the air. “Quite. Love is a shabby subject.”

  Love a shabby subject? Love had changed her life. Her uncertain future rushed toward her, made ever the shakier because of Charles’s refusal to discuss it. She envied Bea her clear plans and dreams, her engagement and belief that life now unrolled before her like a shimmering carpet.

  “Once Bea sets her mind to something, she won’t let go without a fight, and now all she wants is to be a wife.”

  “Write to her. Keep in touch. Force yourself upon her if you have to.”

  “I doubt she wants to hear from me. I wasn’t very gracious.”

  “Do it anyway. Write her today.”

  “Today?”

  “Why not? What else is there pressing for you to do?”

  The corners of her lips lifted in a soft smile. “Nothing. You’ve taken care of everything. Who would’ve thought you’d turn out to be such a fine nursemaid?”

  He shrugged. “I have my good moments. But back to you. Write your sister today. And if we must talk of love, then here’s what I think: She thinks she’s in love with the professor, but the person who means the most to her is you. I saw it in her face. She loves you; she loves her family.”

  Frieda’s mouth dried. It was time to ask. “And you, Charles; who and what do you love?”

  He gave her a devilish smile and patted his stomach. “At the moment I love the idea of breakfast.”

  A slow smile crept across her face despite herself, despite him successfully dodging the question.

  Frieda walked to the railing. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Today.”

  She spun around. “But she’s gone; I know it.”

  He reached for her hands and cradled them in his. His had become reddened and chapped by work on the boat and domestic chores, much like hers. Dried by salt water, baked by relentless sun, scoured and scrubbed with strong soap too often, they mirrored life here. He smelled of smoke and sea, of the salt in the air, of this house, of domestic bliss and sex, of everything she loved. He had been here for her when she’d most needed him, and she would never forget it. She had to tamp down the urge to hold him, to wrap her arms around him and make him stay with her.

  As if he’d read her mind he said, “Abandonment is a common theme for you, isn’t it?”

  A tiny gasp escaped her lips. Frieda shook her head, but what he’d just said was far too close for comfort, too true. How could Charles be both brilliant and intuitive at times and then at other times so oblivious? “That’s not the point.”

  Now Charles was the one shaking his head. “You’re both so headstrong.”

  “We are not.”

  “Of course you are,” Charles said, and stroked her cheek before turning back toward the sea.

  They were washing and drying the breakfast dishes side by side when the outside world came calling. Urgent pounding on the front door startled them. Quickly glancing at each other, they left their chore. Charles grabbed a hand towel and headed toward the door, with Frieda close on his heels, snatching up a sweater to cover herself. No one had bothered them during their time of respite, and a band of tension wrapped around Frieda’s chest.

  Dutch, smelling of sweat and gasoline, stood on the front porch. Though Charles invited him inside, he declined.

  Skipping all niceties, Dutch said, “A boat from Atlantic Highlands has gone missing. No sign of the crew. Must have been bumped off.”

  It was the first time something like that had happened in their area.

  “While you two have been up here, things have happened. Haven’t you talked to anyone?” Without waiting for an answer, Dutch continued: “The boat went out during the day three days ago. Hasn’t been seen since. And it was a fierce boat, too, almost the same as ours.” Dutch scratched his white-blond thatch.

  Charles said, “You mean a running boat?”

  Clearly irritated, Dutch shifted his weight. “Of course I mean a running boat. What do you think I’m here for? Sorry to intrude on your love nest, but you ought to know what’s happening outside these nice walls.”

  “Is anyone looking for the crew?”

  “Other runners from the area been looking, coast guard, too, but there ain’t no sign of hide nor hair. They been asking at the big boats; seems they never made it out there to deal that day. Probably got ambushed on their way out when they were holding all the cash on board. The crew are surely stiffs by now, probably shot down in the deep by the devil go-throughs, who then surely stole the boat or burnt it to leave no evidence behind.”

  Charles carried on with more questions, while something tugged at Frieda’s memories, a feeling she couldn’t describe. She almost knew what was coming. And yet she hoped . . .

  Charles said, “Did you know them?”

  “I knew them. Not well, though. Big fella by the name of Whitey ran the boat. His crew were Atlantic Highlands locals, too—though not as well-known. Whitey was a lifelong boatman, had a wife and a bunch of kids. Even went to church.”

  Frieda’s heart fell into her stomach. The sounds of the town waking up and working fell away, and the floor heaved so much that Frieda had to fight for balance. A moment earlier her problems had seemed huge; now they curled small compared to this.

  Big fella by the name of Whitey ran the boat.

  Frieda’s hand flew to her pale face, the words sinking in, and she wrapped her arms about herself while Charles and Dutch conversed, unaware of how the news had pummeled her. She had only spoken to Whitey that one time, wanting to hate him but coming away liking him more than she’d thought possible. He was Bea’s blood father, and in that way he seemed almost a blood relation of hers. It was an odd connection, but blood linked them to the same person, a person Frieda dearly lo
ved and one whom Whitey might have been allowed to love in another lifetime. And what of all those white-headed children? She shuddered.

  Sights and sounds returned in a rush, and she asked, “Was his oldest son on the boat, too?”

  Dutch peered at her appraisingly, one eyebrow lowering. “No. Didn’t know you were acquainted with Whitey, Frieda.” He clearly had also figured out Bea’s parentage.

  She didn’t care. “I met him once.”

  “Nice guy, huh?”

  She didn’t answer, just waited.

  “That’s the only good luck. Whitey’s boy usually runs with them, but he’d taken the day off.”

  At least Whitey’s wife hadn’t lost one of her children, too. Small consolation, she guessed, but something.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Dutch said, bringing her back to the present. “No more time off. I understand you been needing to pay some respects to Silver, but we have to get back to work. Boat’s just sitting in the water, and I got bills to pay. It’s obvious what we’re up against now—bastards out to steal and to kill rumrunners with no price to pay after. They got away with it clean. Some runners are putting armor plating on the hulls, but that ain’t going to work; it’s going to slow them down. We got to find ways to move the boat faster, Frieda. I need you back. That other engine man wasn’t worth a damn. Our only chance is to outrun them. I need you to make us the fastest boat on the water.”

  “We’re already fast—”

  “Are you with me or not? You coming back or not?”

  She and Charles glanced at each other. Frieda said, “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I’m doing myself much good lying around and thinking about Silver. I want to come back.”

  “That’s great news.” He pointed a thick, chapped finger right at her face. “But if you come back, it’s your job to make the boat impossible to catch. We have to be able to escape them, because if they get near us, they gonna kill us, you hear?” He waited for a response. She could still picture Whitey so clearly in her mind.

  “Frieda, you hear me? Find out some way for us to power out on even more speed. Do it.” He turned his glare on Charles. “Are you weaseling out now, Princeton?”

  Charles stuck his hands into his robe pockets. “No, I never said that.”

  “I gotta know who I can count on and who I can’t.”

  “Tell us what to do.”

  “All you have to do is show up and do what you’ve always done. Frieda here—well, she’s got some extra fiddling to do. Do what you have to do, Frieda, and I don’t care how much it costs. See you on the docks?” he asked.

  Frieda nodded glumly.

  Dutch looked around the empty porch and front lawn. “And by the way, no more day runs. Only at night, with no moon. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and they won’t never find us.”

  It took a couple of hours before Frieda could shake images of death out of her mind and chills out of her body, but recent events had wiped away the kind of restraint she usually imposed on herself. She managed to tell Charles about Whitey, so suddenly and brutally gone, to explain that he had fathered Bea, and along the way to reveal that their mother had been the town whore. It was time to find out if Charles could accept it.

  “Did you know?” she asked.

  “That detail was never mentioned to me,” Charles answered, and looked her straight in the eyes, his beautiful face showing no distaste. An early-afternoon rainstorm had blown in, and wind lashed against the windows. She and Charles were seated in the parlor, a room they rarely used. Even with its nautically themed decor, the room felt stiff and formal. Quite the odd place to hold a conversation such as this one.

  Frieda hadn’t realized how high she’d been holding her shoulders until she let them fall. Amazing that no one had told Charles about her mother. Perhaps she had judged the townspeople too harshly. She stared down at her hands. “I-I thought at least one person would be unable to resist telling you such a juicy piece of gossip.”

  “It is quite the story, Frieda. Pretty serious stuff.”

  “Sorry. My life is serious.”

  “I mean no offense.”

  “I’m not offended.” She looked up. “But are you offended by my past?”

  “You had no choice in it.”

  “You aren’t answering.”

  He glanced away for a moment, pensive, as if his mind hadn’t fully registered all the pictures forming in his mind. Slowly he looked back. “I’m not as flimsy as you think.”

  “I’d never call you flimsy.”

  He ran a hand through his tousled hair. Neither one of them had yet groomed themselves for the day ahead. Dutch’s news and demands had set the day on a very different course. Before he’d shown up, they’d planned to picnic on the Hook. Now, in response to Dutch’s demands, Frieda had turned her thoughts instead to going down to the docks and working on the boat. But the weather had interfered with that, too.

  Charles grimaced, then his face went flat. “Maybe we should stop going out with Dutch.”

  Frieda blinked. “That’s not what you just said to him. You said you were still going.”

  “A man has a right to change his mind.”

  “A woman, too?”

  “Of course. You don’t owe Dutch anything. And now with your sister getting married and Silver . . .”

  “Passed, I know,” Frieda finished for him. “I guess I don’t have to make all this money anymore, but . . .” She clasped her hands together and gazed up at Charles. “I’m still hoping Bea changes her mind and goes to school.”

  “Then her husband should pay for her classes.”

  “She might change her mind about getting married, too.”

  “It’s possible, but she gave away her shot at your money in my opinion,” Charles said.

  “I was there when Silver had his stroke. I know that life can change in an instant. The only safety net I have is the money. No family besides Silver and Bea. No one with money. No connections. How much is enough? It’s hard for you to . . . understand.”

  “What good is that money if you’re dead at the bottom of the sea?”

  Frieda gulped. Whitey’s demise had made that all too real. And so close by . . . Bea might have had a chance to know her father, but now it was too late. Should Frieda have told Bea about him? Would Bea have been interested? There would be no point in ever telling her now. Why tell someone their blood father had been decent and then died in a horrible way?

  Charles took her hand and led her onto the veranda. They stood under the roof and stared out at the rain. Raindrops bounced on the hard summer soil and roofs and ran in rivulets down the town streets. Clouds hung around them like an impenetrable curtain, but in between passing mists they could briefly see the chop of high seas in the bay.

  “Pay no attention to me,” Charles finally breathed out as he squeezed her hand. “Just a moment of doubt. But we’ll be going out on dark nights. And you have a homework assignment to make the boat faster.”

  But his doubt had already infected her. “Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe we should all quit. Dutch and Rudy have kids, and Rudy already told me he’s thinking about getting out when summer’s over. Maybe it’s not right for me to enable them to go on risking their lives.”

  After dropping her hand, Charles lowered his brow and looked away. “Don’t mistake this for a moral issue. Either you want to continue and find better ways to do so or you don’t.”

  “But it is a moral issue.”

  Charles smiled in a sad way. “I don’t see it that way. I don’t see things as black and white, wrong or right. But then again I’ve always lacked much of a moral compass. I couldn’t kill another person, but that’s about it for me. I can’t help you make any decisions, Frieda. It’s your call.”

  Frieda smiled weakly in vague assent, then gazed into the falling sky. She had never sought guidance from him, only love and the willingness to let her love him. But it would be nice to really discuss things and come to mutual conclusions. She found it more in
teresting than off-putting that they differed so much in the way they saw things, but for the boat to keep being successful they all had to be in agreement. Silently he stepped away and went back into the house, leaving her alone with a tangle of thoughts. Bea. The boat. The lost men. Whitey. Dutch’s demands.

  But there was never much doubt about what she would do. Dutch had given her a job. He trusted her with his boat, and she’d made a lot of money because of him. She felt as if she owed him.

  And lastly, Charles. Loving him was perhaps like peering into the rain—a sort of sightlessness, akin to stumbling about in a storm, grabbing the things you want to find, and letting the others wash away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The next morning she readied herself for a day of work on the docks. She had been away with Silver and then Charles for too long. Now she was ready to shake herself free of burdens of the heart and focus on the boat instead. Besides, she had orders.

  She went to see the man who knew more about boat engines than anyone else in the area: Hicks. A day of solid rain had temporarily masked the scents of sea, and it smelled of wet earth. The streets were littered with leaves, branches, and bits of soggy newspaper. She found the Wren in its usual slip along the dock, but there was no sign of her owner. Frieda almost boarded the boat to wait for Hicks at the helm, but the boat brought back memories of Silver. It was a glorious summer day, the kind that Silver would’ve loved—sun bouncing white off the water and a blue sky crossed by gulls cawing and swooping. Water sloshing against the piers, revealing barnacles that glistened in the light, and an easy wind on her face.

  She walked away and went to look in the dockside bar for him, the same one where she’d first been acknowledged by Charles. That night now seemed a lifetime ago as she opened the door to the smoky, cavernous place. A few of the regular drunks sat inside, but there were also some men she’d never seen before. Hardened types. Criminal looking. What were they up to?