"Corked, but sooo good!" Jim gritted his teeth and flashed his eyes. "That's how we do it in the bayou. Now, get goin'!"
The young man took a step back, blinking rapidly. He looked as if he wanted to shrink within his pinstripe suit and hide.
"You're a real ass, seersucker boy!" the young man said as he moved away from the table. "Who in the hell are you?"
"You get goin' before I crack you hard in front of all these folks." Jim wagged an index finger in his face. "Want a new dental plan?"
The young man turned, his opened Amstel Light still on the table, and marched off across the room, past the crowd shouting and gesticulating at the widescreen. He glared at the onlookers before he opened the French doors and stepped outside onto the front porch, closing them after him.
Sensing himself beam with deep pride, Jim turned to the bartender, whose eyes wrinkled in a grateful and amused smile at his new friend. Jim raised the wineglass. "To the victor… go the spoils." He took a sip. "Kids don't respect their elders much these days."
"Some do, like yaself. Really, ya don't have to finish that wine, son."
"I'll finish it, sure. And I can polish off that Amstel in a bit."
"No ya don't, friend. Gimme that!" he held out his hand. "Whaddaya really want? Come ahhn!"
"You got any Woodford Reserve back there, sir?" Jim handed back the wine, his eyebrows rising. "I'll take it neat."
"Now we're talkin'." The bartender fetched the whiskey. "I'm gettin' slower in my old age. But still Senator Spaulding employs me. And I ain't really that slow. That kid was a real brat, I tell ya, spoiled as hell. Don't know what he got. He's one of Jack's star sales guys. Jerk's name is Ford Brinkley. He's from an old family here on the Cape and he thinks he's royalty."
"But he sure got his little comeuppance today," Jim said. "Boy was a real horse's ass."
The bartender placed a rock glass on the tablecloth and poured out the bourbon. "I'm Joseph Riordan. Friends call me Joe." He stretched out a hand. Jim again noted its crooked, weathered fingers, and shook it.
"Jim Scoresby. I work for Walter Henretty. And I'm lucky enough to date his beautiful daughter, Maureen."
"Henretty? Old Captain Henretty, good man. See him here all the time. People just love Walter. And he's got a smart, pretty wife and kids. So where you livin', the Cape? Boston?"
"I was in New Hampshire, then Boston, now Osterville. But I'm returning to Boston. Long story, I must say." Jim sipped the bourbon.
"Where ya hail from, my man?"
"Louisiana."
"I can see it in the suit. And the accent. And the choice of spirits. Ya from New Orleans?"
"There and a town about forty miles north of it," Jim said. "But if I was a true New Orleanian, I would have requested a Sazerac or a Hurricane."
"I prefer the Sazerac," Joe said. "Katrina sent ya up this way, I guess?"
"She did indeed," Jim said. His eyes drifted from Joe's dour face to the window beyond. "There's Walter now. I was wondering where he'd gone."
"He and Mrs. Henretty are just out that door."
"I'm gonna stop and see 'em," Jim said. "Great to meet you, Joe. Put a li'l liquid soap in that Amstel in case our boy comes back for it."
The slate patio jutted out perhaps fifty feet and ran the entire length of the mansion. The three steps bordering it led down to a great green on which children played. On one side of this lawn, a game of croquet was underway. On the other side of the green, children in a spacewalk jumped and howled and laughed.
Just before Jim, a large crowd chatted on the patio in the ebbing twilight as jazz resounded from loudspeakers. Flames flickered in the gas lampposts ringing the patio. Two waiters weaved through the group, distributing hors d'oeuvres. Walter held court among a cluster of couples, relating a tale from his years on the open sea. Neither Walter nor Kathleen had spotted Jim.
A familiar face appeared in the audience. Reverend Cordell Ward listened, his scholarly eyes focused somewhere downward.
Glass of bourbon in hand, Jim launched forward and meandered around several guests, finally appearing before his Dorchester friend.
"Jim, how are you?" Reverend Ward whispered as Walter continued his tale, still oblivious to Jim's arrival. The pastor's eyes exuded a quiet peace.
"Not so gloomy, Reverend. Enjoying a little libation. And today's completion of our work on the John Paul Jones. Can you believe it?"
"I can't wait. We'll have a great time. The boys are gonna love it."
Surely the tale met its end, for the crowd erupted in a swell of laughter, applause, and a few sighs of relief.
"Jim! There you are, my boy! Glad you could make it," Walter shouted, clapping his hands once in excitement and stomping a foot.
"Yes, great that you came, Jim!" Kathleen said.
"I wouldn't miss a Spaulding party," Jim said. "I've heard these events are among the best on the Cape."
"I would have to agree," an old man nodded.
"Except for mine over in Hyannis." A woman laughed, fidgeting with her pearl necklace. Jim could detect a face-lift in her past.
"But you can't compare the two!" Kathleen said. "You throw the majority of your parties on your yacht."
"With that excellent sound system, I might add," said another guest, a sixty-something man in wire-rim-spectacles. He wore a starched, striped, blue-and-white button-down oxford with walnut khakis and sockless penny loafers. His hands hid in his pockets, his chin pointed slightly upward, his eyes half-closed.
"Well, Jimmy boy!" Walter said. "Ya see we got the Reverend over here, eh?"
"The one and only," Jim said. "I'm glad to see him. Long drive, huh?"
"It was worth it," Reverend Ward said.
"You tell Reverend the good news about the boat, Jim?" Walter puffed out his chest.
"Just did!" Jim said in an upbeat tone.
"I couldn't be more proud," Walter said. Then he turned to address the small crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Jim Scoresby. I've told some of you of Jim, my star broker in Boston. He dates my daughter Maureen. So you can imagine the trust I have in him. And the amount of surveillance I had on the poor boy!"
Everyone laughed, including Jim and Walter.
"You know, I had to can the guy who used to run my boat business. Soon I fixed my eye on Jim for the position. Maureen lobbied for Jim to relocate to the Cape to run it. So his first project—and it was a biggie—he and the boys just finished today."
"Walt, is it true," said a short man with a reddish comb-over and huge brown eyes, "you recently purchased a tri-masted Herreshoff schooner?" He cradled his martini as he spoke.
"Dr. Wentworth, I did indeed, and braved Kathleen's wrath," Walter looked at his shoes, shaking his head, laughing gently. "Ah, I tried to keep it a secret. But word does travel, does it not?"
"I am curious to see this vessel in action," said Dr. Wentworth. "Will you race it in the Figawi?"
"Ah, yes, the Figawi," Walter nodded. "Well, that's this Saturday. Haven't decided if we're gonna pull the trigger on that one."
"But you've raced every year for the longest time, Walt," Kathleen said, peering up into his face. "Why not this year?" She looked out at her captive audience. "I've been telling him this all afternoon. Evidently to no avail."
"But Walter," Jim said, "I thought you were definitely participating this year. What happened? You've won so many of 'em, besides."
"Things have changed, Jimmy. I'm getting old, breaking down. And there's that stress that comes with skippering in a race. And the joints just don't always hold up to the wake anymore. I'm not what I was." His face assumed a wistful expression.
"Commodore Henretty, I do understand," Reverend Ward said.
"Please call me Walter."
"Okay, Walter, I don't want you to strain to take all my kids on that trip coming up. Now I feel guilty."
"That's different. I really wouldn't have it any other way."
"We'll make it worth your while then," Jim said.
Some faces appeared curious, even puzzled.
"Oh, I'm sorry, y'all. Commodore's takin' me and Reverend and Jack and Natasha sailing from Chatham to Boston soon. We're bringing children from a Baptist church in Dorchester and from a youth group in Southie."
A few replies of approval shot up from the crowd. Dr. Wentworth raised his martini in a toast. "I heard about this. May there be no infighting, then. You mustn't have a Belfast situation there. Or even more so, a South African one."
Some nervous chuckling arose in the crowd.
"We'll be just fine," Reverend Ward said. "The boys had a tiff about to pop open during our last trip. But Walter, Jim, and I stepped in and squashed it."
"Gotta instill order. And a little fear," Walter said. "After all, I can't motivate our boys with two daily cups of navy grog. Now, Jimbo there, my Luzianna boy, I can with him."
Another wave of laughter rippled through Walter's semi-circle of hangers-on. Someone asked Walter about his children. Jim seized the opportunity and excused himself, ducking out of the crowd and walking, empty glass in hand, toward the door.
Jim spied a trio of two men and a woman, all three black, standing toward the opposite end of the patio. The woman wore a white chef's hat. They stood behind a table, grilling shrimp and lobsters on a black cast-iron wood smoker: a fifty-gallon oil drum connected to a much smaller drum, and to a cone-topped black iron smokestack.
Jim strolled toward the table and smiled when the woman, slightly graying and with a matronly figure, looked his way.
"Hey there," Jim said. "How y'all doin'?"
Neither of the men turned as they pulled the shrimp and lobster off the grill and onto two large platters with their tongs. "Not bad, sir," she said. "Care for some lobster or shrimp?"
"Just a little bit of both, if I could. But please don't call me sir!"
"Sho' thing, hon," she said. "We'll hook ya up. An' ah'll take that glass."
She took his empty glass and placed it on a tray behind the table. She grabbed a plate while one of the men placed a platter of steaming shrimp on the table. The woman tonged five onto the plate. She placed two tiny metal cups of butter and sauce beside them.
"You gotta taste you some o' that lobstah!" She turned to her other side. One of her helpers had removed much of the meat from a butterflied lobster and forked it onto the platter. She transferred two large dollops of lobster meat onto the plate.
"Ah can tell you hungrier then you lettin' on, shug," she said, chuckling.
Jim hesitated. His father's favorite word. Shug. "How could you tell?"
"The eyes. You looked like you were gonna snatch one o' them lobstahs off that grill there."
Jim took the plate with a chuckle. He grabbed a fork from the table, speared a piece of the steaming white meat, and dipped it in one of the cups of sauce. Jim chewed, savoring it before swallowing. "That is delectable. Y'all chose charcoal, not propane."
"You got it," one of the men said. "No propane with our stuff, no way."
"Haven't seen one of those Oklahoma Joes in a while," Jim pointed to the grill, remembering a similar model he once bought for his grandfather's backyard before Katrina. "Last time was back in Louisiana."
"That's where you from," the woman said. "I was wonderin'. Yeah, Bobby here, his granddaddy from Shreveport taught him how to use this grill."
"They like those grills a lot down there," Bobby said.
"They sure do," Jim said. "Even more so in Texas. But as many in South Louisiana say, Shreveport's part of Texas anyway."
"Ah gotta agree with ya there," Bobby laughed. "Or part of Arkansas."
"Well, I might be comin' back for seconds," Jim said. "Or thirds."
"I don't blame you!" Bobby said. "I'd do the same. Come on back."
Jim waved, turned, and proceeded down the patio. The Commodore still held the crowd spellbound. Nobody noticed Jim as he walked by and opened one of the back doors.
Inside, the Red Sox-crazed guests remained amassed, layer upon layer, around the Victorian couches and the flat screen. Their attention held fast to Josh Beckett, atop the pitcher's mound. He struck out another Tampa batter. The partygoers burst into a wild blaze of cheers, whistles, and shouts.
Jim found a spot near the crowd's outermost ring. He attacked the shrimp and lobster, dipping them with his fork into the two sauces.
"Let's go, Beckett!" someone yelled from deep within the crowd.
"Come on, Tampa!" someone else screamed mockingly. "You guys don't even know how to pronounce 'baseball' down there!"
Jim cringed as he forked a chunk of lobster tail into his mouth. He made sure to savor what he recognized was the taste of the oak charcoal, hickory chips, butter, and Old Bay spice.
A Devil Ray batter cracked a ball high over Beckett's head. The room unleashed a barrage of "get it!" and "catch it!" and "come on!" and even an "is that all you got?!" As the ball arced toward the fence, the Red Sox shortstop sprinted, catching it just in time as he dived. The living room exploded like an artillery shell, a hundred words like red-hot shrapnel hurling outward from the clapping and leaping throng.
Jim's gaze seized upon a movement in the center of the crowd. A handful of guests parted. Out jogged Jack Spaulding, dressed in a hound's tooth blazer, burgundy button-down dress shirt, and blue jeans. A green Red Sox cap crowned his head, his trademark blonde curls spilling out of its sides and back.
"Luzianna Jim," Jack half-shouted. "How goes it, man?"
Jim shook his hand. "I've heard about these Spaulding bashes the whole time I've been out here on the Cape."
"This is just a last minute, weekday one. Come to a weekend party here." Jack pointed at Jim's plate. "You got some of that good stuff, eh? Those guys cater a lot of our parties. We pay 'em extra to come all the way from Canton."
"That's a li'l hike, all right," Jim said. "Hey, so I met the senator! I like him."
"Yes, The Senator, as he's been dubbed. Dad is a cool cat in many ways, young at heart. Want a drink?" Jack walked toward the table where Joe stood.
Jim joined him. "I don't believe I've ever refused."
"Joseph!" Jack said. "Have any left for us, my man?"
"Better hurry," the bartender proclaimed across the living room as they approached.
"So whaddaya say?" Joe slapped his hands on the bartop.
"Jim, what's your pleasure, buddy?" Jack thundered, alcohol in his voice. "Joe, my good Celtic chieftain, our Hibernian hero. Let's give the lad a beverage."
"I better downshift," Jim said. "I'll take a Shipyard. In the bottle's just fine."
"And I'll take a Harpoon IPA, good sir," Jack said. "That's the spirit, Jim. So have you gotten into the Sox yet? You've been in New England now for almost… nine months, right? Haven't caught the fever yet?"
"Gettin' there," Jim said. "But I suspect most here were raised with it."
"You psyched about the trip? Sailing on that old wooden schooner—is that gonna be nice or what? Always wanted to sail a Herreshoff."
"It'll be great, Jack. We just finished on her today. Now we've gotta test if she's seaworthy."
The men both turned and picked up their longnecks, and then thanked Joe.
"I'm sure she's fine," Jack said. "Nice threads, by the way. Well, I gotta catch the rest of the game. You should, as well!"
Jack winked hard at Jim with the whole left side of his face and made some kind of slick clicking sound. He marched back to the cheering crowd, whistling as hard as he could.
"Come on, Sox!!" Jack boomed, a clenched fist and an index finger raised toward the ceiling's wooden beams.
"He's right, son," Joe said. "If ya ain't got that feevah yet, work on gettin' it!"
"Maybe I'll contract it with time," Jim said. "It was quite a story when they won the World Series a couple years ago."
"Glad I lived to see it," Joe said.
"Catch you in a bit, Joe," Jim said and walked toward the television. The seventh inning commenced, with the Sox leading with a few runs ahead of the De
vil Rays. Jim watched for a minute, but succumbed to his restlessness and headed for the front patio door.
The original crowd of guests smoking and gabbing and drinking on the front patio had grown. Perhaps thirty people stood in the nearly extinguished twilight both under the columns and just beyond them on the green. Patio lights overhead illuminated the mass of partygoers in all their sartorial finery: strings of pearl, Italian leather shoes, designer suits and sports coats, an occasional tweed blazer, silk dresses. His sweeping gaze came to rest on a familiar face. Jim walked toward the older man just beyond the columns.
"Mr. Scoresby, there you are," the senator nodded once. "Enjoying the party?"
"It's a grand time. Grilled shrimp and lobster, all the libations a young man could desire, a good baseball showdown, and a nineteenth century 'summer cottage' reminiscent of Newport."
"Glad you like it, son. You see Jack in there? And Walter?"
"I did. They're both in good spirits. Especially Jack, as the Sox are pulling this one out, apparently." Jim felt a tickle on the nape of his neck and whirled around.
Brianna smirked. "Hi there, Jim Scoresby. I mean… Rhett."
"Well, hey, Brianna. What's new?"
"I'll tell you what's new, Rhett. You spooked my date, Ford Brinkley, that's what's new. He said he had to run back to his place to let the electrician in, but I know better. After he drove off, some guy told me what you did inside."
"I caught your beloved tongue-lashing the bartender in there. Really degrading him."
"I heard you put a finger in my wine."
"My apologies. I'll get you another."
"Someone else already did." She raised her glass of Chardonnay. "Ford can be a real ass. I've been dating him about a month, but now I'm getting what he's all about."
"Let me hazard a li'l guess. Money, status, power. Maybe a little lust thrown in there somewhere. Often accompanies power."
Brianna fought it, but her lips gradually formed into a smile. "Okay, Cajun boy, enough of the wisecracks and all the pleasantries. Is it true you're dating Maureen Henretty?" Brianna held her glass to her chest and placed the other hand on her hip.
"I take it you know her?"
Water Lessons Page 22