Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1)

by Andrea K. Stein

  The sandy bottom required no more than a quick goose in forward to disengage the hook. With the last of the anchor chain snugged back in the forward locker, she headed into the wind. Tommy raised the mainsail with the in-mast system, and then eased out the headsail to set their course for St. Vincent.

  Lindsay gave a self-satisfied smile to Tommy when he turned to get the thumbs-up on trim. This moment was what both she and the Bonnie Blue lived for. Ships and their captains were not meant to sit in harbors.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Alton on a bench at the side of the cockpit. Chin in hand, he sat like a wonderstruck little boy, watching the Bonnie Blue catch the steadily freshening breeze as she left Vieux Fort behind.

  Chapter Ten

  Monday Morning, Passage to Martinique

  Lindsay checked the compass on the binnacle—227º magnetic, a perfect match for the electronic reading on the screen in the cockpit. She still used a hand-held compass to make sure her heading made sense against the approaching northern point of St. Vincent.

  She and Tommy never sailed without old-fashioned navigation tools, even though modern digital readouts made the process nearly idiot-proof. They carried a sextant, which they used to shoot the sun each day at noon on the open seas. At the end of each three-hour watch, one of them plotted their position on a paper chart to back up the electronics.

  She once knew a delivery captain who sailed three days without doing a navigational fix. His electronics got skewed in a lightning strike, and he ended up sailing onto the reef off Anegada in the middle of the night—in a catamaran worth half a million.

  The sails belled out in an easy broad reach, and Lindsay relaxed a little, breathing in the smells of the ocean breezes hauling in between St. Lucia and St. Vincent.

  Bright blue Caribbean skies spoke of nothing more than steady trade winds until the gusts arrived close to the north end of St. Vincent. The choppy waters between the two islands could make the passage a little exciting, but nothing the sleek Bonnie Blue couldn’t slice through.

  She planned to cruise along the western coast staying about a quarter mile offshore, and then put in at Wallilabou Bay to check in at Customs and give Alton a chance to serve one of his fancy lunches.

  An errant wave rocked the ship, causing her to lift her eyes from the handheld. Then she saw him. What the hell? René was barreling across the ocean, bearing down on them in the huge yacht. Enough was enough. She grabbed the VHF radio from its holder next the wheel, put the ship on autopilot and went to Channel Sixteen to hail the French cowboy dogging her every move.

  “The Other Woman, The Other Woman, The Other Woman. This is the Bonnie Blue, Whiskey, Bravo, Charlie 2213, over.” When her request was met with silence, she repeated the call. Damn that bastard. Even the name of his super ride had her hackles up.

  Finally, a rude ten minutes later, René answered. “Bonnie Blue, this is The Other Woman.”

  After switching to another channel to talk, Lindsay itched to explode, but took care to keep her voice in a normal tone. “What are you doing?” she asked with a hiss.

  “Captain Fisher, I think we should continue this conversation on satellite phone.” He betrayed not a trace of emotion in his request. After both signed off, the phone at her belt vibrated.

  Lindsay was pissed. She pressed the “talk” button, not bothering with pleasantries. “What is your problem? Why are you on my tail?”

  “I love it when you get all hot with me. Can’t help myself.” He paused for several moments and then added, “There was a time when you wanted me on your tail. You could have been in my bed Saturday night. What a waste, after coming on to me like you did. That pretty-boy chef insisted …”

  “I’m waiting,” she said, ignoring his stupid innuendos. “Why are you following me?”

  “That I cannot tell you. I wish I could, Captain Fisher, but my client enjoys his privacy. For this voyage, there must be secrets, which I must know, and you must not.”

  He was being childish, his natural state. She wouldn’t play his games. She fought the urge to thread herself through the phone and slap his insolent French face, but refrained from reacting. That was exactly what he wanted. Instead, she clicked off the connection without a word.

  She replaced the phone in the holster on her belt, and returned to the wheel. They’d be passing the volcano soon, and she didn’t need any distractions. Like she’d told Moj, the magnetic nature of the lava flows could affect the electronics.

  The short conversation with René still left questions at the back of her mind. How had he known the number of the satellite phone Carrothers had given her? And who in the hell had chartered The Other Woman?

  When she glanced back to make sure he’d backed off, he made a wide turn, angling in toward the bay and the trailhead for the path up to the volcano, Soufriere.

  The hike to the volcano had a gain of three thousand feet—an all-day undertaking not for the faint of heart. Ominous smoke still wafted from the dome. The last full-blown eruption had occurred in 1979, which, in geological time, was barely yesterday.

  Just then the gusts from the headlands hit them and the Bonnie Blue launched into rapid surfing despite how far the sails were out, with the wind nearly behind them.

  She thought about Alton slaving away down below in the galley into which he had long ago disappeared. Tommy was probably in the forward hole taking a nap.

  Lindsay jerked, startled, when her first mate suddenly reappeared, hauling up the aft companionway in double time. “You gotta get down to the galley. Alton’s sick, big time. I’ll take the helm.”

  “Of course he is. Where are the guests?”

  “Don’t worry. None of that bunch is up yet.”

  * * *

  The scene awaiting Lindsay when she scrambled below was worse than she’d imagined. The tall chef lay curled up, sprawled across most of the width of the galley floor. A mixing bowl lay next to his head. It wasn’t empty. Instead of his usual sarcastic greeting, he merely moaned and lolled his head away from her.

  “What’s wrong?” She knelt at his side and felt his forehead. He was cold and clammy to the touch. Not a good sign. Had the big lug inadvertently poisoned himself? She shook her head and dismissed that possibility.

  Instead of just making grunts of pain, he finally managed a full phrase. “Can’t get up. Can’t stand.”

  Lindsay had dealt with a lot of passengers over the years, but this version of seasickness she’d seen only once before. He’d lost his entire sense of balance.

  She needed backup and reluctantly stood and pushed the button on the intercom. “Raoul. Get down to the galley. Now. I need your help.” Fortunately, the surly steward was at least as heavy as Alton.

  “No, please.” Alton’s attempt to communicate came out in a croak. “Not the Russian.”

  “He’s not Russian,” Lindsay said absently, echoing what Raoul would’ve said. “I have to get you up to the deck for fresh air and the sight of land. You can focus on St. Vincent’s western shore. We’re getting close enough.”

  “I can’t. Can’t get …” His last complaint trailed off into another long moan.

  Long minutes passed. Raoul was ignoring her. There would be hell to pay.

  Lindsay rummaged through one of the galley refrigerators until she found some fresh ginger root. She also snagged a can of ginger ale from one of the chillers and a bottle of water. From the first aid kit on the bulkhead she pulled two black knit wristbands with a small white plastic button attached to the inside of each. Time to revive the Kitchen God.

  Footsteps pounded down the hallway, and Lindsay made a silent vow of gratitude to St. Nicholas, patron saint of sailors. Tommy couldn’t leave the helm with the heavy current and waves. Had to be Raoul. She’d take whatever help she could get.

  The huge frame that filled the galley entrance wasn’t Raoul.

  “Any leftovers from dinner last night?” Moj asked, then dropped to his knees when he saw the fetal-cu
rled Alton, moaning up in agony. “What happened? Did the big guy break a leg?”

  “Nope,” Lindsay said.

  “Poisoned?” Moj asked, and punctuated the question with a smile quirking up at the edges of his mouth.

  “Of course not.” Lindsay snapped to Alton’s defense. She yearned to protect him like he’d protected her the other night at the disco. “He’s seasick. Can you help me get him up top?”

  Alton leaned over the bowl again.

  Moj didn’t seem at all concerned. As if puking chefs were just part of the scenery.

  “Sure, captain. Ain’t gonna be the first time I deal with some joker losing his lunch, and it certainly won’t be the last.”

  * * *

  Alton chewed on the ginger. He liked ginger. It was a root that gave more than you expected, a nice plant, not like cilantro, uppity and flamboyant. No, ginger was solid. Ginger was your buddy.

  “Keep your eyes on the island,” Lindsay said. Her voice seemed to come from far away, but it was firm with authority. And he’d do what she said. No fight left in him. Nothing was left in him. He’d thrown up his toenails into the mixing bowl, and then some, and he was pretty sure nothing was left in his stomach except the lining and the little bit of ginger juice he was swallowing. And sips from the ginger ale.

  “Drink slowly,” Captain Lindsay ordered. “Slowly. Keep your eyes on the island.” She ducked beneath the electronics console and came back up with a bucket with a long piece of line attached to the metal handle.

  “From now on, when the urge hits, use this.” She shoved the pail toward him. “And when you’re done, go to the leeward rail, empty it, fill it with sea water, rinse and repeat.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Unless you want to recycle the contents of the bucket when it blows back in your face, go to the leeward rail.” When he still gave her the “little boy lost” look, she explained, “You know—leeward—away from the wind.”

  “Oh.”

  “Got it? If I have to keep explaining, I might barf. Never a good sign for passengers when the captain barfs.”

  The boat was pitching, spinning, swaying, crashing, sweeping away, rising, falling, roller-coastering, doing the fucking tango, all under his feet. His belly followed along in lockstep.

  Fucking boats.

  Fucking ocean.

  And he had a meal to prepare. He had to save his career.

  No, first, he had to quit vomiting. Can’t cook when you’re chucking up your lungs.

  He sipped. Then murmured, “Hate boats, captain. Hate boats. Always have.”

  Not exactly the truth. He’d gone canoeing along the Iowa River, near the Coralville Reservoir, with his elementary school Boy Scout troop. He’d gone water skiing on boats in middle school. It wasn’t until high school—what happened in high school—which made him hate water and all things that float.

  “Why do you hate boats?” Lindsay asked.

  It was the easiest question in the world, but Alton wasn’t going to answer. Talking felt like climbing Everest. Or that volcano Lindsay mentioned.

  Volcano. Somehow the thought of the lava made him nauseous. And more miserable. Something spewing as much as he had.

  Probably ruined his career. Moj had been nice, though, completely understanding. He’d helped Lindsay drag Alton up to the deck, and then disappeared back below. Moj had even given his word he wouldn’t tell Fiona or Becca about Alton’s condition.

  A good guy. What was he doing with a ditz like Fiona?

  Alton felt a hand on his back. Lindsay murmured to him. “You’re gonna be okay. You’ll get your balance, get your sea legs, and we’ll make it through. Once you’re feeling better, you can tell me all about your boat phobia. Only I gotta say, you probably shouldn’t have taken this job if you have such a fear of boats.”

  “Not fear,” Alton grunted through his teeth. Another wave of nausea came and went. “Just hate. But I’m okay. I’ll be okay. And I couldn’t turn this job down, no way. This is my chance, my last chance.”

  Her hand felt so good on his back, so comforting, so warm.

  “Mine too,” Lindsay said in a breathy voice. He wanted to turn to her, to look into her eyes, to see what she meant, but he was following orders, keeping his eyes on the island. Why was this gig her last chance too?

  As if guessing his thoughts, she continued. “A year ago, I lost a ship in a hurricane. Damned near lost Tommy too. And then the year before that, an insurance company stuck us with a third crew member from hell who turned over the yacht to some drug runners while Tommy and I were ashore provisioning. That poor ship disappeared, probably rotting somewhere at the bottom of the Caribbean.

  “And then there’s my big mouth,” she said, not elaborating. “People are pretty sure I’m the kiss of death, and Crew International is on me like ants on honey to clean up my act.”

  “We were dealt some bad hands all right, but this trip could set everything right.” Alton wanted to smile, but his gurgling guts wouldn’t let him. The island. Land. Had to focus, but with Lindsay there, it really did feel like he’d be all right. Like they’d vindicate themselves together against the rest of the world.

  “You’re going to get through this fine,” Lindsay said, as if she’d read his thoughts. “You just have to trust me.”

  “Thanks, Linds,” Alton muttered. “You saved me. I’m feeling a little better. Not about this fucking boat, but more about you. We really are two of a kind.”

  She rubbed his back. He relaxed into the touch. She didn’t answer, just kept caressing him, soothing him when he’d despaired of ever feeling well again. He could stay here like this forever, focusing on the land, letting Lindsay take care of him, destroying his career.

  Lindsay slipped elastic black bands with plastic buttons over his hands, positioning the buttons’ pressure points where his palms joined his wrists.

  “God. What am I going do for lunch?” Alton said. “They’re expecting more culinary pyrotechnics from the Kitchen God.”

  “I think Moj, at least, has seen more than enough pyrotechnics from you today.” She couldn’t resist teasing the sick chef.

  Alton ignored her jibe and tried to sit up, only to roll over and moan facedown on the deck. “My career is over. Again.”

  “Not necessarily.” Lindsay leaned close to his ear. “I can do the cooking for you. Just tell me what to do.”

  He moaned even louder. “A woman who doesn’t eat anything but Coke and potato chips is going to save my reputation.”

  “Just watch me,” she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, off Martinique

  Lindsay knew Alton didn’t think much of her cooking skills, but she had a trick or two stashed in her sleeve. Survival was her middle name.

  When he tried to sit up, she squatted next to him and pushed his damp hair out of his eyes. She hated seeing those gorgeous blue orbs all watery in pain instead of snapping snarky looks. He seemed more like a pale, frightened little boy than the darling of jet-setters.

  “What were you going to prepare for lunch?” she asked, trying to distract him.

  “Poached sea bass.” He made a grunting noise and swallowed. “Those are three words you don’t want to say when you’re sick.” He brought the bucket up, but then let it fall. He turned, his a voice a bleat. “I got nothin’ left in my stomach. Is that a sign I’m getting better?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be cooking today,” Lindsay said.

  “Won’t run any races either,” he said, “but maybe I can sit on a chair in the galley and direct lunch prep, that is if you’ll help me.”

  Lindsay took a deep breath. “Alton, this won’t work. You have to stay up here. If you go back to the galley, you’ll get sick again.”

  “I can’t cook up here.”

  “Let me fix something down below while you recuperate on deck.”

  “No, really. I’m fine.” When he tried to straighten, a huge wave lifted the Bonnie Blue, and they surfed down the
other side. He was back with his head in the bucket again, waving her away. He didn’t throw up, but she knew he was out of commission.

  “Enough.” Lindsay walked across the deck to where Tommy stood at the wheel and handed him a chunk of peeled ginger root. “Here—make him chew on this when he stops that,” she said, pointing back to where Alton swayed next to the railing.

  She slid down the companionway, her feet not touching the steps, gliding her hands along the safety rails.

  * * *

  On one of her worst days at sea, with passengers ranging from merely squamicky to downright seasick, Lindsay had learned the perfect combination for a comfort food lunch: Mermaid’s tuna salad, crackers, gingersnaps, honeydew melon slices, and ginger beer.

  An old delivery captain had shared the recipe when she’d served with him while getting sea time for her Coast Guard license. The secret to soothing unsettled stomachs, he’d explained, is to stay away from heavy ingredients, like mayonnaise, or sweet dressings.

  Lindsay opened galley cabinets, quickly assembling ingredients on the stainless steel counter: Cans of water-packed tuna, dill pickle relish, a small red onion, a bottle of hot sauce, and a fat lime. Simple.

  Next she pulled kiwis from the overhead hanging net and fetched a basket of strawberries from one of the coolers. She and Tommy had once done a charter for another chef who taught her how to slice strawberries into foo-foo little fans to garnish plates.

  And kiwi fruit. Who knew the fastest, slickest way to get the little buggers out of their gnarly skins was with a soupspoon? She’d go ashore to get a bunch of extra flowers for the table as soon as they anchored at Wallilabou Bay.

  She had a plan. Now all she had to do was chop. She grabbed one of Alton’s knives and attacked the onion. Lindsay grinned at the thought of what he’d say if he caught her using his precious utensils.

  At the last minute she remembered Fiona’s finicky diet requirements and dumped some quinoa into a pot of boiling water. She’d use the same ingredients, substituting grain for the tuna in the diva’s lunch.

  She chopped some tomatoes and cucumbers to add to the vegan salad. The other passengers could use the veggies for tuna toppings.