The Whiskey Sea Page 12

  She looked away and slowly reclaimed her hand. “I care about boats.”

  He appeared a tad . . . hurt. “Good answer. It’s a good thing to have someone who cares about boats on board a boat. But you’re avoiding the question.”

  Frieda held her breath. “Yes.” She exhaled. “I am.”

  He studied her a few moments longer, then gazed back toward the bartender and said, “Fair enough.”

  When they had drunk their fill, they left the bar. Princeton placed his hand at the small of Frieda’s back as he opened the door for her to step through. From anyone else the gesture might have maddened her, but from him it was as simple as the lack of guile in his eyes or the casual poise of his posture. Princeton offered to escort her home, and she almost laughed at him but held herself back.

  “There’s no need,” she told him. Her mouth was dry from the liquor or from nerves, and her hands were sweaty as she pushed them tightly into her jacket pockets. She was dumbstruck by the beauty of his chiseled face when he was serious, maybe even lovelier than when he smiled. She told herself that his offer to escort her home was nothing more than what his sort of gentleman offered to do for a lady and that it fell perfectly within the confined manners of his world.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, and then amazingly seemed to be seeking her approval. He lifted a curious eyebrow, an air of longing about him.

  “Talk about no surprises. I know every inch of my way around this town. I know just about everyone who lives here, too. So yes, I’m sure.”

  She was almost certain she saw disappointment in his face, only a few inches away.

  Slowly he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” followed by that dazzling smile.

  She nodded.

  “Good night, Frieda.”

  She waved and backed away, but even after she turned she sensed that he stood there on the wharf, watching her go and sending into the air the silky ribbons of his sweet thoughts. As she continued to plant one foot in front of the other, she forced herself not to turn around and instead let the first brightening violet light of dawn touch her face. During the night she had lost all track of time.

  When she let herself into the house, all was silent except for the sound of Silver snoring in the bedroom. Bea lay asleep on the divan, an open magazine across her lap. Frieda tidied up and lay down on the floor, for the first time admonishing herself for not buying a couple of regular beds for her and Bea, though where would they have put them? She could have rented a bigger house, but she didn’t think Silver would take well to the idea of moving. He’d lived in this house most of his life and loved the view from the front porch.

  Frieda couldn’t sleep. Instead she reviewed everything about the night. Tonight she had done nothing to improve the upper class’s impressions of working-class people.

  She settled under her sheet and remembered the way it felt when he sat next to her, the heat of his body beside her as the night cooled, the way his eyes searched the sea in longing for something, the way he swung the bags with such gusto and enthusiasm, the way he freely shared his disappointment in his rich boy’s life. She tried to bring his face into full focus, and she could recall the line of his lips, his broad, flat forehead hovering over a heavy brow, and the jaw that seemed just slightly undersized for the rest of his face. She wanted desperately to pull all of those pieces into a clear vision of him as a whole, but she could not put it all together, like a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit. But why was she doing this? She had never been one to swoon over a man. She had made a free life for herself; she didn’t need a man. But what was this odd and unnerving pull? Dismiss it, she told herself. Besides, how crazy was it for her—twenty-two years old, daughter of a whore, rumrunner’s boat engineer, sleeping on the floor of an old house—to give a moment’s thought to a man like Charles John Wallace the third?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They made three more successful runs that week, each one filled with that familiar elation, and only during the last run was there a moment of danger. One of the larger coast guard cutters, seventy-five feet long, with a white hull and housing gold-braided patrol officers, gave chase on the way in. The Pauline, even with her speed, was so loaded with bags of booze that the cutter was gaining on her. Dutch, always confident, looked annoyed, but Frieda feared the worst. She was relieved when Dutch ordered the dump. They began to toss out the liquor three bags at a time.

  Princeton sprang into action, along with the rest of them. He tossed over the bags as ordered but never seemed scared. Terror seized Frieda’s heart each time they were chased. She had everything to lose. But what of Princeton? Did he know that his family would always get him out of any trouble? Or would he claim to have hitched a one-time ride and feign complete ignorance of the boat’s purpose?

  But when the coast guard saw the crew dumping, they made a slow turnaround. Their captain knew that by the time he chased the inshore contact boat down, no evidence would be left on board. Parker and the other guardsmen on the take were long gone, and these new boat captains were out to catch them. But they also knew when to give up.

  So as the cutter glided away, Dutch ordered the crew to stop dumping and then continued on course. Now that the threat had dissipated, Frieda’s heart rate was ticking down to normal. She sat next to Princeton, as had become their new habit. “Was that enough of a surprise for you? Enough danger and excitement?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he answered with a gleam in his eyes. “I still don’t know how the night’s going to end.”

  Sighing, Frieda sat up straight. “Well, I for one hope nothing else happens.”

  He looked at her. “Are you sure?”

  What else did he think she wanted? They’d been chased by a guard boat. Wasn’t that enough? His eyes peered into hers as if seeking something else, as if he was actually seeking more with her.

  Each night Princeton had kept a gentlemanly distance. They were there to do a job, after all, and he had become as focused as the rest of them, but even when they were in the middle of a fast and near-silent run back or forth, the gleaming gift of his gaze always found her and drew her to his side. He took every opportunity to sit next to her. He scooted up close and pointed out the landmarks of New York City as they sped past the lights, and his eyes sought her out as if she were the one who needed protection and not the other way around. If she were an odd bird, then he was a rare bird.

  She finally answered him: “I hate getting chased. It scares me every time.”

  Leaning back, he peered at her, his eyes playful. “I knew it.”

  She turned to look at him. “Knew what?”

  “Tough cookie has a soft inside.”

  “Tough cookies never have a soft inside.” She glanced down, then back up, while a smile twitched on her lips. “But you’re conceding that I’m a tough cookie?”

  “I’m saying that you hide the softer side of yourself well.” He tapped his temple. “But I know.”

  “Oh, I get it. Now you’re going to analyze me. After all, we’ve been acquainted for years.”

  He laughed. “You’re no dumb Dora, that’s for sure.” His voice changed. “In fact, I think you might just be an old soul.”

  Frieda’s brow creased. “I’ve never understood what that means.”

  “It means,” he said, leaning forward and peering even closer, “in some religions followers believe in reincarnation. An old soul is one that has been reincarnated many times, gaining a certain amount of innate wisdom from past lives.”

  “I never knew that,” Frieda said. “Now, that’s the kind of thing I would’ve liked to learn in school.”

  “Just as I thought.”

  He was clearly studying her, and Frieda wasn’t sure how to feel about that. She wasn’t a specimen! But his attention, his focus . . .

  “And I’ll find out more about you in time.”

  She had to look away. Even a tough cookie could be crumbled in the hands of someone like Princeton. She eased out, “I have not
hing but time.”

  He gave a little nod, as if their time had already begun.

  They continued on to the prearranged drop site and simply sold what they had left.

  She was helping Rudy get the boat moored and secure back at the pier. In some ways Rudy had the most important job of the four of them. He had to keep a constant watch for other boats. Since they and many others ran completely dark, the fear of collision was always on their minds, and Rudy was their lookout man. The waters they ran were heavily traveled with commercial fishermen, coastal tankers, passenger vessels, and deep-sea boats bound into or out of New York harbors. In the summer there were pleasure yachts, too. He had worked as the first mate with Dutch for three years now and with Frieda for over two, and never did he complain. Never did he pry into either her or Dutch’s private worlds, either. But now he looked at her strangely. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he finally asked as he adjusted a fender.

  She glanced up from the stern of the boat, where she had been coiling some dock lines, to where Princeton stood waiting for her on the end of the pier. The stars were out, and there was no wind, only the sounds of boats gently rocking in the water and the soft slaps of the waves landing on shore.

  Rudy was one of those sensitive souls, attuned to every nuance in the air around him, every tilt of the planet. And he was concerned for her; that meant something. She thought she could read his mind and its prediction: big-city rich boy comes to small town and woos local girl, then leaves her heartbroken.

  Frieda looked away from Princeton as he stood waiting patiently, rock solid on the pier while an unexpected crashing wave heaved against the pilings and sent up a little burst of spray. She already knew that the seawater had a tendency to curl his hair, that he liked to sit facing the city on a run, that he liked his coffee black, that he didn’t wash his own clothes.

  She said to Rudy, “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  Rudy glanced at Princeton and then back at her.

  “I’m not talking about him,” he said, “although that could be something worth examining. I’m talking about this, what we’re doing here.”

  She wiped the droplets of salt water from her face. Rudy hadn’t spoken to her like this since the night two years ago when she’d first joined the crew. What was bothering him now?

  As if he’d read her mind, Rudy said, “That cutter knows who we are now. We’re not such a small operation anymore; we have one of the biggest boats. We’d be a great success story for them if they caught us. They’ll be back.”

  “Guess so.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not as much as it should.”

  Rudy, finished with his chores now, took off his glasses and cleaned them with the tail of his shirt. “Just want you to know the risks you’re taking before you get in too deep.”

  “Too deep? It’s been two years! I appreciate your concern, but where is your worry for all the others involved?”

  Rudy shrugged and smiled. “They’re not dames.”

  Frieda laughed. “You can’t include me in that lot. I’ve never been girly.”

  “You’re still a dame. We men need to look out for the womenfolk, you know.” His face sobered. “Besides, haven’t you made enough?”

  Frieda finished coiling and storing extra dock lines, then stuffed her hands into her pants pockets. “I have Bea to put through school, Silver to look after. You know that.” Her voice changed. “And what about you? Haven’t you had enough?”

  “I got me a wife and three kids, but yeah, I’m thinking I’ve got just about enough. I’m thinking that after the summer’s over, this . . .” He gestured around. “This is gonna be over for me, too.”

  He confused her. There was too much money to be made. And how much is ever enough? What if Silver’s condition worsened and he needed round-the-clock professional nurses or hospitalization for years to come? What if he had another stroke that affected the other side? He’d be completely helpless. How long would her money last then? And what if Bea’s tuition went up? What if Dutch quit running and she couldn’t find enough work?

  But over the years she’d gained a lot of respect for Rudy and his opinions, more so than Dutch. Dutch was getting cocky. Just tonight he’d whooped and hollered when the cutter gave up, whereas Rudy had been sweating, even though the night was cool. Rudy might have one drink in the speakeasy after work, but then he went home to his family. Dutch, on the other hand, was sometimes staying out all night. His blond hair was turning more white every day, and his face was now dotted with what looked like permanent age spots. He spent a lot of time shuffling between the boat, the shore, and his storage sites, and often he carried a flask of whiskey under his coat. But she never asked any questions; this was a most unusual conversation.

  She said to Rudy, “Summer’s just started.”

  “How well I know this, Frieda. I’m just saying that once the weather turns foul again and we’ve saved up all summer long, let’s you and me get out of this thing. Let’s go back on the level. We’re not in it for fun.”

  She knew his comment about “fun” was aimed at Princeton, and she didn’t argue with the truth.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two nights later they went out on a run again, and their boat moved like a stingray in slick waters. They were making great money, and when they pulled in earlier than usual, Dutch said, “The night is young. This calls for a celebration.”

  It was a lovely night, with millions of stars splattered across the sky and only a curved blade of waxing moon cutting across that dark velvet. The wind hushed like someone sighing, and music drifted down over them from dockside bars. Normally she and Rudy headed home or each had a drink at night’s end, but both agreed it would be nice to stay out for a while. Princeton offered no objection either, so while they put gear away and secured the boat for the night, Dutch set up something of a makeshift bar on the afterdeck and started mixing.

  Frieda, Rudy, and Princeton settled in, lounging about. Now that they were back in port, Princeton did not wait for her on the end of the pier. Not like when they were on the boat running in. Princeton made no effort to speak with her, and his eyes did not chase her around tonight. What had happened? Maybe she had held her distance too long and pushed him away. Disappointment settled over Frieda. She pored over the night’s memories for a clue as to what could have made Princeton change. He’d sat beside her as before and conversed in his casual, teasing manner, but now there was a sense of remoteness, as if he’d dug a gulf between them. Maybe he’d had his fill of her already; maybe she’d simply been a way to kill time on board the boat. Maybe that was all he’d been after: to conquer and then withdraw. Then again, nothing much had actually happened between them. She felt burning shame for ever having imagined that they could have become a couple. No one else in his or her right mind would ever think they could have been together. How foolish had been her feelings.

  Dutch, almost finished making his concoction, paused for a moment, tilted his head upwards, and then said, “I heard that some of those stars out there, by the time their light has got here they’re already burnt out.”

  “I heard that, too,” said Rudy, but Frieda kept quiet. Her eyes kept drifting to Princeton; she found herself sadly studying his stance and movements. The loss of his attention was like having something precious, which you held secretly in your hands, suddenly snatched away.

  “What do you say, Princeton?” Dutch asked.

  Princeton shrugged. “Don’t know much about space. I’m not a physicist.”

  “A physicist?” Dutch barked. “I’m talking about being a person. Most persons find that kind of thought pretty damn amazing.”

  Princeton shrugged again. With his education he had to know a great deal more about space than she, Dutch, or Rudy did, and she would’ve liked to hear him share some of that knowledge. But it was obvious that Princeton didn’t want to seem superior to his current peers. He didn’t flaunt.

  Dutch invited a few o
ther runners to join them, as he had by now blended his brew—whiskey with champagne, topped off with dollops of brandy and green-mint liquor. When he started passing drinks around, Frieda said, “None for me.”

  Dutch reared back, feigning offense. “Don’t want to sample my magic?”

  Frieda removed her cap and shook out her hair. “Sure and steady course to sickness, looks like to me.”

  “Ah, come on. Thought you was one of the boys.”

  “Not tonight.”

  He lowered his voice. “It ain’t because of Princeton, is it?”

  Frieda stiffened as a stab of fear poked her in the sternum. Did everyone see what had come over her? Were they as shocked as she was, and were they feeling the need to protect her? Dutch’s way was with glibness; Rudy’s was with kindness. Was her fondness so obvious? And now her disappointment? Thank God Princeton was out of earshot, chatting it up with the other runners on board.

  She fixed her eyes on Dutch’s. She could do this. She could pretend to be completely at ease. “It’s because I want to leave here tonight standing on my own two feet.”

  Dutch jerked his head to one side. “Suit yourself.”

  All the men finished the first round and then started on another. Frieda sipped on champagne. Rudy stopped after two drinks and came to sit next to her. She figured he had enough alcohol in his system that he wouldn’t notice how her eyes yearningly followed Princeton as he kept up with all these hard-drinking sailors.

  But he did. He followed her gaze as she watched Princeton gulp down another tumbler full of Dutch’s madness, and Dutch said to him, “You sure can swig hefty, Princeton old boy, cain’t you?”