14

“I don’t like the idea of you going off like this to a strange place.” Punky’s green beetle was approaching the congested passenger drop-off area of Sky Harbor Airport, and she kept her eyes on the road.

“Punky, every time you bring me to the airport I’m heading off to a strange place,” Cassie reminded her. “That’s at least once a month, and sometimes twice.”

“But those times you have a destination. You’re going there for a purpose.”

“I’ve got a purpose for flying to Seattle, I assure you.”

Punky maneuvered into a parking place by the curb and turned to face her friend. “I can’t help but worry. I’m glad you had a blessing, and that you asked Ben to do it. How are things between you?”

“Oh, we’re not back to our old easy relationship, but it will come. He told me he wasn’t going to ‘resume the courtship.’” Cassie reached for the door handle.

“No. Don’t go yet.” Punky fished in her purse and drew out a small red book. “There’s a fellow in the cast—plays opposite me, in fact. He’s a Gideon, and he gave me a New Testament. Actually,” Punky grinned, “I made him make it a trade. I gave him a Book of Mormon.”

“What’s a Gideon?”

“It’s like a Christian men’s club, I think. Maybe it’s a denomination. Anyway, they minister by giving out Bibles. I asked for a second one for you. Here. You can put it in your purse, and if you get feeling low, you can read it and gain some comfort right there and then.”

“Thank you, Punky.” Cassie tucked the book in her purse and leaned over to hug her friend. “When do you open?”

“Tomorrow night is dress rehearsal. We open on Friday.”

“Well, break a leg!” Cassie got out of the car and Punky popped the luggage compartment so Cassie could pull her suitcase out. Stooping to look through the window, she said, “I know you’ll be busy, but call me if you can. I’ll have my cell phone with me. Thanks for the ride.”

Punky waved, and spotting an opening in the traffic flow, she zipped into the empty space and was soon lost to sight. Cassie stood on the curb feeling as she had yesterday when Bishop Harris and Ben removed their hands from her head: as if she were untethered, set adrift from her moorings. Then she took a deep breath and sailed on into the airport.

* * *

Cassie looked out the window with interest as they flew over Mount St. Helens’ gaping crater. The sky was utterly cloudless, and the forest on the flanks of the mountain was mottled like a calico cat in hues of green, yellow, and orange. Soon she could see towns and cities below, and then the blue of Puget Sound, a huge inland sea strewn with peninsulas and islands.

After they landed, Cassie rented a car and got out the map and driving directions she had printed off the night before. Following the signs to the freeway, she turned north on I-5 and drove past downtown Seattle, where shiny new skyscrapers dwarfed turn-of-the-century brick buildings and in the distance the Space Needle jabbed the sky. After Phoenix and Scottsdale with its spiny, thorny, drought-resistant vegetation, the riot of green on the populated hills around Lake Washington seemed almost decadent. Cassie remembered something Chan had said as they were driving along one day: “I’ve never seen so much bare dirt.” She understood what he meant, now.

Following her map, she exited the freeway and turned left at the surface road. The streets were constricted, and the houses were older, with narrow clapboard siding and curious, fish scale-like wooden shingles under the steep-pitched gables. Some of them were almost hidden in a tangle of growth; others had severely pruned hedges and shrubs accenting the front yards. But all were surrounded by the color and texture of vibrant vegetation. Banks of mums in autumn bronze and gold were a backdrop to the showier dalias, whose purple, yellow, and crimson blooms, large as dinner plates, looked like multicolored suns sprouting in the front yard.

As Cassie continued driving west, the houses gave way to a seedy, gray industrial section that gradually became an area of boatyards. She looked with interest at the sailboats sitting in cradles high above the street, their massive keels knifing down four, six, eight feet below them. Searching for a business that had an address painted so she could see how close she was to her destination, Cassie saw the sign she was looking for: Jensen and Sjoding, Yacht Brokers.

The gate was open, and she drove in between rows of large boats sitting up on Styrofoam blocks. A young man was wielding a brush on a long handle, washing the hull of a huge motorboat that had sweeping, pouncing, art-deco lines. Cassie slowed and rolled down her window. She caught his eye, and he put down his brush and approached with a diffident matter and a shy smile.

“I’m looking for the office,” Cassie said. “Jensen and Sjoding? Where is it?”           

He ran his fingers through the brown curly hair that fell over his forehead and then pointed. “Go straight down the way you’re going and turn left at the end. Turn right at the next line of boats and go as far as you can go. The office is right by the water.”

“Thank you.” Cassie continued as she had been instructed and was amazed at the vista that opened to her when she reached the water’s edge. Row upon row of docks with boats of all sizes and descriptions moored to them extended as far as she could see in either direction.

The sun was warm, but a breeze was blowing, carrying the damp scent of salt water. It gave a chill to the air, and Cassie was glad she had worn a pair of brown, high-heeled boots and a turtleneck sweater under her tan pantsuit. After getting out of the car, she stood for a moment and examined the yacht broker’s premises. It seemed a prosperous enough place: a well-kept building, lots of glass, and blooming flowers in strategically placed planters on the covered porch. Pushing open the heavy glass door, she detected a faint musty odor, but that was the only thing that detracted from the deep burgundy carpet, dark wood, maritime paintings, and rich furnishings.

“May I help you? I’m Mr. Jensen.”

Cassie turned to find a short man with an immense girth. He had a bald pate above a fringe of gray hair, an oval face with merry wrinkles, and he wheezed when aspirating his aitches. Extending her hand, she said, “I hope you can. My husband recently bought a boat through you, apparently at an auction?”

“Yes?” As he shook hands, Mr. Jensen’s smile became rigid around the edges.

Cassie wondered how many wives came in to Jensen and Sjoding to try to give back the boats their husbands had purchased. “I’ve come to you for information,” she said. “I was recently widowed, and it was only then that I found out about the boat.”

“Come into my office, Mrs. . . .”

“Jordain,” Cassie supplied as she followed Mr. Jensen down the hall to a corner office overlooking the marina. She took the seat that was offered, and while he settled his bulk in an immense office chair, she drew the envelope bearing the yacht broker’s logo out of her purse.

“Mrs. Jordain.” Mr. Jensen tried the name and then smiled in recognition. “Yes. Red Swan. We purchased the boat for a Mr. Chandler Jordain.”

“Yes. The papers just came on Monday.”

“You said you were recently widowed, but we contracted with Mr. Jordain just last—”

“My husband was killed in an accident a week and a half ago.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jordain. Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jensen. I think he may have been going to surprise me with the boat, so I knew nothing about it.”

“I see. Well, how may I help you?”

“I guess I’d like to know about the transaction. Did he say why he wanted to buy a boat? Why did he buy this particular one? Any information that you can give me would be appreciated. It will help me decide what I want to do with it.”

“I handled the transaction myself, but I never saw your husband in person. He apparently knew the Red Swan was coming up for auction, and he wanted it, however high the bidding went. He paid us with a funds transfer to our bank and signed the papers by fax. That’s about it, Mrs. Jordain.”

“And where is the boat, the Red Swan, right now?”

“It’s in a slip at Quarry Harbor.” Mr. Jensen wheezed out the aitch on Harbor. “Mr. Jordain requested that it be moored there, and we were able to sublet a slip for the winter season. My grandson took it over there last week and left the key with the harbormaster.”

“Is that your grandson out there washing boats?” Cassie asked, and when he nodded she said, “He has a sweet smile.”

“He’s the joy of my life. I had hoped that he would go on to college, but all he wants to do is be around boats.”

Cassie looked at her watch. “Well, I guess the next thing to do is go to Quarry Harbor to see the boat.”

“Unless you want to find a place to stay here in Seattle, see the sights and all, and we’ll bring the boat over for you to see.”

“I think it probably would be more efficient for me to go there. Can you tell me how to get to Quarry Harbor?”

“It’s on St. Mary’s Island.” Mr. Jensen stepped to a framed map on the wall, and Cassie stood to see it.

“He pointed. Take the ferry at Anacortes. There’s a ferry that leaves every twenty minutes, but you want the one that leaves on the hour. You get off at the town of Shingle Bay, here. It’s the largest town on the island. Drive about ten miles up the north side of the island to the westernmost point. Here. That’s Quarry Harbor.”

“I should be able to find it all right.”

“I’m sure you will. If, after you see the Red Swan, you decide to sell her, we would be glad to handle the sale. She’s a sweet little boat and would fetch a good price.”

“Mmm. I’ll think about it. I don’t yet know what I’m going to do.”

“Where are you from, Mrs. Jordain?”

“Scottsdale, Arizona.”

Mr. Jensen laughed out loud. The buttonholes on his dress shirt strained against the buttons as his belly shook. “Not much water down there to float a boat.”

“Nothing like you’ve got here,” Cassie admitted, smiling. “Do you have a card, Mr. Jensen, in case I might have something else to ask you?”

Cassie pocketed the business card and Mr. Jensen followed her down the hall to the door, which he opened for her, extending his hand.

“Thank you for coming in,” he said. “Anything we can do to help you, we will. And again, we offer our condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jensen.” Cassie patted her pocket. “I have your card.”

As Cassie walked back to her car, she smelled the aroma of fish frying and realized she was hungry. Retracing her route through the boat lot, she came back to the city street and decided she’d drive on until she found someplace to eat.

She was soon rewarded with a little open-air stand that sold fish and chips. Sitting at a picnic table to eat, she spread out her map and traced the route she needed to take to get back to the freeway. Then she put it away and watched two gulls who were sitting on a fence, eyeing her lunch. There was a sign hanging on the fence encouraging patrons to feed the gulls, so she tossed a fry onto the deck and watched the squawking birds race for the morsel. The original gulls were soon joined by two more on the fence, and the competition got fiercer. By the time Cassie finished her lunch there was a crowd of noisy gulls vying for her leftovers, and she began to think that feeding the first one had been a bad idea. Glad to be leaving, she cleaned up her mess, got back in the car, and headed for Anacortes.

She found it to be a pretty little town on a hill that sloped down to the sea. There was a grassy park on either side of the ferry dock, landscaped in native plants, with decorative concrete-and-brick walkways and marine statuary. Cassie parked there and looked out over the blue expanse of Rosario Strait. A solitary sailboat with its sail puffed out like Mr. Jensen’s belly made its way slowly across her field of vision. Then a ferry approached the dock, coasting in with its engines idling. She started as it sounded its horn, two short and one long blast. The engines roared as they were reversed, and the large white craft slowed, slowed, and stopped just as the lip of the ferry touched the dock.

Looking at her watch, Cassie saw that it was twenty minutes to the hour. She started her car, pulled around to the ticket booth, and bought passage to St. Mary’s Island. Then she parked in the lane she was directed to, turned off the engine, and resigned herself to a fifteen-minute wait.