In moments, Whitney heard the hiss of electricity. “What was that?”
“The first sign of a thunderstorm,” Ben answered. “When the air is hot and humid like this, it combines with the cooler water to roil the weather. That’s what’s coming at us.”
In the distance, a flash of lightning shot from darkening clouds. “Can we sail around it?”
“No chance. You can’t sail in this at all.” Reaching behind him, Ben switched on the auxiliary motor. “We’re heading for Vineyard Haven. Do the things we need to, and we should be okay.”
A second bolt of lightning struck closer, its reflection shimmering orange on gray waters. Suddenly the skies grew even darker, and the wind vanished. “Help me get the mainsail,” Ben ordered. “We’ll stuff it through the hatch.”
Taking down the sail, Ben began folding it tightly. In the lull, Whitney scrambled to help him. Hurriedly opening the hatch, they pushed the canvas through. When she glanced up again, the black clouds coming toward them looked like mushrooms spitting jagged light.
“It’ll be here soon,” Ben said tautly. “These storms are pretty scary—the winds can get up to forty knots, and it’ll rain like hell. You should go down below until it’s over. There’s nothing you can do now, and I won’t think any worse of you.”
Whitney wanted to comply: framed against the vastness of the water, the skeleton of this boat without sails seemed fragile, sealing her sense of aloneness. But pride—or foolishness—forced her to say, “I’m sticking with you.”
“Then sit down and stay put. We’ll ride it out together.”
Whitney sat. Seconds later a stinging wind lashed her face, and the first wave of rain struck the water like bullets, dulling the thud of their engine. Grasping the tiller, Ben called out, “Don’t grab onto anything that’s sticking up.”
“Why?”
As if in answer, a lightning bolt thicker than a tree trunk cast a yellow streak near the bow. The boat began rocking sickeningly in storm-maddened waters. A hit of lightning struck beside her. Fearful, Whitney cried out. Tensed at the knees, Ben braced himself, eyes narrowing with strain.
“We’ll make it through,” he called out to her, and then they were enveloped in punishing winds, sheets of rain, lightning, the smell and hiss of electricity, the boat tossing crazily, lifting Whitney from her seat or jarring her from side to side. Sheets of rain flooded her eyes, near-blinded slits that barely saw the savage waves battering them from every direction. Gritting her teeth, she fought back nausea, beseeching God and Ben not to let them capsize.
He was grinning into the chaos all around them. You don’t care, she thought in anger and despair. And then, through a crack in the darkness, she saw a sliver of blue-gray sky.
“Almost done,” Ben told her over the noise and tumult.
The wind died suddenly. The darkness parted, and the wave of rain softened to a trickle. Ahead a burst of sun lit Vineyard Haven harbor, sparkling in brightness.
Whitney hunched over, arms folded, feeling her heart race. Then she saw Ben regarding her with a serious expression, as though discerning something new. “Glad you’re still here,” he informed her. “Losing you would have spoiled my day.”
The harbormaster sent a dinghy to retrieve them. Taking her purse from the cabin below, Whitney let Ben pull her into the boat.
When they reached the dock, he said, “You look like you showered with your clothes on. Not to mention the raccoon eyes.”
“It’s hard being a girl. Or haven’t you heard?”
“Once or twice. Why don’t we sit on the dock and dry out a little?”
They found a place, legs dangling above the bright lapping water. Reaching into her purse for a Kleenex, Whitney wiped off her mascara while Ben regarded the harbor with something like contentment. “It’s days like this,” he said wryly, “that make life still seem worthwhile.”
Whitney turned to him, curious. “How old were you the first time you sailed through this kind of storm?”
“Twenty-two. It was today, actually. I didn’t want to shatter your confidence.”
Whitney felt surprise become outrage. “You should have told me.”
Ben laughed. “For the sake of honesty? That may have been the whitest lie I’ve ever told a woman. But maybe you’d have felt better drowning with Sir Lancelot.”
Whitney gave him a tight smile. “I wouldn’t have minded Lancelot drowning. But going down with him would’ve spoiled my day.”
“But we didn’t, did we? If you need further consolation for surviving, I’ve talked to some experienced sailors who know firsthand how to ride out this kind of storm. Now I’m one of them.”
In this, Whitney detected a kernel of philosophy—that challenges were to be faced, not avoided. She remembered a quote attributed to Robert Kennedy: “Man was not made for safe havens.” Perhaps that, as much as principle, had had impelled Ben to follow him.
Impulsively, Whitney asked, “Can you teach me how to sail?”
He looked at her with the same surprise, Whitney realized, as she felt at her own question. “On the Cal 48? No way. Too big, too complicated.”
His dismissive tone made Whitney more than a little piqued. “Fine. I’ll learn from someone else.”
He studied her for awhile, as though to ascertain her seriousness. Then he asked, “You’re friends with Clarice Barkley, right?”
Surprised yet again, Whitney asked, “How do you know Clarice?”
“Oh, we’re very close. I used to wait tables at fancy Vineyard parties. I’ll never forget the night she said sweetly over her shoulder, ‘More champagne, please.’” His voice lost its sardonic edge. “I do know her father—I crewed for him one summer when he raced his Herreshoff on Menemsha Pond. It’s a twelve and a half-footer, perfect to learn on, and the pond is a better place to start. If Clarice says you can borrow Daddy’s boat, maybe we could give it a try.”
His tone was so neutral, and his remark about Clarice so double-edged, that Whitney felt she was imposing. “I’d pay you, of course.”
His face closed at once. “Don’t worry about it. We can work something out.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better get going. By now your parents will have called out the Coast Guard.”
His pride and resentment felt tangible now. “How did you know Clarice and I were friends? Did you see me at the parties, too?”
“The ones at your parents’ place,” Ben said succinctly. “Every Fourth of July.”
Thoroughly discomfited, Whitney stood. “Thank you for the sail, Ben. It’s one I won’t forget.”
He smiled a little. “That’s what we strive for, Miss Dane.”
Finding nothing more to say. Whitney left.
Her mother waited on the porch with a glass of wine. “I was worried,” Anne advised her with a trace of asperity. “It seems I was right to. You look like a drowned rat.”
“More like a raccoon, I’m told. We were caught in a storm.”
Anne gave her a querying look. “Caught? It came through here like an angry message from the Old Testament God. This young man seems more than a little reckless. You’d think he’d check the weather forecast before taking you out on the water. If your father were here, he’d be furious.”
This thought had occurred to Whitney, as well. Defensively, she said, “Ben knows what he’s doing.”
“Fine for him,” her mother answered crisply. “But he could have lost you both. Next time he plays aquatic roulette, he should do it alone.”
Whitney felt herself bridle at the implicit command. “Next time, we’ll be on Menemsha Pond, where it’s safer. Ben’s teaching me to sail.”
“Really,” Anne said, the single word etched with puzzlement and annoyance. “With all you have to do?”
“I’ve got time, Mom. And I’ve always wanted to learn.”
Her mother appraised her closely. “I never knew that, Whitney.”
Neither, Whitney realized, had she.