| |
John stood on the deck of the Grey Skies while Emily stood on the dock waiting for him to finish his boat chores. The other members of the writers group had already left.
John felt the deck of his sailboat move beneath his feet. He looked longingly at the binnacle standing just before the wheel, both now hidden under canvas covers the same color as the hull. He looked at the sleek metal boom, its matte finish spotless. Its track for unfurling the mainsail had worked perfectly on today’s sail. As usual, he thought with pride.
He had maintained the Grey Skies so well, pouring thousands of euros into her—while he had the euros, he thought ruefully. She was in fantastic shape and would command a good sum when he sold her.
If he sold her.
How could he possibly part with her?
He ran his hand over a teak handrail. He had sanded it and oiled it annually. He’d labored over the Grey Skies every spring, sanding the teak trim, adjusting things, tightening screws, waxing every square inch of her hull. Throughout the sailing season, he’d scraped his knuckles and bled onto every inch of her, too.
Starting every year on November 1, when his insurance policy ended his boating season, he started to anticipate working in his boat. That had been the only thing that got him through the gloomy Paris winters. If he sold this boat, how would he survive this coming winter without the spring maintenance work and the summer sailing to look forward to?
How could he sell the Grey Skies?
He stole a glance toward Emily. He’d asked her to come live with him. She’d said yes. He couldn’t afford to pay the rent on a two-bedroom apartment in Paris. Or outside of Paris, for that matter. Or to buy one. He could just about afford a péniche, to pay the light fee to tie it up along the Seine somewhere in Paris, and to enroll Emily in a French public high school.
But he didn’t want that.
He wanted to keep his boat.
His hand tightened on the teak handrail. The Grey Skies was his last symbol of success. Not many men could afford a boat, much less a 45-foot boat. And then maintain it. The Grey Skies had been a mirror in which he had been able to see himself as a success.
Besides which, he absolutely loved her shape, her responsiveness to the wind. He loved knowing that she was seaworthy—he could sail her around the world if he wanted to.
He still could. It wasn’t too late. Provision by charging it all on a credit card and just leave...the adventure that awaited him...
He stole another look at Emily, who was staring down into the water beside the dock.
His eyes turned to the mast and drifted higher and higher, to the anemometer spinning at the very top in the freshening evening breeze.
He spun through his arithmetic. Keeping it didn’t add up. But what did that matter? Did taking it and leaving Emily really matter?
What would Philippe do in this situation? Something he’d said at a recent writers group meeting resonated with John. “What do you value most?” he’d said.
His gaze returned to Emily, so small and vulnerable in her pink windbreaker. His father had valued his status more than his family, and look at the pain that still caused. If John just sailed away and abandoned Emily, how would that affect her? Or maybe he should take her with him? Then he’d be setting the example of living off of credit cards, like her mother. And they’d get revoked at some point, probably after a typhoon in the South Pacific when he would need repairs the most.
He let go of the handrail. Craving the feel of the smooth teak again, he ran his hand along its surface. He was shocked at how close he’d come to hurting Emily by choosing to sail away.
He turned, heartsick, from the handrail. Slowly he fumbled his keys out of his pocket and locked the cabin door. He felt sore in every muscle as he stepped off of the Grey Skies and onto the dock. He looked at his beautiful boat from bow to stern, his gaze caressing each line of her hull. He whispered, “Thank you.”
He walked to Emily and put his hand on her shoulder. Her windbreaker felt damp with evening dew.
“Ready, honey? Let’s drop off the keys at the broker’s office.
