I couldn’t take the tête-à-tête any longer. Debbie always starts something. He probably thought we were a couple of boat bunnies. I could just choke her. Not knowing how to tactfully change the subject, I blurted out, “We have to get back to work.”
“Hey . . .” Debbie started to protest, looking at her watch.
“We have a deadline to meet,” I mumbled, stuffing the rest of my sandwich in the brown paper bag.
“Well, I don’t want to hang you ladies up. It’s been a real pleasure, one I hope to repeat when you’re not so busy. Ta, Debbie. Ta, Tami.”
I turned, looked at him, and was confronted with a great big smile. My heart leaped. His pale, baby blue eyes mesmerized me.
“Hey matie, what’s your name?” Debbie broke the spell.
“Richard. Richard Sharp at your service. You can catch me at Gypsy on D dock.”
“Well ta yourself, Richard from D dock.” Debbie laughed.
He smiled warmly at her and said to me, “See you later?” I glowed red again and smiled like a fourteen-year-old before I could force myself to turn away. His footsteps echoed down the long wooden dock.
“Did you see the way he looked at you?” Debbie chirped. “He’s in love.”
“Oh, give me a break. You embarrassed the hell out of me saying, ‘one of our many talents’! We’re professionals, not dock babes. I’m so mortified, I could just fire you.”
“Oh, not that again.” Debbie sighed, throwing her sandwich’s plastic bag into the five-gallon bucket we used for trash. “That was not a decent lunch break, I deserve overtime for today.” She always had to get the last word in.
All that afternoon I thought about Richard. I was dating a couple of guys but they were just acquaintances. He must be talented to have been hired on Gypsy. I thought of his British accent, it was so exotic. I couldn’t stop seeing his image in the reflection of the stainless steel winches as I varnished around them. I knew I wanted to see him again, but I hadn’t developed the skill of trolling—reeling in guys like Debbie and some of my other friends had. Meeting him caused me to feel so good, so alive. I hoped I would see him again soon. I wondered what tool I could borrow from D dock.
I went home that afternoon with a feeling of euphoria. As I walked through the front door, the phone was ringing. “Tami, it’s Bridget, boy do I have a gig for you.”
“You do, Bridge-deck? Great,” I said into the phone. “Where to this time?” I knew it was work, Bridget always thought of me first if she couldn’t take a boat-delivery job. But this time my enthusiasm waned, for the image of Richard flashed through my mind and I knew if I accepted the delivery I wouldn’t be seeing him for quite a while.
“This delivery sounds like fun,” Bridget said. “It’s a state-of-the-art racing sloop bound for the Big Boat Series at the St. Francis Yacht Club in San Francisco. Wish I could take it.”
“Well, thanks for thinking of me again.”
“The skipper is a South African named Eric. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, but cool—no hanky-panky, unless, of course, you start it.”
“Not me, not on the job.”
“Smart girl. He’d like to meet you at seven thirty tomorrow morning at the Red Sails Inn restaurant to discuss the details. Can you make it?”
“Absolutely, Bridge-deck, thanks for the lead.”
“Us first mates gotta stick together. Later.”
When I walked into the restaurant I spotted Eric by the description Bridget had given me over the phone. Eric was sitting with two other guys whose backs were to me. I walked up and introduced myself. They had been there for a while and had almost finished eating.
Eric introduced me to Dan, the American, and then Richard, the Brit.
I thought I’d keel over. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Oh, not this revealing blush again, I thought. But there was nothing I could do to stop it. Richard smiled knowingly and halfway stood up while I took a seat across from him. Being this close to him, out of the bright sun, I noticed his eyes were not exactly baby blue, but darker—lapis lazuli. I had to look away, for if I stared any longer I’d swoon. He was definitely affecting me in a way no man ever had before.
Eric asked me about my sailing history. “I’ve sailed from California, all through the South Pacific to New Zealand,” I answered.
As Richard took a last bite of his omelet, I noticed his hands were rough, callused. He ate the European way, the fork upside down in his left hand, the knife in his right hand. He was older than I thought—thirties. What a doll.
The delivery crew would be Eric, Dan, and me, if I decided to take the job. I was disappointed to learn Richard wouldn’t be going. He had a work deadline to meet on Gypsy.
As we talked about the delivery, my green eyes would wander to Richard’s blue ones and discover them looking back at me. As the conversation wound down, in walked a petite, blond woman of about thirty. She came up behind Richard and put her hand on his back. I was crushed. I could tell he was attracted to me, but he was obviously taken. What was he doing flirting with me? Damn, I hated to be led on.
Her name was Lizzie, and she had a British accent too. She had come to deliver a message to Richard about work. I watched as Richard and Lizzie left together, and hoped my disappointment didn’t show. Eric, Dan, and I made plans for the departure of the delivery cruise, which would be in five days.
Delivering the boat was a piece of cake. Even rounding notorious Point Conception, the water was flat calm. I was rather discouraged, because I had been eager to sail this hotshot racing sloop, having never sailed with hydraulics before, let alone a stowaway mainsail. Dan and Eric were charming: Dan’s sense of humor kept us laughing, and Eric’s deadpan demeanor and boating skills kept us on track.
The elite St. Francis Yacht Club was right on the bay in downtown San Francisco. The location was spectacular, but the ambiance was unwelcoming—I felt out of it. The club was overrun by beauties wearing the latest fashion in boating attire. Through overheard conversations and a few conversations of my own, it didn’t take long to figure out I had clocked more blue water nautical miles than seventy-five percent of the sailors there. I mused over the amount of money people would spend on trinkets like diamond rings, earrings, and pendants. The fancy gold-braided replicas of nautical symbols must have cost a fortune. Rolexes were on practically every wrist. It’s a wonder the mirror in the ladies room didn’t break from all the jealous glaring going on. It was obvious the competition wasn’t just on the water. It didn’t take me long to realize these sled-type racing yachts and the accompanying lifestyle weren’t for me.
During the entire week of the delivery, I hadn’t been able to get Richard off my mind. I subtly asked Dan questions about Richard and learned that he was thirty-four years old and that his relationship with Lizzie was on the rocks. Dan told me Richard had built his sailboat in South Africa and was circumnavigating the world when he decided to make a brief stop in San Diego to do a few repairs and earn a few bucks. This information piqued my interest again.
After cruising the South Pacific I had learned I had an artist’s touch for varnishing. When I returned home from New Zealand and found there was a demand for yacht refinishers, I created a brightwork business. With the delivery over, Dan and I flew home. He was between jobs, so I hired him to help Deb and me in my thriving business. About a week after we returned from the delivery, Richard came by the job and asked Dan and me to join him for lunch; Deb was off that day. I stashed my brown bag and said sure, as casually as possible. I felt his eyes on me as I climbed down the ladder. He reached out and took my elbow as I stepped off the bottom rung. What a gentleman. My heart was caught—hook, line, and sinker.
One afternoon Richard came by the boat I was varnishing and asked me to have dinner with him that night. I hesitated and then told