ZEKE DONOVAN DIDN’T like his choices. He could simmer inside, or maybe stomp around the dock. Or he could let loose and holler at somebody. But as frustrated as he was, he knew perfectly well he wouldn’t do any of those things. He wasn’t the simmering, stomping, hollering type. Especially not when it came to his dad.
Planting a hand on his hip, Zeke filled his lungs and let the air out in a long sigh. On the few occasions in the last few years he’d been angry at his dad over mistakes or mix-ups, Zeke always ended up feeling guilty. Besides, anger didn’t solve anything. Today, like other days, he’d just have to figure out a way to clean up the mess Dad left behind.
Mess was a good word for the ancient motor yacht gently rocking at their Donovan Marine Supply dock in Two Moon Bay. By any standards, the boat was fifty feet of peeling varnish, not to mention the cracks in the wooden cabin house and rails. The sooner Zeke could find a way to get the eyesore off his hands—and off his dock—the better.
Early that morning, before they’d even flipped their sign from Closed to Open, Zeke learned Drifting Dreamer would be delivered to their dock in Two Moon Bay that day. Like a switch had flipped on inside his head, Dad suddenly remembered he’d inherited a yacht. The memory surfaced after a call from a lawyer’s office downstate in Kenosha confirmed the boat would arrive by noon. How this derelict motor yacht ended up settling a twenty-year-old debt was a question still waiting for an answer.
Zeke glanced at his dad and then studied the papers he held. “The original letter is dated in March, Dad.” He pointed to a date in the body of the letter. “There it is, right there at the end, the estimated delivery date in June. Today.”
Frowning, Art Donovan said, “I meant to tell you about that letter from the law firm. But I must have stuck it in the drawer in my nightstand.”
Out of sight, out of mind, Zeke thought. This shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. His dad often forgot day-to-day events, but typically remembered details of his dealings with a customer from years ago. Unfortunately, stashing the March letter in a drawer in his room was like him, too. Zeke worked with his dad every day, but at no time in these last few months had the letter from the law firm surfaced.
The letter was addressed to his dad, Arthur Donovan. The facts confirmed that a man named Terrance Smyth had died and bequeathed this very old, but classic yacht to his dad to settle that debt. Zeke slapped the sheaf of legal documents against his thigh. “Do you remember the guy who stiffed you, Dad?”
“You bet I remember him.” Art flapped his hand toward the boat. “I spent a couple of months trying to track him down to pay for the hardware I sold him to outfit his boat—about two grand worth of top-of-the-line stainless steel. I almost found him, but he disappeared again. I finally gave up. Wrote it off as a bad debt and moved on.”
Art shook his head and jabbed his finger in the air toward the run-down boat. “But it wasn’t this boat he was outfitting, not Drifting Dreamer. What I sold him was hardware for his fiberglass sailboat.”
None of that really mattered. “We might as well have a closer look.” Zeke stepped from the dock to the deck of Drifting Dreamer. He bounced a few times to test its strength before glancing over his shoulder and nodding to his dad. “Come on aboard. Seems sturdy enough to support us. At least it’s teak and probably cleans up pretty easily. The deck might be newer than everything else topside.”
From the aft deck, Zeke quickly scanned the boat from bow to stern. “Since you own this baby, such as she is, free and clear, we might as well see what we can salvage. Or...”
“Or what?” Art asked.
“Beats me.” Zeke grinned at his dad, his mood softening enough to bring back his sense of humor.
For the next few minutes, Zeke pushed away worrying thoughts of his dad’s odd memory lapses. Were they really happening more frequently, or did it only seem that way sometimes? Like now, when a fifty-foot boat showed up unannounced. The one bright spot was that unlike some of his dad’s other mistakes, this one wouldn’t hurt their marine supply business, except in lost time spent ridding themselves of the run-down yacht. But still, how could anyone, even a forgetful person like his dad, let an unexpected inheritance this substantial slip his mind?
Thinking back twenty years, Zeke had been away at college and had no memory of this bad debt. Dad obviously had handled it by himself, as he had everything connected with the family business.
“Hey, Zeke,” Art called from the wheelhouse, “Drifting Dreamer must have been a beauty in her day. Not everything’s old, either. She’s got electronics they didn’t make back in 1939.”
“I can see that,” Zeke said honestly, looking at the spec sheet. Even the diesel engine was only six years old and showed its good condition with a healthy hum when the two guys hired to deliver Drifting Dreamer had maneuvered between the pilings on the dock. Newer equipment aside, on closer inspection, the overall condition of the boat was every bit as sad as it appeared at first glance. The remaining traces of varnish on the mahogany trim and wheelhouse were only reminders of the yacht’s better days. Zeke grimaced at the sight of blackening wood and cracked joints and seams.
“All the hardware is bronze,” Zeke called, trying to insert a positive note. “That’s worth something.” If they scrapped the boat parts, they’d recoup the original two thousand dollars—with interest. Zeke gently kicked the toe of his shoe against the row of wooden bins under the