“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 rail of the aft deck. They rarely saw that high-quality mahogany anymore, except on the luxury custom boats very few people could afford.
When Zeke went into the main cabin, his dad was peering inside the oven of the newish stove, another item on the spec sheet that puzzled Zeke. Someone had a plan to bring back Drifting Dreamer. But who? Zeke shook off the question. It intrigued him, like a mystery, but it didn’t matter. He and his dad needed a new plan. Now.
To start, Zeke supposed they could ask Nelson White, their old friend who owned the marina and boatyard next door, to haul the boat out of the water, so they could begin salvaging whatever was valuable and get rid of the rest. But then he muttered, “A little sweat and sandpaper could help. To get her ready to sell, I mean. Maybe there’s life in the boat yet. We don’t need to junk her.”
His dad grinned and cupped his ear, acknowledging the groan of the pump that ran for a few seconds before coming to a halt with a clunk. “The bilge pump works.”
“See? Another selling point. Besides, we know for sure she’s seaworthy enough to make the trip from Kenosha.”
According to the paperwork, the nearly eighty-year-old yacht had been built in Duluth, Minnesota, and launched in 1939. It was a Bergstrom 50, a legendary design. That alone made her a classic, Zeke thought. From the attorney’s letter, Zeke learned Smyth bought the boat four years before he died. It had been sitting under a tarp in a boatyard, the victim of years of neglect.
He’d added a note in his will about it being better late than never to make restitution.
“Man, oh, man, you don’t have this much storage in your house,” Art called from the forward cabin.
“That big, huh?” Zeke was amused by his dad’s remark, even knowing it was his responsibility to resolve this result of a twenty-year-old problem. As a kid, he and his dad had been referred to as Art and his boy, Zeke. Even when he’d been almost thirty years old he was still Art’s boy. But over these last years, the situation reversed. Now people around town called them Zeke and his dad, Art. The shift was subtle at first, and really shouldn’t have mattered. But it did, mainly because Art had changed over the years, and Zeke had all but forced his dad to leave the apartment over their store and move into his house down the street.
“Must have cost a small fortune,” Art said as he came out of the cabin. “But there’s a lot of pride in this old yacht.”
Standing in the galley, Zeke agreed with his dad. It was built to be a showpiece and was made with the best materials available in the 1930s. In his mind’s eye, Zeke could take himself back to the day Drifting Dreamer was launched. The original owner, whoever it was, had chosen that name for a reason. Maybe a couple had her built, or it could have been a family. What kinds of dreams did they have mind?
“Kinda musty in here,” Art said, wrinkling his nose. “I can hardly smell anything anymore, but I got a whiff of old-boat odor. Maybe a little mildew mixed in. But it’s probably just the smell of a boat that’s been closed up too long.”
His train of thought interrupted, Zeke reached up and opened the porthole above the sink to let in a little fresh air on the sunny day.
“I suppose we better get back to the store,” Zeke said. “We won’t solve this problem today. But who knows? Someone might come along with money to burn and make you an offer, Dad.”
“Yep, and we left Teddy alone,” Art said, “not that the little mutt gets himself into too much trouble. I’ll take him for a walk.”
Zeke smiled at that characterization of the dog that had maneuvered his way through the back door of their store one day, plunked himself down and never left. In his pocket, Zeke’s phone signaled a text. As he read the screen, he got an immediate hit in his gut. He glanced at his dad, who was opening and closing storage lockers. But now they had another problem to solve. And right away.
“Uh, Dad, we really do need to get back.” He left out any mention of the customer’s problem. Well, a Donovan Marine Supply problem now. If he said anything about his dad mixing up an order for one of their best customers, he’d just upset him.
Zeke quickly scanned the shabby cabin one more time. Drifting Dreamer would have to wait.
* * *
WHENEVER ANDI STERLING’S mood needed a boost, a little aimless wandering usually did the trick. But that Friday night, even meandering along Two Moon Bay’s streets, Andi found her state of mind darkening as daylight faded into dusk.
She’d been in Two Moon Bay only a few days, but already she’d learned her way around the picture-book town. Ironically, despite not having a permanent place to live for herself and her daughter, Brooke, the town was beginning to feel like home. That evening, though, she deliberately avoided the shops and restaurants downtown and instead kept close to the waterfront parks and businesses.
Andi drew her hand across her brow, damp from the humid evening air. Since it was much too warm to let her long hair hang loose down her back, she tucked the stray wisps into the twist she’d fixed at the nape of her neck. “Stay put,” she murmured, mocking a tone of authority.
Since she knew almost no one in town, she could ramble around unnoticed, almost as if she was hiding. And in a way she was. For now, she craved privacy, even anonymity. She couldn’t say why that was true, but maybe it was because she had so many loose ends in her life and didn’t want to try to explain them.
Crossing the block-long park, the aroma of brats and burgers cooking on grills caught her attention. Couples and families were having old-fashioned cookouts around the clusters of wooden picnic tables and benches. The pleasant scents carried over to the party-like atmosphere of the Two Moon Bay Marina, a hot spot in late June. The breeze carried the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter, and a few boats were motoring out of the protected yacht basin and into the bay for a late-evening sail.
As Andi approached the well-lit docks, she spotted the tour boat with the almost whimsical name, Lucy Bee. Brooke had been on a trip on that boat with her stepmom, Lark, last summer. It amused Andi that Brooke was way more familiar with Two Moon Bay than she was thanks to her dad—Andi’s ex—living there.
A loud cheer drew Andi’s attention to a deck party on a large yacht, where a big-screen TV showed a baseball game. But then her eye was also drawn to a small runabout tied at the dock, where two teenage boys sat across from each other, phones in hand, so engrossed in video games or texting they were oblivious to what was going on around them.
Couples, parents, kids. Everywhere Andi looked she saw people busy having fun. But a few men and women weren’t too preoccupied to raise their hands in a sociable wave as she passed by. She was all smiles as she returned the greeting and kept walking as if she had somewhere to be.
Soon, Andi left the well-lit marina behind and reached an empty stretch of grass she knew led to a pair of docks belonging to the marine supply store. She and Brooke had ventured this way a couple times