Free Tattered Innocence by Ann Lee Miller Page B

wanted to hang onto
Leaf’s philosophy, but it ran off with the water running through
the drain.
    Instead, Leaf’s words slammed him against
the serrated edge of his grief for Gramps. He needed to man up and
face the pain once and for all. Get past it. But not today. All he
could imagine was diving into a vat of agony and never climbing
out.
     
     
    Rachel squinted into the sun from the bow as
a lanky black teen strode up the finger pier, a rolling suitcase
thumping across the boards after him.
    Peering through his glasses, he cocked his
head at Jake. “Captain Murray?”
    Rachel half-listened to Jake welcome Nigel
and direct him to his bunk. Two kids in low-slung surfer trunks and
flip-flops passed the Queen’s dock box.
    Rachel waved. “Yo, guys. Looking for the Smyrna Queen ?”
    A backwards baseball cap mashed onto snowy
almost-dreads jerked up. The boys about-faced in front of the
bow.
    “Welcome aboard, men.” She stretched her arm
down over the life lines toward the kid in the Inlet Charley’s Surf
Shop T-shirt. “Rachel.”
    His eyebrows arched above his mirrored
sunglasses. “Keenan.”
    She would have gotten a firmer handshake
from a hunk of seaweed. “And?” She held out her hand to dreads.
    “Pete.”
    Pete slapped her five. She was so going to
teach these boys how to shake hands like men. She checked her
clipboard. “Stateroom One.” She waved them toward the main
cabin.
    Behind Pete, a red-haired man and woman and
three similarly blessed kids walked up the dock.
    Jake shook hands with the dad. The tallest
and most-freckled kid, sporting an
I’m-totally-embarrassed-by-my-family look, moped toward his bunk as
six more boys boarded the Queen in a cacophony of parental
warnings, awkward good-byes, and luggage thudding onto the
deck.
    Twenty minutes later, Rachel cranked a
manual can opener around a massive can of baked beans in the
galley. Oh man, this was a seriously bad choice for the first meal
of the cruise. She had a straight shot at Jake chatting with the
boys in the cockpit, a grin playing cat and mouse on his face.
    He’d been good for her. He provided an
ever-present yardstick to measure Bret by. And, if she used the
term loosely, he’d become a friend in the time they’d sailed
together.
    Jake shoved the curls off his forehead and
squashed his University of South Florida baseball cap back onto his
head. He cleared his throat to get the boys’ attention and pointed
to the heavy wooden beam where the mainsail was furled. “The boom
demands your attention at all times. If it clocks you, you could be
knocked unconscious into the drink or killed. When someone yells,
‘Coming about!’ you duck. Then, look for the boom.”
    Even surfer Pete, who lounged in the far
corner of the cockpit, paid attention. Jake’s mix of respect and
firmness would have made him an excellent teacher. One more thing
to admire about him. One more career option a dyslexic wouldn’t
consider.
     
     

Chapter 8
     
    On Tuesday morning Rachel stood on the fore
cabin and stared up at the mainsail luffing in the miniscule
breeze. Nigel and Keenan sniggered on the fore deck. Heavy metal
blared from below. Pete, propped against the aft cabin, cleaned his
toe nails with a paper clip. An idea Jake would try to shoot down
took shape in her head.
    She looked down at Jake who stood in the
cockpit beside the wheel. “The guys are bored.”
    “Noticed.”
    Rachel fanned her T-shirt away from her
swimsuit. “We’re not behind schedule, are we?”
    Jake squinted at her. “Not yet.”
    “Let’s throw out a tow line and let the boys
swim.”
    Jake shrugged.
    “Your enthusiasm is killing me.” Rachel
ducked in and out of the aft cabin. She dribbled her basketball the
length of the boat.
    The rest of the boys streamed onto deck.
Rachel fired the ball between the bowsprit and its railing. “Guys,
that’s a basket. Choose up teams.” She tossed her T-shirt onto the
cabin and dove overboard. When she came up, all eyes