Dolly All the Time(33)

We pass the giant Whitfield yacht in front of the club and pull into the valet parking area. “Good morning, Mr. Whitfield,” the attendants say in unison.

Stewart hands one of them his keys as Michael, the club manager, rushes out. “Marian’s ready to go,” he says to Stewart. “I don’t remember the last time you took her out.”

Stewart introduces us. “Michael, this is Dolly Brick. Gus and Clay. We’re headed to Ruddy Duck Cove. I think I still remember how to get there.”

Michael says, “Dolly. I can’t believe it.”

I smile at him. “In the flesh. But I am not going into the laundry dungeon today. You can’t make me.”

“Good,” he says and laughs. “Perfect day for sailing. Any provisions?”

“In the trunk, thanks,” Stewart says. I elbow Gus, who makes his way around the back of the car just as the valet attendants do. “It’s fine, Gus,” Stewart says. “They’ve got it.” Gus shoots me his biggest eyes.

We head through the club, bustling with breakfast cocktails, and go out back to the docks. We pass a sea of fiberglass, a dozen yachts built to cross the Atlantic. We stop at the very end, and Stewart’s boat is a jewel, thirty feet of gleaming wood. It has a single mast and a wooden helm polished to a high shine. It makes me think of Cary Grant’s boat, True Love, in The Philadelphia Story.

“This is Marian,” he says.

“Wow,” Gus says.

“I say that every time,” he says. “I love this boat.”

“Do you ever take out the giant one? That’s yours too, right?” Clay asks.

“Savannah was my grandfather’s boat,” he says. “My dad used to take it out sometimes, but I’m too chicken.” He lets out a laugh like he’s kidding, but I feel like he’s not.

“Why?” I ask. I step aside so that the guys can load the coolers onto the boat.

He’s looking down at me, expression serious. “I don’t want to be the Whitfield who sinks the family ship.”

The coolers are identical and don’t have wheels. This strikes me because you would never have a cooler without wheels if you intended to transport it yourself. There’s a tote bag too, white with a blue handle and Marian embroidered in green on the side. I peer in and see four kinds of sunscreen, extra hats, and a corkscrew.

Stewart is all business as the captain of this ship. He gives quick and decisive orders. Untie the ropes, push away from the dock, wrap the line clockwise around the winch and turn. When the sail is up and we are moving, he steers us into deeper water. The wind blows back his hair and presses his T-shirt against his chest, and I decide that swimming must be exceptionally good exercise. Afraid I might get caught looking at his chest, I sit behind him on the long bench seat.

The boys go up to the bow and dangle their legs over the edge. Stewart cuts the motor and we’re moving entirely by wind. The wake behind us sends a spray onto the deck, and I stretch my legs out to let it cool me. A Saturday on a boat with my son, who has a friend. An unobstructed view of the backs of a man’s legs, tan and muscled, with a faint layer of hair disappearing under his pale yellow swimsuit.

He turns around and smiles at me. “Want to steer?” he asks.

“I’m not sure I want to be the kindergarten teacher who sinks the Whitfield ship,” I say.

“I’ll back you up,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” I say, brow raised.

“Of course.” His easy answer hits me. I’m not a woman who is used to backup.

“Sure,” I say, getting up. He steps aside and I rest my hands on the helm.

“You have the conn,” he says.

I turn my head, and he’s right there. He’s not as cleanly shaven as I thought, and his stubble is flecked with gold and white. “The what, now?”

“The conn. It’s a nautical thing, a change of responsibility. You’re in charge now. You have the conn.”

“But you’re still backup,” I say. It’s time for me to turn away, back to the helm, but I don’t. I stay there, looking up at the ridge of his cheek and the way the faintest stubble trails down to his jaw. I want to tell myself that I am recording data for Naomi as a thank-you for the free bathing suit. But the fact is, it’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a man, and I’m enjoying the swirly way the heat off his skin is mixing with mine.

“I’m backup,” he says. “Just point it toward that tiny speck of land.”

We don’t talk. I steer toward the land, and he sits back on the bench like he has all the confidence in the world that I’m not going to sink this thing. He pulls ropes to adjust the sails, and I feel my way through the adjustments I need to make at the helm. We’re moving more quickly than I would have guessed, and the wind is misting my face with sea spray. I love the rhythm of the boat moving under me, rolling over waves as they come.

When we’re close, Clay shouts, “Land ho!” We anchor, and everything is completely silent.

I turn to Stewart and he’s smiling at me. “You did it,” he says.

“I did.” I smile back and flex my hands to release where I’d been gripping the helm.

“I forgot how good it feels to be out here,” he says, running a hand through his hair.