Part 32 (1/2)

”He's in back,” she said. Then, with a smile, she confided, ”I'm glad you came by. Yesterday he was mumbling about some idea he said he's got to talk to you about. He was going to head over to your house in a little bit. He'll be glad you're here.”

Peter rounded the house and trotted down the dock. He could see the top of Byron's white-haired head. ”Hey,” he said, leaping from the dock to the boat.

”I see you got your boat shoes on,” Byron said, looking up from his work, as he finished oiling the boat's teakwood bulwarks.

”Good,” he said, making a few last wipes. ”You're ready to sail.”

”If you say so.”

”I say so. You saved me a short walk, you know, 'cause I was going to come over and talk to you today after I took a little sail.” He replaced the lid on the can of oil and tossed the sodden rags in a plastic bag, stuffed both into a canvas sack.

”Here, stow this, son,” he said, pointing to an open bin just inside the cabin. Peter caught the small sack and put it away.

The boat's teakwood and bra.s.s cabin was clean, cla.s.sy, elegant, and sharp - much like its captain, Peter thought.

”Cast off,” Byron told him, indicating the boat's mooring lines.

Peter jumped to the dock and unwrapped the lines from the cleats.

The engine churned alive. ”Now give us a good shove,” Byron ordered.

Once Peter was back on board, Byron applied power and the boat lurched once, then smoothed, and they motored for the inlet, the water ahead rolling in small swells, the day clear and crisp.

”Is it going to be windy enough?” Peter asked, shading his eyes and squinting out at the ocean that lay a half-mile ahead.

”Here,” Byron said. He tossed Peter a spare pair of sungla.s.ses.

Peter put them on and looked again. He could see a few boats in the distance whipping along at a respectable clip, their sails puffed fully.

”Sail much?” Byron said.

Peter shook his head. He gripped the rail behind him with both hands, anchoring himself in a leaning position as he watched Byron work the wheel.

The older man smiled and pulled his pipe from his s.h.i.+rt. Holding the wheel steady with his elbows, he expertly applied his lighter to the pipe's bowl. ”You'll get used to it,” he said, pointing his pipe at Peter's rigid knees. ”Just gotta go with the flow.”

When they reached the ocean, Byron began yelling orders to Peter, who followed them with colt-like shakiness. Within minutes the mainsail and jib were swollen fully in the eastern wind.

Byron shut off the engine, and Peter observed the silence, the power of the wind as it pushed the sleek vessel along quickly and quietly, as if by magic.

”Here,” Byron said, stepping back from the wheel. ”Hold it where my hands are.”

Peter placed his hands over Byron's, ready. When Byron let go, Peter's body gave a slight jerk. ”Just keep her steady,” Byron said, returning his hands. He held them there until Peter adjusted to the boat's pull.

Byron disappeared inside the cabin for a moment, then returned with two cans of beer. He popped the lids and handed one to Peter. ”Top of the morning to ya,” he said, tipping his can to Peter.

The two men shared a couple of minutes of silence between them as they sailed some distance. Peter was the first to speak up. ”I've got an idea,” he said simply.

”Me too,” Byron said. His gaze was focused behind Peter, at the distant sh.o.r.eline. He took a sip from his beer and gave Peter a nod. ”You first,” he said.

”Okay. I was thinking about what you said the other night. You know, about our differences, good ones.”

Byron took a thoughtful suck of his pipe and nodded, then expelled a plume of aromatic smoke.