buildings were smaller than Boston’s skyscrapers. I loved the quaint rows of brightly painted little houses, in every style from Art Deco to Victorian, that marched cheek by jowl up and down the slanting streets.
Lisa drove ruthlessly and confidently, weaving through the suburban areas to the waterfront.
“I take it you’ve been here awhile. You really seem to know your way around,” I said, hanging on to the plastic sissy handle as we bolted through a changing light, dodging a homeless woman with a shopping cart filled with cats.
“Ever since I moved here from Puerto Rico,” Lisa said. “I love the city. And I love escaping it back to the tropics.”
“So has Rafe been boarding with you long?” I was hungry for tidbits about him, scraps of information that would help me get a clearer picture of this mystery man.
“Some years now,” she said, and then glanced at me mischievously. “I can tell you some things, if you want.”
“Yes.” As we approached the waterfront, my nervousness increased. “Anything. We don’t know each other too well.”
“He’s private that way,” she said thoughtfully. “But he loves good music, plays some drums occasionally. Reads a lot. Works with his hands and is very good with them. I save up all the things I need fixed around the house until he’s in port. He likes animals. I have a dog and he always brings home bones and scraps for her from eating out.”
She pulled the Beetle up at the curb in front of an industrial-looking wharf. PIER 27 was emblazoned on it. “Go through the turnstile there, and his boat is the Creamy Maid .”
“Okay,” I said. I got out, my arms wrapped around my backpack. I looked back at her, scared to be abandoned in this strange place. “Will I see you later?”
“Sure.” She winked. “Call if you can’t find him, for some reason.”
I watched the purple Beetle merge back into the hectic traffic and slung on my backpack, steeling myself.
I’d come on this crazy trip. There was nothing to do but go ahead and find Rafe. And hope he really had wanted to see me.
I approached the dock and went through the turnstile door. On the other side, rows and rows of boats stretched along the floating dock.
And there were three docks, each jammed with boats.
The air was redolent with the briny smell of the sea, the chime of metal fittings on rigging, and the intermittent squeaks of rubber bumpers hitting the boats as they jostled gently in their berths.
It was going to take me forever, walking up and down, to find the Creamy Maid .
I spotted a wiry old man, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, winding rope beside a craft. “Do you know where the Creamy Maid is?”
“That way.” He pointed with the cigarette down the middle dock.
“Thanks.” I adjusted my backpack and walked forward. And walked. And walked, turning my head from side to side to scan the boats.
When I finally came upon it, the Creamy Maid was so big, so sleek and fancy, that the butterflies in my stomach multiplied. It was so enormous, it took up a whole arm off the dock.
I shouldn’t be here. This was unbelievably awkward. Rafe wasn’t going to be expecting me, and now I had to bug someone rich and important by visiting their boat?
I stood there, looking at the long, sleek shape of the Maid , her metalwork sparkling, her rolled sails snowy. I set the backpack down, in need of a drink of water and to figure out what to do next. I turned and bent over, rummaging for the water bottle I’d stashed inside.
“Ruby?”
I stood and spun around, holding the water bottle, filled with both mortification that Rafe’s first view of me had been my bent-over ass in my best acid-washed Guess jeans.
“Hi, Rafe,” I said.
Rafe stood on the high bridge of the boat, holding one of the lines. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looked like a scrumptious pirate in a frayed pair of cutoffs, acres of tanned muscle and sinew shining in the early-spring sun. A bandanna held back
Lisa drove ruthlessly and confidently, weaving through the suburban areas to the waterfront.
“I take it you’ve been here awhile. You really seem to know your way around,” I said, hanging on to the plastic sissy handle as we bolted through a changing light, dodging a homeless woman with a shopping cart filled with cats.
“Ever since I moved here from Puerto Rico,” Lisa said. “I love the city. And I love escaping it back to the tropics.”
“So has Rafe been boarding with you long?” I was hungry for tidbits about him, scraps of information that would help me get a clearer picture of this mystery man.
“Some years now,” she said, and then glanced at me mischievously. “I can tell you some things, if you want.”
“Yes.” As we approached the waterfront, my nervousness increased. “Anything. We don’t know each other too well.”
“He’s private that way,” she said thoughtfully. “But he loves good music, plays some drums occasionally. Reads a lot. Works with his hands and is very good with them. I save up all the things I need fixed around the house until he’s in port. He likes animals. I have a dog and he always brings home bones and scraps for her from eating out.”
She pulled the Beetle up at the curb in front of an industrial-looking wharf. PIER 27 was emblazoned on it. “Go through the turnstile there, and his boat is the Creamy Maid .”
“Okay,” I said. I got out, my arms wrapped around my backpack. I looked back at her, scared to be abandoned in this strange place. “Will I see you later?”
“Sure.” She winked. “Call if you can’t find him, for some reason.”
I watched the purple Beetle merge back into the hectic traffic and slung on my backpack, steeling myself.
I’d come on this crazy trip. There was nothing to do but go ahead and find Rafe. And hope he really had wanted to see me.
I approached the dock and went through the turnstile door. On the other side, rows and rows of boats stretched along the floating dock.
And there were three docks, each jammed with boats.
The air was redolent with the briny smell of the sea, the chime of metal fittings on rigging, and the intermittent squeaks of rubber bumpers hitting the boats as they jostled gently in their berths.
It was going to take me forever, walking up and down, to find the Creamy Maid .
I spotted a wiry old man, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, winding rope beside a craft. “Do you know where the Creamy Maid is?”
“That way.” He pointed with the cigarette down the middle dock.
“Thanks.” I adjusted my backpack and walked forward. And walked. And walked, turning my head from side to side to scan the boats.
When I finally came upon it, the Creamy Maid was so big, so sleek and fancy, that the butterflies in my stomach multiplied. It was so enormous, it took up a whole arm off the dock.
I shouldn’t be here. This was unbelievably awkward. Rafe wasn’t going to be expecting me, and now I had to bug someone rich and important by visiting their boat?
I stood there, looking at the long, sleek shape of the Maid , her metalwork sparkling, her rolled sails snowy. I set the backpack down, in need of a drink of water and to figure out what to do next. I turned and bent over, rummaging for the water bottle I’d stashed inside.
“Ruby?”
I stood and spun around, holding the water bottle, filled with both mortification that Rafe’s first view of me had been my bent-over ass in my best acid-washed Guess jeans.
“Hi, Rafe,” I said.
Rafe stood on the high bridge of the boat, holding one of the lines. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looked like a scrumptious pirate in a frayed pair of cutoffs, acres of tanned muscle and sinew shining in the early-spring sun. A bandanna held back
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