One Bad Thing

Chapter One

McKenna realized later that Cain had been too anxious to sail away. What McKenna had taken for a look forward to the sea had actually been Cain’s frightened look over his shoulder.

Cain, with his shaggy hair, and crooked, engaging smile, had plans for McKenna. And although his plans had fallen through in a fairly spectacular way, in the most important regard of all, Cain had succeeded.

As McKenna began to shiver, he told himself that it had all started in heat, in bright sunshine. That out of such a beginning, he should have done better. That he should have found a way to step aside it all.

That he had no one to blame but himself.

McKenna was deflating the dinghy on the dock when Cain arrived holding the little index card between his thumb and forefinger. It was a warm, painfully brilliant morning in early May. The sunlight bounced up under McKenna’s sunglasses, the water impossibly blue through the polarized lenses. Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. Around McKenna, people hustled, moving their boats up to the fuel dock, loading water and food. The winter charters were over, and boats were flocking back to the U.S. mainland.

Kneeling there on the Zodiac, McKenna looked up, getting a sense of the young man. The sun was at his back, casting his face into shadow. McKenna put his hand up to block the light and saw the flash of white teeth. Young guy, early-to-mid twenties. Cutoff jeans, boat shoes, tee shirt. Longish sun bleached hair, a few day’s growth of beard. Duffle bag over his shoulder.

“She’s beautiful,” the man said, looking over at The Wanderer. “Have you read Sterling Hayden or did you come up with the name yourself?”

“I’d like to think both.” McKenna stood.

“Guess we better lock down the booze then,” the young man said with a smile. American, like McKenna.

The young man put out his hand. “Tom Cain. Most people just call me Cain.” He handed McKenna the index card. “If you haven’t signed anyone aboard yet, I could help you take her to Boston.”

McKenna held the card, turning it over as if reading it for the first time. He felt at a momentary loss and then said, “Why do you want to go?”

“It’s what I’ve been doing, the past two years. Came here from Southampton on a trimaran, and now it’s time for the skipper and his family to spend some quality time, cruising around the islands themselves. And it’s time for me to go home, face the real world. Got three transatlantics under my belt. Finish this leg, I’ll have my fourth.”

“Got to be honest,” McKenna said. “That’s more than me. I’m on my way back for the first time.”

“You’re here,” Cain said with a grin. “You must know what you’re doing.” He nodded toward the boat “All provisioned?”

“Lot of the staples I already had set for two. I’d have to stock up on more fresh food.”

“So you’re ready to leave?”

“Just about.”

The young man had shifted and the sun was full on his face. He was a good fifteen years younger than McKenna, about the same height as McKenna’s six-two, but very fit.

Cain said, “Lost your crew, huh?”

McKenna looked at Cain sharply. But there was no trace of sarcasm, no inference. His blue eyes were friendly. McKenna knew some marinas were like Peyton Place on the water, where everyone talked about everyone’s business. But he would like to believe that here on Tortola everyone was too transient.

McKenna said, “Something like that.” He hesitated, and then tried it on for size. “My wife decided not to sail across. She flew home.”

Cain nodded. He took in The Wanderer more closely, and McKenna envisioned seeing her through a stranger’s eyes. Far from new, but gleaming. Thirty-eight feet long, navy blue fiberglass hull, weathered teak decks. Sloop rigged. Steering vane mounted on the stern. A small traditional cockpit and transom. Good for shrugging off following seas. Clearly a heavy weather boat.

“Full keel and attached rudder?” Cain asked.

McKenna nodded. “Wanderer’s a strong lady.” Unable to hide his pride in her, no matter the damage she had caused to his marriage. His life.

Cain looked at the new aluminum mast. “You do the upgrades yourself?”

“Mostly.”

Cain shifted gears. “I’m not too shabby as a cook--as long as taste isn’t your top priority.”

“Three transatlantics, you say?”

“That’s right. And I’m headed to Boston, too. This will be perfect for me.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

He shook his head. “Connecticut. Went to school in Boston, and my fiance still lives there.”

“What school?”

Cain smiled sheepishly. “Harvard. I haven’t exactly made the best use of my degree, but I’m enjoying myself.” He gestured to the index card. “Is the tomorrow morning departure for real?”

“Sure is. Any problem with that?”

“It’d be perfect for me. I want to see my girl.”

How much stuff have you got?”

Cain hefted his bag. “This is it.”

"I intend to clear Customs.” McKenna looked at Cain carefully.

The young man shrugged. “Sure. My passport’s in order and I’m a U.S. citizen. They have to let me in.”

He took his passport from his back pocket and showed it to McKenna. “You’re welcome to look through my gear.”

McKenna looked at Cain frankly. He reminded McKenna of R.J. without actually looking like him in any way. R.J. was thin with a shock of white blond hair always falling in his eyes. If Cain was uncomfortable under McKenna’s scrutiny, he didn’t show it.

No, this guy wasn’t another R.J., McKenna decided. Whereas R.J. projected an entirely undeserved sense of superiority, Cain looked strong, capable. He radiated energy.

Normally, McKenna was a man who checked references, did things by the book. But since Caroline left last week, there was a lassitude inside, a weariness mixed with free floating anger that made it hard for him to concentrate or take on anything extra.

Almost as bad as the time after Samantha.

Caroline had posted the index card on the bulletin board inside the marina’s store. Her last bit of responsibility to their marriage.

“So what do you say?” Cain asked. “I could use some good news here.”

McKenna hesitated. Neither he nor the boat were truly prepared for a singlehanded voyage.

It would be pathetic to lose the boat, he thought. To drown.

McKenna handed the passport back to Cain. “We’ve got a lot to do before morning.”

Cain looked relieved even though he hadn’t appeared anxious before. “You want me to stow this dinghy, Skipper?”

“Call me Rob,” McKenna put out his hand. “And welcome aboard.”