Surface Tension (Seychelle Sullivan Suspense Book 1) by Christine Kling

Author:Christine Kling [Kling, Christine]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: nautical suspense novel
Publisher: Tell-Tale Press
Published: 2013-11-25T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Gorda motored her way out the mouth of the New River on Sunday morning, it was still dark. I was astounded to see how many boats had turned up and were just circling around on the Intracoastal off the Lauderdale Yacht Club. There is a camaraderie of sorts among the folks who make their living on the waterfront, but I’d never realized before how many there were, and how much they had all liked Neal. When Neal and I broke up, for over a month I went around calling him an asshole to anyone who would listen, and most folks had agreed with me. But he was a likable asshole.

Nestor led the group with his boat, My Way. He blew once on his air horn and everyone fell in line behind him. I maneuvered Gorda up front, right behind the My Way. Jimmy St. Claire’s old Chris Craft, Rhumb Runner, followed me. Then there were a couple of water taxis, some sport boats I didn’t know, and Jack, the guy who had bought Neal’s old sailboat, the Wind Dancer. I was surprised to see Hightower back toward the end of the line on the Ruby Yacht. He had planned to spend a week in the boatyard so he must have had some kind of problem with his haul-out. He was so bad at handling the old girl, he rarely took her out, although I noticed he did have Perry along as a deckhand.

As we went through the Seventeenth Street Bridge, I looked back at the Rhumb Runner and saw there were two people on the flybridge: Jimmy, and next to him stood B.J. Moana. My stomach did a couple of strange little flip-flops at the sight of him. He smiled and waved. It couldn’t have been him last night outside my window, could it? The very idea seemed foolish in the light of the dawning day.

The Top Ten was still tied alongside the Coast Guard dock, and all heads turned to look at her as we passed. I shuffled my deck shoes across the nonskid when I saw Gorda's wheelhouse running lights reflected in the big yacht’s hull windows. I was filled with the same restless discomfort that had plagued me all night.

As we filed out between the breakwaters, the clouds on the horizon were starting to glow around the edges. Overhead, Venus had yet to vanish, but otherwise, the night was nearly a memory. Along the beach to the south, where the Australian pines at John Lloyd Beach State Park obscured the hustle of the cargo port, the shallow turquoise water near shore appeared almost luminescent against the pale pink of the morning sky. A lone pelican flew a few feet above the smooth swells with a grace and precision no man-made machine could ever mimic.

The still air felt thick with humidity. Two little open boats anchored by the channel markers rolled uneasily in the small, glassy swells, and the Sunday fishermen watched our procession with little curiosity, their eyes still squinty with sleep, coffee mugs in their hands.

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