Dawson appears on the dock, barefoot, hair still wet from the shower. He stares at the yacht the way most teenagers stare at sports cars.
“Dad.”
“I see it.”
“That’s the biggest boat I’ve ever seen.”
“Yacht.”
“What’s the difference?”
“About four million dollars.”
He grins. I don’t grin back, but my mouth does something involuntary that I cover by checking a dock cleat that doesn’t need checking.
Finch materializes next to Dawson because Finch has a sixth sense for anything interesting happening on the water. “Is that the wedding yacht?”
“No,” I say. “A different mega yacht just happened to park here. Coincidence.”
“Can we go on it?”
“No.”
“Can we gonearit?”
“You’re near it right now. This is as near as you get.”
“Mr. Spencer.” Finch puts his hands together like he’s praying. “Please.”
“When the owners get here, you can ask them.”
“But you’re the dock master.”
“I’m the dock master of thedock.Once you step on that yacht, you’re in international luxury and I can’t help you.”
Finch and Dawson immediately start googling the yacht on Dawson’s phone. Within three minutes, they’ve found the manufacturer’s website, the interior layout, the price—which makes Dawson whistle low—and a celebrity gossip article that says the yacht was previously owned by a tech billionaire who used it to host parties in the Mediterranean.
“Dad. A tech billionaire owned this yacht.”
“Fascinating.”
“It hasfour staterooms.”
“Still fascinating.”
“There’s a website that says the galley has a wine fridgeanda separate champagne cooler. What’s the difference between a wine fridge and a champagne cooler?”
“About the same as the difference between a boat and a yacht.Money.”
Jenna drifts out of the houseboat in the deliberate, unhurried way of a teenager who refuses to be impressed by anything. She glances at the yacht. Her eyebrows go up one millimeter. She takes a photo for her Instagram story, types something, and goes back inside.
The whole interaction takes eight seconds. It’s the most efficient review of a multi-million-dollar vessel I’ve ever witnessed.
Dad’s golf cart hums down the dock ten minutes later. He pulls up next to the yacht, kills the engine, and sits there staring at it with the expression of a man seeing his marina at full potential for the first time.
“Well,” he says.
“Don’t.”
