Just like now.
“Let me make sure I get this right,” she said once he was finished and silent. “You want me to sit in while you dicker with a buyer who is not, repeat not, getting our boat?”
“Sort of, yeah.”
“Why not just tell him no and be done with it?”
“Sure, I can do that. I will, if that’s what you want.”
She let the silence linger. Tasting what it meant to have the power to decide. Listening to that internal chorus.Balance. “You think it’s important we do this.”
“What I think is, you may have been right about Wallace being after more than just a bigger percentage.”
“He was pushing because he had to.”
“Motive,” Noah agreed. “We need to have a better grasp of what’s actually happening here.”
“Maybe you should handle this by yourself. They see you as the boat’s sole owner.”
“Jenna, no. I need you.” He stopped. “If that sounded totally desperate, it’s because I am.”
“Actually, I thought it sounded nice.”
“You did?” The words carried more than a hint of desperation. “Jenna. Please, I need you.”
She listened to the silence and the echo of his sad hopefulness. Felt remnants of her own sorrow. Then, “Make the call. Text and let me know when I should come out.”
“Come now,” he replied. “This very instant.”
“Noah . . .”
“Yes. All right.” Resigned. “Bye.”
CHAPTER30
When Jenna arrived that afternoon, Noah felt such overwhelming relief he wanted to give it physical form. Drop to his knees, weep, something. For the first time ever he felt a kinship to earlier generations. People who marked transitional events by offering sacrifices to unseen powers.
Just the same, the moment was far from perfect.
Noah made them coffee and then joined her in the farmhouse’s kitchen. The round-shouldered refrigerator hummed a steady note. The battered table matched the raw-wood flooring, the worn and weary sink and Bakelite stove.
Jenna cradled a mug whose floral arrangement had been reduced to pastel shadows. She sipped thoughtfully and listened as he struggled through yet another apology.
When Wallace showed up twenty minutes later, it was by way of a Mercedes S-Class, the limo version that cost over a hundred and fifty thou new. A uniformed driver remained at the wheel, barely visible through the darkened windshield.
The two made quite a pair. Wallace topped out at five-ten, a human fireplug with reddish-gray Brillo-style curls on his head and chest and arms. Dressed as usual in ratty shorts, salt-encrusted boat shoes, and a vintage T-shirt.
The man who accompanied him was something else entirely.
Lane Pritchard was tall and narrow and moved like an aging waterbird, picking up each foot and planting it carefully. He wore tan Italian loafers and socks the color of old cream. The ivory pants and yellow knit shirt might as well have been selected to accent his pale skin. Round tortoiseshell sunglasses masked his gaze. A gold Rolex rattled on his bony wrist.
Noah could not imagine anybody much further removed from his idea of a boat guy.
Lane’s handshake was a surprise. Iron hard, tight as a noose. “Mr. Hearst, a genuine pleasure. I’ve heard such good things.”
Noah waited until the guy let him have his hand back. “That right? Who from?”
“Well, Wallace of course. He thinks the world of you and your craftsmanship. But we also share a number of common acquaintances. I did considerable business with several of your former clients.”
