“And, Ally, honey, the state sent a notice about the property taxes.”
“I took care of that before I left.”
“So what do I do with the notice?”
“Just set it aside, and I’ll get it when I come home. I’ll double-check with the state to be sure, but I wrote the check along with your other first-of-the-month bills.”
“Oh, then that’s good.”
The small headache her mother always caused after more than twenty minutes throbbed behind her eyes. “Mom, I’m going to go find some dinner now. I’ll see you when I get home, and we’ll sort everything out then.”
“Of course, honey. Have a wonderful time. We’ll talk soon.”
With the phone safely back in its cradle, Ally leaned back against the headboard of the king-size bed and hugged the bottle of wine to her chest. I’m so glad I don’t have cell service here.
Out her bedroom window, she could see the sun setting over the water. Dammit, she was on vacation. Granted, it was the strangest vacation ever, but it was her vacation nonetheless. She was alone in a honeymoon suite, in a place she hadn’t wanted to come to, and staying at a low-end hotel because her travel agent was both spiteful and incompetent. And she’d paid top dollar for this disaster. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, but there were worse places to be. She should make the most of it.
She’d earned a vacation, by God. She’d put up with Gerry for three years longer than she should have in the hopes he’d shape up and be worth the investment of her time and energy. Instead she’d carried him—financially and emotionally—for all that time. Planning and then canceling the wedding had been stressful, and when she added in her family’s constant stream of crises, it was no wonder she’d had a headache for as long as she could remember.
She needed a vacation. She deserved it. She would take advantage of it.
After one last long drink straight from the bottle, Ally reached for the phone again. By the time the desk clerk answered, she had a whole new perspective.
“This is Ally Smith in suite twenty-six. No, not Mrs. Hogsten. Miss Smith. I’d like your help in finding a restaurant that delivers and a masseuse who can come to my room tonight for an hour-long massage. And I need to know where the closest spa is. I’d like to get a facial and a manicure tomorrow. Oh, and I’d really love some fresh flowers in here.”
“She’s a real beauty.”
Chris Wells nodded, even if he didn’t fully agree. She needed quite a bit of work, but she still held great promise. He’d wanted to have a closer look before he’d know if the problems were just cosmetic or if they ran deeper.
“She’s fast, too,” the man continued, pride evident in his voice, “but responsive and easy to handle.”
“Her reputation certainly precedes her.” Chris stepped onto the weathered wooden deck. At just over forty feet, the yacht was compact, yet elegant in design. Sadly, though, she had suffered from too many years of poor mainte-nance—the cleats were spotted with rust, the leather cover of the tiller was cracked and peeling. Twenty-five years ago, he’d watched his father skipper the Circe to her first win, and he’d known then that he’d race one day, too. In a way, he owed much of his career to the boat rocking gently under his feet.
The Circe was long retired, her heavy wooden hull no match for the newer, lighter racing yachts made of aluminum or fiberglass. But he wasn’t here to buy a new racer—he was here to buy a piece of history and make her into a queen.
His crew had called him crazy when he’d told them he was taking time off to go to Tortola to see Circe, but Jack and Derrick would come around eventually. And he wouldn’t trust anyone but them to refit her properly.
“Is she seaworthy? Any reason why she wouldn’t make it home?”
Ricardo, the boat’s current owner, smiled, obviously pleased with Chris’s interest. “A few minor things you might want to look at…”
Chris listened to Ricardo’s list with half an ear as he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and called home. “Jack. Send Victor and Mickey down here on the next flight. She needs a little work, but I should be ready to start for home by the end of the week.”
“So you’re going through with it?”
“Definitely.” He was handing the check to a bug-eyed Ricardo even as he spoke.
“Why don’t you come on home and let the guys bring her back instead?”
Chris took a deep breath as a feeling of rightness filled him. He was meant to own the Circe. “Because she’s mine now.”
“But we need you here. Paperwork is already piling up on your desk. And, if you’re really going to break a record in October, we don’t have time for you to putter around the Caribbean.”
“I have an assistant to handle the paperwork. Grace can call if she needs anything. October is still a long ways off, and the Dagny is ahead of schedule. There’s nothing for me to do but admire your handiwork.”
Jack sighed and muttered something, but Chris didn’t need to hear it. He’d heard it all already. Jack was the world’s most compulsive planner—which was great when it came to planning around-the-world trips and designing new boats, but a bit of a pain any other time.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks. Have Dagny’s sails ready for me when I get home.”
“No dawdling in the Bahamas this time, okay?”
Flipping the phone closed, Chris turned back to Ricardo. “I assume you can get me access to the maintenance shed here.” He was already making a mental list of what he’d need for the long trip back to Charleston; now he just hoped he could find a good outfitter on the island.
Feeling better than he had in weeks—months, probably—Chris grabbed his duffel bag off the dock and tossed it below. Ricardo was already halfway back to the marina office, presumably to cash the fat check in his hand before Chris changed his mind.
But Chris was already unbuttoning his shirt as he headed below to change. He was looking forward to getting to know his new addition.
Whistling, he got to work.
A massage, a mud bath and a mani-pedi had worked wonders on Ally’s outlook. Tortola was definitely growing on her.
After a fabulous morning of being pampered and polished, she returned to her room feeling so relaxed she wasn’t sure how much longer her legs would hold her upright. A short nap and a shower later, her attitude adjustment was almost complete. She just needed to find somewhere to eat—napping through lunch was great for the psyche but left her stomach growling.
The nail tech at the spa had recommended she try the little café next to the marina in order to get a true taste of the local cuisine. It was a short walk, and it gave her the opportunity to appreciate the amazing scenery she’d ignored in her foul mood. Until now.
A smiling teenager led her to a small table overlooking the marina. The same breeze that teased
