“Playing the formal-name card. This is major. Look, I’m doing fine doing what I’m doing.”
“But you look exhausted.”
“It’s just been a long day.”
“Well, then, sugar, why don’t you give yourself a rest tonight? There’s all day tomorrow to work on the boat and—”
“Not exactly,” said Woody, interrupting. “I got offered this private teaching gig.”
“A kid?”
“No.”
“One of those horny married women?”
“Give me a break.”
“Why are you being so mysterious, then?”
“I’m not. He’s a new member. Guy bought a forty-five-foot stinkpot he’s got no idea how to handle.”
“Sounds like a real asshole. You think it’ll be worth the aggravation?”
“For three hundred bucks I think I can—”
Woody jumped out of his seat.
“Holy shit,” he cried, pointing at the horizon. “Look at that!”
“Look at what?”
“Shit, it’s gone. It was a burst of green light over the water! Just near the top edge of the sun.”
Katherine gripped the sides of the chair and leaned forward. “You mean to tell me you just saw a green flash?”
She had taught Woody about this phenomenon many years ago. A “green flash” could be witnessed only at dawn or dusk when atmospheric refraction was at its max. Neither she nor Herb had ever seen one. The only person she knew who claimed he had was one Captain Jimmy O’Neil, a longtime native who ran a charter fishing boat out of Key Biscayne. The “flash” he claimed to have seen was off the coast of Cuba. When he was, no doubt, drunk as a skunk.
“It was more like a green dot rather than a flash and lasted just a second or two,” said Woody. “But I’m telling you, this was the real deal.”
“Well, then, sugar,” said Katherine. “Count yourself as one lucky guy.”
Chapter 3
Todd parked his Hummer next to his dad’s Ferrari which sat a safe distance away from his mother’s Jaguar convertible and the family’s Porsche SUV. The only vehicle missing was that of his sister, Carolina. In one year, two months and eleven days, she’d earn her driver’s license. Todd wondered what kind of car his father would buy that spoiled metal-mouthed velociraptor.
He found his parents sitting outside by the pool. His mother, Ashley, struggled to maneuver her artificially enhanced lips into something vaguely resembling a smile. The end effect, as far as Todd was concerned, made her look rather like a chimpanzee.
“My baby boy!” she exclaimed, bounding toward him with open arms.
“Whoa, Ma, take it easy.”
In some circles, his mother’s new rack could be mistaken for a dangerous weapon.
His father was busy talking on the phone. Avoiding eye contact, Stanford Hollings acknowledged his son’s appearance by a dismissive tilt of his palm.
With some ten thousand luxury condos under his and his partners’ belts, this former ambulance-chasing attorney (born Stanley Holacheck from the Bronx) had done very well for himself. Todd aspired to be like his dad—minus the hair-plugs, dye job and double chin, of course—mainly because in South Florida, people likened highly successful real estate developers to rock stars.
“Tomorrow night’s free, right, Ashley?” Stanford asked his wife.
“Actually no, dear. We’ve got that Sierra Club benefit.”
“Just what I need—environmental terrorists in black tie.”
“But I thought you said it was good public relations to keep them out of your hair,” she said.
“They got our money already, so who cares? We’re going to have dinner with Carlos Lagosto about a possible deal.”
“But I just bought a new Michael Kors gown and—”
“Forget about it,” Stanford snapped. “You’ve been overruled and the case is closed.”
Everyone on the payroll—family and employees alike—knew that once a Hollings verdict had been reached, the case was closed with no chance for appeal.
“Well, I suppose I could wear the gown at that Republican fund-raiser we’ve got next month,” mumbled Ashley to deaf ears.
Todd sat down on a chaise lounge next to his father.
“So what’s up, Pops?”
“What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. I heard you were a no-show at the site yesterday.”
“But it was Saturday…”
“I don’t give a shit. It’s still a work day. I intend for you, as my representative, to make an appearance whenever and wherever I tell you to.”
“But—”
“No buts. If you think you can waltz right up the corporate ladder without working your ass off, well, here’s a major news flash for you, sonny boy. Forget about it.”
“You’re being a bit harsh, Stanford,” said Ashley. “Go easy on my baby boy.”
“Did you ever consider the notion that if you’d stop treating him as an infant, your so-called baby boy might become more responsible?”
“Hey, hold on,” said Todd. “I graduated from college.”
“By the skin of your straightened and bleached teeth.”
“I’ve got my own apartment.”
“That I purchased. In a building that I own.”
“Jesus, I have a job.”
“A job at MY company! A position which, at any moment, could be terminated. I don’t want anybody talking behind my back about the boss’s son slacking off and spending more time cruising the Web for porn than he does trying to hustle up business. I’ve got plenty of other kids who may not have had an Ivy League education like yours, but are willing to put in the hours to make their mark.”
“Hey, that’s not exactly fair, Dad. I’m getting real close on that deal with Gustavo Tinnie.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll tell you what.” Stanford Hollings positioned his face right in his son’s. “You convince that old fart to sell his property and we might just be talking about a whole new ball game.”
Chapter 4
Barring illness or bad weather, no day passed that Woody failed to work on his boat. For a guy who had avoided commitment since losing his virginity in the eleventh grade, this was the one relationship to which he could commit. He’d never desert the Sea Sponge, and he knew as long as she stayed afloat, she’d always be there for him. In good weather she would be his lover, and in a storm she would be his mother, protecting him to the best of her ability.
The Sea Sponge had been owned by Spencer Cabot, one of the founding members of the Trade Winds Yacht Club, who sadly had spent the last quarter of his one hundred years confined to a wheelchair. Cabot’s sailboat, a thirty-seven foot wooden, double-ended gaff cutter, was built in 1948 in the style of the famed Norwegian nautical architects, Colin and Archer, and had been sitting “on the hard” for a half decade while his heirs fought over his rather sizeable estate.
By the time Woody found her, the Sea Sponge was in pretty bad shape. Extensive dry rot and years of assault and battery by the elements had rendered her unseaworthy, so the only way