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  A tingle spun around in my stomach. I liked the way she called me Captain and returned her playful salute. “Well, you know…size matters,” I said, tipping my head to say “you know what I mean.” Where in the hell had that come from? Sure, this woman was beautiful, charming, and had loaned me four dollars and eighty-two cents, but I hadn’t had any intention of flirting with her. Just a polite thank you.

  “Spoken by someone who has something big enough to brag about? But I prefer finesse rather than brute strength most of the time,” she added, her tone sultry.

  I choked on my coffee and was thankful it didn’t come out of my nose. That would have been more than a little humiliating. After wiping my mouth I looked at Alissa. Her eyes were twinkling, yes, twinkling with mischief. Interesting. Very interesting. I let my eyes wander over her face, and when they landed back on hers I detected more than playfulness in them now. The tingling in my stomach dropped farther south.

  “What do you fish for?” Alissa asked.

  It took me a few moments to realize she’d changed the subject. Dang, it was just getting good. “Bluefin tuna.”

  “Like Tuna Wars?” Alissa asked referencing the popular, if not more than a little melodramatic reality show.

  “No, not nearly so dramatic.” I was starting to really like Alissa. She was inquisitive and appeared to be genuinely interested.

  “I can honestly say I’ve never met a fisherman before, especially one with a one hundred fifty-three-foot schooner with twin Cat 353 engines rated at eight hundred fifty-three total horsepower, with thirty-eight thousand gallons of fuel capacity and ten thousand gallons of water.”

  It was my turn to be surprised. She’d been paying attention.

  “Why don’t you call yourself a fisherwoman?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at her question, which she asked with such sincerity. “Because fisherwoman sounds stupid.”

  She nodded her agreement.

  “I’m not the most politically correct person. Sometimes terms like that are just ridiculous.”

  Marcus refilled our cups. “Everything all right here, ladies?”

  Again I deferred to Alissa. I’d invited her and it was her decision.

  “Yes, thank you, Marcus.”

  Damn. I didn’t know I’d be disappointed that she hadn’t suggested continuing our discussion over dinner until she didn’t. “What about you? And don’t tell me you’re a bookie. However, if you are, you’re a successful one. That suit is very nice,” I added, then felt stupid. That suit is nice. What a cornball thing to say. Alissa didn’t seem to think so.

  “Thank you. I’m in advertising.”

  “In advertising as in radio or television? Or glossy women’s magazines filled with stories about how to make the perfect meal and then satisfy your man?” I cringed inside. What in the fuck was I thinking? What in the fuck was I saying? My brain and my mouth seemed to be on two different planets, and I’d crash-landed on the wrong one.

  “What makes you think it’s not a magazine filled with stories about building the perfect outdoor patio and satisfying your woman?”

  Holy Christ, she wasn’t at all offended by my stupid comment and threw one right back at me. “Touché,” I replied. “I bet you could do both.”

  Alissa looked at me, her eyes moving over my face, down my neck, and as far down the rest of my body as she could see, the table blocking the really good parts. My throat was suddenly dry and my pulse started to race. She gave me a knowing look. “Actually, I can. And very well, I might add.”

  Holy double Christ. I had no idea what to say to that. Even if I had intentions of getting this woman into bed, I don’t know if I could have said anything. Drool, yes. Say anything substantial, no. I felt like a teenager.

  *

  Alissa

  I watched Bert decipher the intent behind my words. She had an interesting, open face. Her laugh lines added character, and every one of them probably represented an interesting story I suddenly wanted to hear. She didn’t mask her emotions whether they were curiosity, animation, or interest. And when I say interest, I mean interest in me.

  This could be something, could be just what I needed—a simple, uncomplicated fling. But something told me I wouldn’t be able to ease into dating Captain Bert. I didn’t think Bert did anything less than full throttle. And that possibility was somewhat thrilling.

  “At the risk of prying and ruining a perfectly good cup of coffee, I don’t think your parents named you Bert.”

  She spent a few seconds processing the fact that my remark was a question.

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Are you going to tell me what they did name you?” I had my ideas, but I really liked hearing Bert’s voice. She talked quickly, but not so fast that her pace was distracting. She had a slight Northeastern accent but again not too much.

  “I haven’t used it in so long I’ve forgotten what it is.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “I’ll bet your mother doesn’t call you Bert.” A flash of what I thought was pain crossed her face, then disappeared. Shit. I’d hit a nerve. I know better than to make a comment like that.

  “No, she doesn’t.” That was all Bert said. There was probably more to her story, but this wasn’t the time to dig. “Guess,” Bert said, the animation returning to her face.

  I was thrilled, to say the least, that I could pull my big fat foot out of my mouth. I looked at her closely. Her hair was short and, with the exception of some salt peppered through it, very dark. Her eyes were green, which I didn’t know could happen. But then again I didn’t pay that much attention in science class when we studied the section on genetics. I was too busy wanting to discover what was inside Melissa Gary’s tight blouse.

  “Bertha.”

  “Bertha?” Bert answered, the smile returning to her face. She was really cute when she smiled. Her face lit up and her eyes sparkled. I’d have to make her do that more often. My pulse kicked up a beat or three.

  “No? How about Alberguita?”

  “Alberguita? Wasn’t that the little girl in The Sound of Music?”

  “No, that was Brigitta.”

  “Well?” I asked for confirmation of my guess, knowing full well that wasn’t it.

  “I’ll give you credit for creativity.”

  “Well, I am in advertising, you know. How about Engelbert? Herbert? Norbert? Robert?” Bert shook her head at each attempt and finally laughed because I was running out of names. Her laugh was deep and uninhibited, and it lit up her entire face. I found myself wanting to hear her laugh for the rest of my life. Whoa, stop right there.

  “You have got to be very successful in advertising. You’re a nut. If I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?”

  I crossed my heart and said as much. Bert’s eyes followed my hand, and when she gazed at me, laughter wasn’t what I saw in her eyes. Desire was a look I was familiar with, but it was different with every woman. But I couldn’t mistake the look. No indeed. My heart beat faster, and a flush of heat coursed through me. Oh dear. This had turned into much more than coffee. Somehow I managed to say, “Only if it’s not funny.”

  She went out on a limb and said, “Alberta Rose Coughlin.”

  “Alberta Rose Coughlin,” I repeated, liking the way the name sounded. “I like it.”

  “But don’t ever call me that. When my mother called me by my full name, I knew I was in trouble. BIG trouble.” This time Bert didn’t show any sign of pain when she talked about her mother.

  “I’ll remember that,” I said, also noting for future reference that she referred to her mother in the past tense. I wanted to ask if I’d be getting a chance to call her Bert more often, but Clarisse stopped at our table.

  “You two going to drink coffee all night or have something to eat?”

  I looked at my watch, surprised we’d been talking for over an hour. What I thought would be a perfunctory cup of coffee, minimal, awkward small talk, and then out the door had turned into something else. S
omething else that was very enjoyable and that, I admitted to myself, I wanted to do again. I started to say as much, but Bert frowned when a scrawny man in a pair of very old overalls quickly approached the table.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Captain, but you’re needed back on the boat. There’s feds on board asking questions,” he added with a clear sense of urgency.

  Bert turned to look at me, a question in her eyes. It was obvious she needed to go but didn’t want to be rude and just leave. I solved the dilemma for her. There was no way, I repeat, no way I was going to have anything to do with anyone who had, what did he call it, “feds on board asking questions.” I’d had enough to do with women that law enforcement was interested in.

  “Go, I understand,” I said, and boy, did I.

  Bert said her apologies, tossed a few bills on the table, and hurried out the door behind the little man. She took all the energy out of the restaurant with her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alissa

  Why am I so disappointed? So I lent her a few bucks and shared some laughs over a cup of decaf. That’s all I intended it to be so, why do I feel as empty as the seat across from me?

  I guess, if I admit it, I liked Bert. She was smart, quick-witted, and funny. She made me laugh, and not many women had been able to do that these last few years. Thank God Olaf, or whatever his name was, came just before I did something stupid like ask her if she had time for dinner.

  How did I miss the signs? Probably the same way I missed them with Ariel—a pretty face, sharp mouth, an engaging laugh, and eyes that could suck you right in. But Bert wasn’t Ariel, far from it. Whereas Ariel was almost my height and model thin, Bert was several inches taller and solidly built. Ariel was always perfectly coiffed, every hair in place, her makeup perfect; even her lipstick was never smudged. We never made love in the morning until she’d spent at least twenty minutes in the bathroom. Bert, on the other hand, was completely natural, her tanned skin the result of hours spent outdoors instead of in a tanning bed. Ariel had long, graceful, delicate fingers. I was always careful not to squeeze them too hard for fear they’d break. Ariel’s touch was always feather-light, almost wispy, even when I begged for something harder. Bert’s looked strong, her nails short and clear of polish. Wonder what those hands would feel like on me?

  No, no, no. Do not go there, Alissa Warner Cooper, I told myself as I walked back to my car. Bert was trouble, and even though I could use a good, strong orgasm, or ten or forty about now, I needed to stay away from Alberta Rose Coughlin, and tomorrow was going to be a grueling day.

  Four weeks earlier, a messenger had delivered a familiar envelope to my office. I had to personally sign for it, and my hands shook as I opened it. I’d received the exact same envelope about this time for the last three years. I reviewed the contents in my head as I slid the letter opener under the flap. The only unknown was the date of Ariel’s next parole hearing.

  The letter was addressed to me as the president of Alissa Cooper, and since Alissa Cooper was the victim of the crime and I was the president, I received a notification of any parole hearing. We could choose whether we attended and made our case as to why Ariel should remain incarcerated and complete her full ten-year sentence.

  I hadn’t been to any of the hearings, sending Paul Houser, the attorney for Alissa Cooper, as our representative. This was more appropriate since the company was the victim, not me personally. Or at least that’s what I told anyone who needed to know. So far the parole board had agreed that Ariel needed to remain behind lock and key, but one of these years it might not. A lot of people viewed industrial spying as a victimless crime—no big deal as far as other crimes that people committed. After all, there wasn’t really a victim, per se, or so most people thought. Thankfully the jury didn’t have that opinion, and Ariel was secured in McDowell Penitentiary for Women.

  I read the date printed on the form letter. July seventeenth, a little more than a month from now. Thirty days before Ariel was either set free or remained a guest of the state of Massachusetts until the next letter arrived.

  I stood and exited my office. Marie, my administrative assistant, looked up from her keyboard. “I’ll be in Paul’s office,” I said, glancing at her. Paul’s office was four doors down the hall from mine, and I used the distance as an opportunity to pull myself together.

  “Got a minute?” I asked after knocking on his open door.

  “Sure thing, what’s up?” Paul replied, removing his glasses and setting them on the stack of papers in front of him. Paul was a very attractive forty-eight, having celebrated his birthday last week. His hair was thinning on top, but with his fit body, engaging manner, and soft North Carolina accent he had most women drooling over him. He’d personally handled the entire Ariel nightmare and worked with my personal attorney to protect me and the firm.

  I sat in the chair in front of his desk and crossed my legs. I didn’t reply, just handed him the letter. He reached across the desk, his expression shifting from attentiveness to concern. One glance at the official letterhead made him scowl. “I’m an attorney and I understand these things, but when did ten years turn into four or five?”

  I knew the question was rhetorical, but I voiced my opinion anyway. “When prisons are filled to overcapacity with murderers and rapists and other violent criminals.” I emphasized the word violent. “When there’s no more room at the inn, they can’t turn on the No Vacancy sign and close the front doors.”

  Paul didn’t reply, just frowned and shook his head as he read the letter again, this time making notes in the margin.

  “Do you need anything from me?” I asked, hoping the answer was no.

  “I assume you won’t be there again this year?”

  “I knew you were smart when I hired you.” I was trying to add some levity to a dark subject for me. Other than Paul and my personal lawyer, no one knew the full extent of the betrayal. All anyone knew was that Ariel was no longer around, and I let them think I was just no longer seeing her.

  Paul stared at me. I knew that look and I didn’t like it. “No,” I said.

  “I think you need to go this year.” Paul put his hands up almost defensively before I had the chance to say no fucking way. “Just hear me out on this, Alissa.”

  “No,” I said again.

  Paul continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “Last year six people were there speaking for Ariel. The DA sent the standard form letter honoring the decision of the court and stating that in the best interest of society we don’t support the blah, blah, blah. And then there was me. The pompous, stuff-shirted, corporate bigwig lawyer representing the faceless company.” He took a breath and I knew he wasn’t done; he’d only just got started. “In the past year sixteen thousand, two hundred, eighty-four people entered the Massachusetts penal system, and do you know how many came out?”

  I didn’t like where this conversation was going. I didn’t answer and knew that Paul didn’t expect me to.

  “One thousand, four hundred, eighty-two. Prison overcrowding is a hot subject, and the parole board is getting pressure, extreme pressure, to release non-violent prisoners. Namely prisoners just like Ariel.”

  “But she stole over a million dollars from me. I almost lost my reputation, my firm, for God’s sake.” And my self-respect, I thought but didn’t say.

  “They need to hear from you.”

  “No,” I said, adamant. Ariel would be there, and I never wanted to see her again. If I was honest with myself, I don’t know if I’d cry or try to strangle her.

  “You deserve to have Ariel serve her entire sentence.” He hesitated, then added, “Just think about it, Alissa. That’s all I’m asking.”

  He might as well have asked me to go to Mars. My answer would still be the same. Absolutely no fucking way. Now here it was the day before Ariel’s hearing, and I was too keyed up to get any work done. I needed fresh air and a walk. What I really needed was to rewind the last six years of my life to the day I met Ariel.

  I�
�d been on the ferry from Camden to Mayfair, my daily trek across the Howard River from my office to my apartment. Twice a day, along with several hundred of my closest friends, I commuted from the ’burbs into the city. It was a warm summer evening when Ariel sat down in the seat next to me.

  I was reading a focus-group report, the numbers blurring as I turned the pages. I think I was halfway through the report when I caught a whiff of her perfume. I didn’t turn my head, but my eyes moved to my left and caught sight of some very nice cleavage. She crossed her bare legs toward me, and, being a healthy lesbian, I couldn’t help but look. They were almost as nice as her chest.

  “What are you reading?” Ariel asked.

  I thought her opening line was pretty brazen. What business was it of hers what I was reading? But it did the job and got my attention. Well, that and a whole lot of skin. We made small talk under the stars, had dinner by candlelight and sex under her skylight. That was the beginning. For the next two years we were practically inseparable. She moved out of her studio apartment and into my place, and we shared coffee, the commute, and our lives.

  We had friends over for dinner on the weekends, hosted football on Sundays, and spent rainy days in bed. We binge-watched The Sopranos and reruns of I Love Lucy. We’d even started to look for a house, one with a backyard big enough for a swing set. We talked all the time, sharing stories about our day and solving problems. Looking back, I guess I did most of the talking. Ariel had a way of drawing things out of me, wanted to know about even the smallest detail. At first I found it endearing that she wanted to learn so much about my business: who my clients were, what the latest pitch was, and what I was doing to outwit my competitors.

  Ariel was a buyer for Fulbright, one of the main department stores in the city. Every three or four months she’d go on a three-week buying trip to Europe, Brazil, and the Far East. At least that’s what she told me. When the shit hit the fan, I found out otherwise and my humiliation was complete. Not only was she spying for a rival firm, but she was also married and lived in an upscale apartment in San Francisco with a husband and two cocker spaniels. He thought she was working in Paris and came home during those three-week visits. And to top it all off, her name wasn’t even Ariel Sinclair. It was Cindy Howard.