Sean had ordered. “But, hell, she’s got a damn fast boat, so I’ve got a phone call to make.” With that cryptic sentence, Sean had bolted from the table muttering something about
Roy’s magic
.
“I knew he’d be pissed off at her for doing that to you,” Bram said now, braking at the last minute before swerving onto Island Road.
At least Aiden had no difficulty remembering the name of the road that wound around the perimeter of Seashell Bay Island. O’Hanlon’s Boatyard was straight ahead. “Yeah, pissed off enough to agree to a challenge we’re probably going to lose,” he said.
In the sane light of day, he couldn’t come up with one good reason why he’d agreed to the ridiculous bet. Most likely it was a combination of pride and sheer stubbornness in the face of a challenge from sweet Lily Doyle, who could be every bit as pigheaded as he was. And it hadn’t helped that half the population of Seashell Bay had witnessed their little scene.
Bram flashed him a crooked grin. “Lose? Maybe. But when you’ve got Roy Mayo in your corner, anything can happen.”
“You really think a ninety-year-old dude is going to sprinkle fairy dust and turn
Irish Lady
into a speedboat? You said the old tub hasn’t been raced in years.”
Bram made a hard left into the boatyard, bouncing down yet another rutted track until he stopped in front of a red building that looked like a cross between a dairy barn and an airplane hangar. “I don’t care whether Roy’s ninety or a hundred and ninety. Nobody can tune a diesel—or any engine—like Roy Mayo. He’s the damn engine whisperer.”
“He’d better hope Miss Annie doesn’t put cyanide in his lobster stew,” Aiden said in a dry voice as he followed his brother from the truck. “You know she’s going to be madder than hell if he helps the Flynns beat her granddaughter.”
Bram simply snorted a cynical laugh.
Inside, owner Mike O’Hanlon was hunched over abattered reception counter where wire baskets were stuffed with untidy piles of receipts and envelopes, the Portland daily paper spread open in front of him. Mike had been a senior in high school when Aiden was a freshman, and he now ran the boatyard with his semiretired father.
Aiden couldn’t help noticing that some of the same posters from decades ago still hung on the walls, along with decrepit, outdated calendars from marine suppliers. He even recognized the broken-down couch and banged-up metal chairs for the customers. It was like stepping into Mr. Peabody’s Wayback Machine and yet another example of how most residents of Seashell Bay insisted on living in the past.
Mike greeted them with firm handshakes but didn’t waste time with small talk. He led them into the cavernous repair shop in the rear, where Aiden spotted
Irish Lady
up on a metal trolley.
Aiden stopped dead, as if someone had rammed a fist into his chest. The last time he’d stood on her deck, he’d vowed never to return. And yet, here he was, ready to climb back on board as if nothing had ever happened. As if he hadn’t spent the most miserable hours of his life on
Irish Lady
, helplessly stuck in his father’s ugly-ass, bitter world.
He took a deep breath, shoved down the unwelcome memories, and focused on the job at hand. He was good at doing that. Every pro athlete was. You either learned to control your emotions or you washed out at the first sign of trouble.
Old Roy, coffee in hand, leaned on the boat’s black-and-white hull—a hull that desperately needed a new paintjob. Roy looked unbelievable for his age—tall, tanned, and apparently fit, despite his thoroughly wrinkled face. His white hair was a little long and a lot wild, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt that revealed surprisingly sinewy arms.
Aiden blinked when he saw Jessie Jameson. She was dressed in a tube top and overalls and looked more like a grease monkey than the pretty girl he’d seen in the bar last night. Jessie
Roy’s magic
.
“I knew he’d be pissed off at her for doing that to you,” Bram said now, braking at the last minute before swerving onto Island Road.
At least Aiden had no difficulty remembering the name of the road that wound around the perimeter of Seashell Bay Island. O’Hanlon’s Boatyard was straight ahead. “Yeah, pissed off enough to agree to a challenge we’re probably going to lose,” he said.
In the sane light of day, he couldn’t come up with one good reason why he’d agreed to the ridiculous bet. Most likely it was a combination of pride and sheer stubbornness in the face of a challenge from sweet Lily Doyle, who could be every bit as pigheaded as he was. And it hadn’t helped that half the population of Seashell Bay had witnessed their little scene.
Bram flashed him a crooked grin. “Lose? Maybe. But when you’ve got Roy Mayo in your corner, anything can happen.”
“You really think a ninety-year-old dude is going to sprinkle fairy dust and turn
Irish Lady
into a speedboat? You said the old tub hasn’t been raced in years.”
Bram made a hard left into the boatyard, bouncing down yet another rutted track until he stopped in front of a red building that looked like a cross between a dairy barn and an airplane hangar. “I don’t care whether Roy’s ninety or a hundred and ninety. Nobody can tune a diesel—or any engine—like Roy Mayo. He’s the damn engine whisperer.”
“He’d better hope Miss Annie doesn’t put cyanide in his lobster stew,” Aiden said in a dry voice as he followed his brother from the truck. “You know she’s going to be madder than hell if he helps the Flynns beat her granddaughter.”
Bram simply snorted a cynical laugh.
Inside, owner Mike O’Hanlon was hunched over abattered reception counter where wire baskets were stuffed with untidy piles of receipts and envelopes, the Portland daily paper spread open in front of him. Mike had been a senior in high school when Aiden was a freshman, and he now ran the boatyard with his semiretired father.
Aiden couldn’t help noticing that some of the same posters from decades ago still hung on the walls, along with decrepit, outdated calendars from marine suppliers. He even recognized the broken-down couch and banged-up metal chairs for the customers. It was like stepping into Mr. Peabody’s Wayback Machine and yet another example of how most residents of Seashell Bay insisted on living in the past.
Mike greeted them with firm handshakes but didn’t waste time with small talk. He led them into the cavernous repair shop in the rear, where Aiden spotted
Irish Lady
up on a metal trolley.
Aiden stopped dead, as if someone had rammed a fist into his chest. The last time he’d stood on her deck, he’d vowed never to return. And yet, here he was, ready to climb back on board as if nothing had ever happened. As if he hadn’t spent the most miserable hours of his life on
Irish Lady
, helplessly stuck in his father’s ugly-ass, bitter world.
He took a deep breath, shoved down the unwelcome memories, and focused on the job at hand. He was good at doing that. Every pro athlete was. You either learned to control your emotions or you washed out at the first sign of trouble.
Old Roy, coffee in hand, leaned on the boat’s black-and-white hull—a hull that desperately needed a new paintjob. Roy looked unbelievable for his age—tall, tanned, and apparently fit, despite his thoroughly wrinkled face. His white hair was a little long and a lot wild, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt that revealed surprisingly sinewy arms.
Aiden blinked when he saw Jessie Jameson. She was dressed in a tube top and overalls and looked more like a grease monkey than the pretty girl he’d seen in the bar last night. Jessie
Similar Books
