The Silver Boat by Luanne Rice

can’t be real.”
    â€œI’m rich in many, many ways,” he said in his deep baritone.
    Dar trailed behind as Harrison showed her sisters his flat-screen TV, his computer, his small bathroom.
    â€œHow is this possible in a storage unit?” Delia asked.
    â€œIt’s industrial, baby,” he said. “Think loft space, Manhattan in the eighties. Light industry welcome. Electricity, running water. Satellite TV. I rent under the name of Thaxter Enterprises.”
    â€œWhich does what?”
    â€œSails, drinks, and romances the ladies,” he said.
    Dar knew the first two were true, but it had been a while since Harrison had romanced anyone. He never complained, but she knew he had fallen far. He wasn’t Icarus, but his father had been—gambling the old money away, melting his wings at the Monaco and Las Vegas roulette tables, crashing to earth.
    After his father’s sudden death, Harrison had been left with debts and the reality of his father’s bank taking possession of the Boston apartment and the summer place on Water Street in Edgartown. He didn’t advertise his financial situation; Dar was one of his few confidantes.
    â€œBut there’s no shower,” Delia said, looking into the bathroom.
    â€œFor that I go to the yacht club! Which is where I’m taking the McCarthy sisters for lunch right now. Just let me change.”
    Rory rode with Harrison in his navy blue panel truck, and Dar and Delia followed. Delia was full of questions, including how he managed to afford the yacht club if he was living in a place worse than a trailer park, and Dar kept telling her to ask Harrison. They drove down Main Street in Edgartown, past sea captains’ white clapboard houses and the brick courthouse, boutiques and cafés.
    Dar parked behind Harrison, who looked more jaunty than she’d seen him all winter, in chinos, a red polo shirt, and a dark green fleece she’d given him for Christmas. He clinked as he walked, pockets full of keys. When they got to the yacht club, Delia shook the gate, puzzled.
    â€œIt’s closed,” she said, disappointed. “I forgot—it closes for the winter, doesn’t it?”
    â€œReopens in May,” Harrison said, his tone jolly. “The commodore left the water on so I can shower.”
    He used a key to unlock the gate, held it open for the sisters, and guided them onto the sun-drenched dock. They sat in a row, legs dangling over the harbor, just as they’d done as kids waiting for sailing lessons, and then regattas. Dar noticed Harrison snuggling close to Rory; it was an open secret, the fact he had always loved her.
    â€œGuess we can’t have lunch if it’s closed,” Delia said.
    Harrison reached into his fleece pockets and pulled out three half-pint bottles of Benedictine and Brandy. “Lunch!” he said. “Sorry, Dar.”
    â€œNo problem,” she said, watching them all unscrew the caps and clink.
    â€œTo all the good times,” Rory said, staring into Harrison’s eyes.
    â€œYes,” Dar said, but Delia bowed her head.
    â€œI’ll have none of that!” Harrison said, jostling her. “No sadness on my dock. So our parents spent all the money, taxes ate up my house and are about to eat up yours, but so what? The sunshine is free, the harbor is free—well, except for moorings. Don’t let the taxman get you down! Rent the unit next to me. The beaches don’t care if you live on the waterfront or you live on the light industrial way. Summer is coming.”
    â€œBut how do you afford your ‘home’ and your club?” Delia pressed.
    â€œMan with a van, baby,” he said. “I still specialize in delivering rare instruments. Surprising number of collectors here on the island. Just last week I had a vintage Martin guitar, 000-45, tiny little thing worth a fat six figures, on the seat beside me.”
    â€œDid you strum it?”