Клэр Донелли - Hiss And Tell

Fiona frowned. “I don’t want to go completely out of the area and have to source things in Portsmouth or Kennebunkport.”

“You may want to look in Saxon, that’s a pretty up-market town,” Sunny suggested. “Otherwise, I’ll check my local sources.”

AKA, ask Mrs. Martinson, she silently admitted. Who else could she turn to when it was a question of class? The food was delicious, but dealing with Fiona was a chore. Oh, she was polite, but determinedly on target. Maybe I’m just not used to dealing with that New York vibe anymore, Sunny thought. If this was how I acted, no wonder I had a hard time when I first came back home.

When the meal finally ended, only the young people took up Cale’s offer of a sail. Yachts weren’t on Fiona’s transport list. The governors were just as happy to rest after their grueling day of tennis, and the Senator and his wife were disinclined.

Beau pleaded fatigue, in spite of his daytime hibernation, and headed off to bed. Peter begged off, too. “I’m not a good sailor,” he said, putting a hand over his stomach.

“Are you a sailor, Sunny?” Priscilla asked.

“Of course she is,” Cale answered before Sunny could. “She mentioned she’d seen me sailing in while she was out on the water the other day.”

Sunny nodded. At least he didn’t mention the boat I was on the other night.

They left the house, cut across the lawn, and went down the old set of steps to the wharf jutting out from Neal’s Neck. This must have been where the fabled rumrunners would’ve made their deliveries. The modern-day picture was a lot quieter. A humble rowboat bobbed in the water at the end of the pier. Along the side, though, a glitzy motor launch—the same one that had launched the pre-emptive strike on Ike Elkins’s boat, and what they’d use as transport over to the yacht—was tied up to the pilings. A couple of security men stood by with a supply of life vests.

Sunny was a little surprised to see Lee Trehearne there, and apparently Cale was, too.

“Everything all right?” Cale asked as he stepped past to check the launch.

“Yes, sir,” the security chief replied. Then he turned to Sunny. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay, Ms. Coolidge.” If his voice got any colder, icebergs would be appearing on the horizon. “It’s a very busy and difficult time for the family, we want everything to go as well as possible.”

Translation, Sunny thought, don’t go making things worse.

Aloud she said, “Everyone has been very kind.” She slipped her arms into a vest, clipped and buckled herself in, and stepped into the launch. At least she had enough experience on boats, mostly courtesy of her dad’s fishing buddies, that she didn’t end up sprawling. As soon as everyone was aboard, the security guys undid the lines. Cale started the engine, and they headed out for the Merlin . The double-masted boat seemed to grow ever larger as they got closer.

The transfer from the launch to the low-slung deck of the schooner was a bit trickier, but Sunny managed it. Priscilla stepped aboard easily, but Carson made a misstep that required a quick grab from Tommy.

Sunny drank in the quiet elegance of the Merlin ’s fittings, all polished wood and brass hardware, not a scrap of fiberglass that she could spot. She’d been on larger vessels before, but nothing like this. “This is quite the boat,” she told Cale, who gave her an almost boyish grin.

“Shame it can’t keep a straight course,” Tommy Neal whispered to his wife in a voice loud enough for Sunny to hear. “It always falls off to port.”

Cale gave no sign of having overheard. But a few minutes later, he said casually, “You’re a sailor, aren’t you, Tommy? Maybe you can give the old man a hand, getting the sails up.”

Somehow, Sunny noticed, that meant Tommy taking on all the dog labor. A short while later, he was drenched in sweat and staring daggers, as Cale sat behind the wheel in the stern of the schooner. The ride itself was amazing, scudding along with the wind, the red, white, and blue sails billowing against a glorious sunset. Sunny had been on sailboats before, but this was the closest she’d ever come to flying.

Cale obviously caught her enjoyment. He patted the deck beside his chair, and Sunny joined him.

“Did you understand what that jackass said about my boat?” he asked.

“That it has a tendency to head off to the left from the wind,” Sunny replied.

Cale nodded. “A miserable thing to say. Even if it’s true.”

“I think you’ve made him regret it.” Tommy sat on the narrow deck, arm wrapped around a mast, his free hand mopping his face.

“Maybe a little more.” Cale raised his voice. “Hard a-starboard.”

He turned the wheel, and the Merlin went into a right turn, the wind puffing out the sails, the boom on the mainsail swinging so that Tommy Neal had to duck. So did Sunny, but she was farther away from the mast and had more time. “You’re bad,” she told Cale.

“I prefer to consider it fun-loving, and I suspect you’ve got a streak of that yourself, surprising a newspaper person,” Cale responded with that bad-boy grin. “Maybe that’s how the Kennedys managed to make friends with so many press people. Kindred spirits.”

“So you’re giving it a try?” Sunny asked. “Are you considering another crack at politics?”

Caleb Kingsbury made a face and shook his head. “That’s way behind me. You ever heard of John Profumo?”

“Give me a minute.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Sunny had to search her memory. Sounded Italian. Something gangster related? She shook her head. No. Bad stereotype. Something political? Bribery? No. Something foreign. Well, Italian politics had lots of scandals. Wait, that was it. Scandal. But not in Italy . . .

“A British scandal?” Sunny said out loud. “Maybe fifty years ago?”

“Close enough,” Cale told her. “He was a bigwig in the British Ministry of Defense fooling around with a call girl who was also sleeping with a Soviet agent. By the time it all shook out, it brought down the Conservative government. That’s all anybody remembers.”

Sunny nodded. That was all she remembered, too.

“What impressed me, though, was what Profumo did afterward. He went to work cleaning toilets for a charitable foundation and in the end wound up running it, even receiving royal honors before he died. I’d call that a hell of a second act for his life.”

Cale was silent for a moment concentrating on his steering. “That’s why I set up the Act Two Foundation.”

“The one Priscilla works for,” Sunny said.

Cale nodded. “I may not be a politician anymore, but I’ve got the gift of gab. That, plus the family name, helped open a few wallets. And I think we do some real good, helping people get through changes in their lives.” He grinned. “One of my favorites is a program we run teaching computer skills to folks who lost manufacturing jobs . . . where the instructors are people just out of prison for hacking. Two rehabilitations for the price of one.” He grinned again.

“Sounds as though you’re accomplishing some good with your second act,” Sunny said.

Cale’s face softened a little. “I think even the Senator has gotten behind it now. He deeded this place over to the foundation.” His expansive gesture took in all of Neal’s Neck.

“And the Senator probably also beats out the estate tax on the land.” Sunny’s voice sharpened as she slowly realized the implications. “And since the compound belongs to a nonprofit, does that mean there are no property taxes to pay for all the state and local cops involved in the wedding and the Stoughton case?”