Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

I know you’ll be swamped when you return to civilization. But please send your thoughts on this as soon as you can.

Having said all this, is a Christmas yacht party really the proper venue for deciding our future? Would we be able to see clearly through tinsel-dazzled eyes?

Regards,

Diane

Where are you Olimpia?

The yacht Enterprise sat in BRI’s marina looking festive with evergreen garlands and blue Christmas lights adorning her deck rails. In the main salon, gaslights flickered and musicians played Christmas carols.

Most of the invited guests were on board.

In the pilothouse, Raymond Bellfort accepted a cigar and a light from Gabriel Carrera, his South American cousin. He puffed vigorously, feigning pleasure as he endured the obligatory Cuban cigar ritual.

Gabriel Carrera and his father Carlos Carrera had arrived from Barranquilla the previous day for business meetings in Houston and stayed on for the Bayside Research Christmas party. Father and son had traveled separately, as usual.

Raymond Bellfort slid open a starboard window to vent the smoke, then turned on the VHF radio and tuned it to the marine weather frequency. The announcer’s nasal tones filled the pilothouse: “This is your NOAA weather channel with the forecast for Texas coastal waters to twenty nautical miles offshore ….”

It was a humid December evening with a low fog covering the water’s surface. Fortunately, the temperature was not predicted to dip any lower than sixty-five degrees until a dry cold front from the north moved through later that night. That meant it should remain comfortable enough for guests to step out onto the decks during their cruise down Galveston Bay.

The Enterprise would motor the twenty-five miles to Galveston while the guests enjoyed champagne and a seafood buffet. The yacht would dock in Galveston for an hour or so before heading back up the bay to the BRI marina.

Gabriel Carrera took a long draw on his cigar and blew the smoke toward the open window. Then he turned to Raymond. “So, you have hired the coal miner’s daughter and her husband?”

“Steelworker’s daughter,” Raymond corrected. “I have to say, though, Diane Rose’s credentials are impressive. And she’s fluent in more languages than you are.”

Gabriel said, “If you like, I would be glad to introduce her to the right people to expedite her plant collecting in Central and South America.”

Pensively, Raymond rolled his cigar between his thumb and index finger. “Ahh… I don’t have the Roses’ signatures on a contract yet.” There, he had said it out loud. But he felt no relief. He knew his tale of woe had not reached the sympathetic ear of a trusted compadre . Almost two decades ago, when he and Gabriel became business partners, they ceased being friends.

Gabriel Carrera was one year younger than Raymond Bellfort, and they had grown up together, attending Winston Military Academy in Indiana. They had been close companions and confidantes until Raymond was expelled from school in their junior year, forcing him on a different academic route. But they had always remained in touch.

Raymond’s American grandfather and Gabriel’s Colombian grandfather had drilled for oil in South America together years before, resulting in their children—Mary and Carlos—marrying. Raymond and Gabriel’s mothers were now both deceased.

Raymond looked outside at the empty dock, checked his watch and shrugged.

“Relax,” Gabriel said quietly. “You know how airport traffic is on Fridays… Did you make hotel reservations for them?”

Raymond nodded. “Maxine booked the penthouse suite for them at Bay Harbour. I’ll check with the hotel again in a few minutes.”

Raymond heard his wife’s boisterous laughter rising from below and rolled his eyes at his cousin. “Batten the hatches; here she comes.”

The pilothouse door burst open to admit Raymond’s wife Charlotte, a stately vision in flowing red silk and diamonds. “Gabriel, how did you ever get past me downstairs, you handsome thing?”

“Charlotte, my dear.” Gabriel embraced her warmly.

Charlotte stepped back to admire her cousin-in-law. “Look at you. Age only becomes you. You’re a Latin/Anglo prince.” She glanced at Raymond, then back at Gabriel. “It’s hard to believe your mothers were sisters. Why couldn’t Raymond have half your looks, your panache?”

Gabriel dismissed Charlotte’s effusiveness with a good-natured wave of his hand. “I swear you are the only person on God’s earth who makes me blush.”

And one of the few who makes you laugh,” Charlotte pinched Gabriel under the ribs, making him jump. “Lighten up! Come down to the salon with me. They have a nice effervescent liquid that will pop your cork, let the pressure out.” Ignoring Raymond, she took Gabriel’s arm and steered him toward the stairs.

“After you,” Gabriel said, tossing his cigar through the open window. Looking back over his shoulder, he shrugged at Raymond as though he had lost all control of the situation.

Raymond could hear his wife still fawning over Gabriel as they descended the pilot house steps to the main salon.

“You need a nice young woman to help you with an attitude adjustment, Gabriel,” Charlotte said. “There are a few unescorted ones here.”

Raymond turned away from the stairway. Only then did he realize he had crushed the lit cigar in his hand.

Charlotte plowed through the crowd. “Have you met my beautiful cousin? Do you remember my handsome cousin?”

Gabriel allowed himself to be drawn along by Charlotte through the main salon where he was handed a flute of Dom Perignon. Then he was pulled behind her to the aft, covered deck and onward to the forward deck, all the while being subjected to Charlotte’s blandishments.

The blue Christmas lights illuminated the fog, creating a surreal atmosphere that blended with the champagne to mesmerize Gabriel, rendering him uncharacteristically docile. On their trip back through the main salon, Charlotte traded Gabriel’s empty glass for a full one from a passing silver tray. Then she led him past a blur of strange faces to the bar, which held an assortment of seafood appetizers.

Only then did Gabriel realize what she was up to. To one side stood his father Carlos Carrera, the great patriarch.

“Stand and cheer! Look who’s here!” Charlotte clapped in rhythm to her chant. “It’s your Father, Gabriel.” Ignoring her, Gabriel began filling a small plate with crab-stuffed mushrooms.

“If you won’t greet him, I will.” Charlotte spread her arms wide and gave Carlos a hug. He returned a reserved embrace.

Father and son glanced across at each other without any sign of emotion, then back at Raymond’s wife. Poor Charlotte, thought Gabriel, she was so certain the combination of champagne and her Auntie Mame routine could cure all ills, bridge all chasms.

Charlotte reached out and grabbed both men by the hand. “Come on y’all. Let’s get into the holiday spirit.”

But Carlos and Gabriel Carrera ignored her supplication. They had become transfixed, staring past the crowd to the doorway where Diane and Vincent Rose stood.

The Roses were a striking couple: Diane—long and lean in black, and Vincent—distinguished in his tuxedo and scientist’s trademark salt-and-pepper beard.

Raymond joined the group now encircling the Roses and made introductions. Handshakes were distributed all around.

From his vantage point at the bar, a step up from the rest of the main salon, Gabriel studied Diane’s face. As she brushed moist reddish ringlets from her forehead and temples, she made a quick, wide-eyed survey of the opulence surrounding her. She does not even attempt to conceal her wonderment, this steelworker’s daughter from the North. I would wager she does not even suspect that she is the most dazzling thing in the room.