Dana Mentink - Sailing In Style

A flicker of movement in the mirror drew his attention from the running water. Something white, lacy, ethereal drifted past on the outer deck, momentarily obscuring his view of the cove. A pair of eyes, unforgettable. Unbelievable.

A ghost , his mind told him.

You’re an idiot, it added immediately.

You got your heart broken by a lady in white. Weddings, vows, rings. Stirs everything up.

Cy dropped the cloth in the water and scooped a palmful from the running tap, dashing his face with it to wash away the mirage. Get it together, man . He had a reception room full of people to tend to, including his father and his new mother-in-law, a woman to whom he ascribed saintly qualities. She had taken Cy and his sister in as teens after they were abandoned by their father, and she’d married that same man even though doctors claimed he was losing his sanity to Pick’s disease. Aunt Bitsy, though not his biological aunt, was a cut above the rest, and she wanted the wedding to go off without the slightest snag. This was not the time for hallucinations.

The swirl of white passed in front of the porthole again. Green eyes, the pale tint of newly unfurled leaves, his memory supplied, with the tiniest fleck of gold in the left. Truth be told, he was probably imagining the woman in the first place, the wisps of strawberry blond hair peeping out from under a wisp of white lace. The water splashed and gurgled, but he could not look away from that reflection of perfection.

One second more, two. He blinked and screwed up his eyes, closed and opened them, and yet she remained, reflected in the mirror. Then she smiled in the sad, elfin way that only Piper Brindle could, in the same manner she had on the day she destroyed them. Ruined him.

Hallucination.

Imagination.

A crystal tear brimmed from those green eyes and trickled down her face.

A crying hallucination? He whirled around, crashed through the door and careened through the narrow corridor on his way to catch up with the lady in white.

* * *

PIPER FLICKED THE veil back from her face, heart pounding, and swiped a hand across her cheeks. She jogged as fast as the stiff satin pumps would allow. She never should have peeked through the porthole, but she had to prove to herself that the impossible rumor was not true. Cy Franco could not actually be on the ship, yet the man who gaped at her in the mirror had certainly looked like the tousle-haired, half-crazy decorating savant whom she had broken up with three years before.

It couldn’t be Cy. All six-foot, wide-shouldered vegetarians probably looked alike wearing tuxedos. Last she’d heard, he was in Northern California, helping his sister run a design firm. And what, she asked herself as she jogged, was up with the tear that had slid down her face? Tears? Really, Piper? Cy probably hadn’t cried when she left. He was no doubt glad to be rid of her. She didn’t blame him. She stopped to listen for pursuit and heard the clatter of someone running in clunky dress shoes. The Cy lookalike. She raced faster, ducking into an empty conference room, and leaned against the door, breathing hard. Whoever it was, the last thing she needed was for a guest on the boat to lodge a complaint about the peeping Thomasina staring through his porthole.

Even if it was Cy, he had no business chasing her. Of course, the tiny voice that passed for her conscience reminded her she’d actually stolen the man’s Chevy. But he’d gotten it back, hadn’t he?

“For goodness’ sake, he doesn’t even drive,” she sniped to herself. Her pursuer paused outside, and she remained still. She longed to peek out, to confirm the crazy idea she’d latched onto that she once again shared deck space with Cy Franco.

No looking back, Piper. The shadow passed by and Piper let out a sigh, a very quiet one, before she slipped into the hallway and sped back to her cabin.

* * *

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, winded, and more convinced than ever that he needed some sort of mental health intervention, Cy settled back into his role as brotherly host, greeting the reception guests in the captain’s room. He steadfastly suppressed the image of the lady in white, the mirage he’d chased all around the boat deck without finding the barest trace of her. Wiping his brow, he plastered on a smile and did his best to mingle. The long rectangular space was dotted with round tables sporting bronze linens and flowery sprays composed of blooms he wouldn’t even begin to guess at. Flooring he knew. Flowers, not so much.

This flooring was all wrong, of course, as was most of the decor. The room was decorated in such a modern style, it had lost all the charm intrinsic to a historic wooden steam paddleboat. As co-owner of Dollars and Sense Design with his sister, it was his job and calling to notice such things. This boat had history—quaint, elusive, the charming memories of yesteryear when paddleboats churned along California waterways. This room might have been the reception room of any motel in America.

Aunt Bitsy took his arm, distracting him from his thoughts. Her white-blond hair was piled neatly atop her head. “I was worried about you, Cy, honey. Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m all right.” He bent to press a kiss to her cheek, which forestalled the brewing questions. Her warm gaze fixed on him in that amazing way that made everyone feel like she was their own flesh and blood, which was why virtually every townsperson from the mail carrier to the dentist called her Aunt Bitsy. “Are you and Pops enjoying the soiree?”

“Definitely.” She beamed.

“Marriage suits you. You’ve been hitched three months now and you’re still smiling. Where is your rascally other half?”

“He trotted off to fetch me a wrap. It’s freezing in here.” She blushed. “He takes good care of me.”

“Well, you are newlyweds.”

“Yes, we are, aren’t we? I have to pinch myself sometimes to remember that it’s true.” Bitsy’s smile wavered. “He’s been really clear lately.”

It was Cy’s turn to beam. “You see? Marriage is better than any drug the doctor can prescribe.” The doctors seemed to think there was nothing to be done but throw pills at the problem. Fine, he thought. Pops is going to be okay in spite of them . He and Bitsy would see to it.

Bitsy’s eyes widened. “Uh-oh. Dragon Lady, three o’clock,” she whispered. “Your turn. I’m going to get some sparkling water.”

Irene Hershey, the owner and general manager for the River King , the historic paddle wheel steamboat they were on, was bearing down on them like a falcon after a hapless fish. Bitsy had already wrestled with the woman over everything from the height of the flower thingies to the necessity of patching an unsightly crack in the wall behind the buffet table. Bitsy could charm the socks off any male on the planet, but her confrontations with women disintegrated quickly. Her last conversation with Irene had nearly come to blows.

He squared his shoulders. His turn to take a bullet.

“Mr. Franco,” Irene said, giving her unnaturally dark hair a flip. “You’ve enjoyed the arrangements here on the River King, I trust?” Though the sixtyish woman spoke in Cy’s general direction, her flint-gray eyes were riveted on another man sipping from a crystal goblet, a well-dressed guy who looked to be within spitting distance of Cy’s twenty-nine years. Too tanned. Too ironed.

“Everyone is practically gobbling up the salmon, and doesn’t the sparkling of the ocean add a dramatic flare out that bank of windows?” she practically bellowed.

Cy wasn’t sure how to respond. He settled for a nod. She squeezed his forearm. “The man, over there,” she hissed. “Do you see him?”