Children of Dynasty by Christine Carroll

Despite her lack of appetite the past few days, the mingled aromas of spices and fresh-baked bread made Mariah’s stomach growl.
    With interest, she watched Rory select a thick crusty boule, then hold up Fontina, Brie, and vintage Chianti for her approval.
    Walking toward the marina took her back to the day they’d sailed with Charley. Even more of a rowdy kid then, Charley had been like a younger brother going along on his sister’s date. Through misty eyes, she smiled at the houseboats and the forest of sailboat masts.
    When she and Rory stepped onto the dock, the music of the shrouds grew more melodious, a blend of pitch as lines beat against the hollow tubes of the masts. About halfway down the pier, Rory indicated a sailboat with a royal blue hull and white decks. No ostentatious yacht like his father’s, it looked older than the other vessels, lifting and lowering with the swell. Its teak trim had faded to a gentle gray.
    When she stepped on the rail, the boat didn’t move. It only dipped a fraction of an inch when Rory joined her aboard.
    “Pearson Rhodes ‘41,” he said with pride. “Built in ‘65, back when they didn’t know the strength of fiberglass. Her decks are this thick.” He held up his thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “She’s fast, too. I like the zip of a smaller boat than
Privateer.”
    “What’s her name?”
    Rory looked thoughtful. “That’s a puzzle. When I bought her earlier this spring her name had been painted over. I haven’t had a chance to decide on one.” He cocked his head and grinned. “I could always call her ‘Mariah.’”
    Her heart thudded at the suggestion he’d put her name on his pride and joy in foot-high letters, but paint was cheap, and perhaps he’d made the same offer to Sylvia Chatsworth.
    At her lack of reaction, Rory’s smile disappeared, and he turned his attention to unlocking the companionway slide. She sensed his withdrawal and felt ashamed of what she’d thought, but couldn’t figure out what to do about it.
    Mariah put the sack she carried onto the deck, waiting for instructions. It might go against feminism, but one thing she recalled about sailing was that the captain made the rules. “When you have your own boat,” Rory had told her long ago, “you’ll be in charge.”
    Remembering details as they went along, she helped him prepare to cast off. Together, they removed blue canvas covers from the sails and brought up cockpit cushions along with lifejackets.
    The engine started with a roar, exhaled a cloud of blue exhaust, and subsided to a gentle putt-putt as Rory backed out of the slip and steered toward the Bay. Once in open water, Mariah took the helm while he clambered forward to raise the mainsail. It caught the wind, and the boat heeled.
    Untying the sheets from the huge jib sail wrapping the front stay, Rory threaded color-coded lines back to the rear winches. He unfurled the jib and called for her to shut off the engine.
    Immediately, the loud laboring was replaced by the smooth hiss of water against the hull.
    Mariah inhaled the sense of peace that surrounded them, yet noted the bustling of ferries and windsurfers leaping wave crests, their colorful sails and wetsuits contrasting with the blue water.
    Over the next hour, she fell back into the old rhythm of tacking, changing directions against the wind. “Ready about,” Rory would say, while she loosened the sheet that held the jib taut. Then “Hard alee.” Amid flapping chaos, the jib and main swung to the other side of the boat while she climbed across to sheet both sails in firmly.
    The Pearson glided soundlessly under the Golden Gate Bridge, its vermilion metal towers rising in majestic contrast to the cerulean sky. Huge tankers and container ships ploughed in and out of port. Their wakes gently lifted and lowered the sailboat’s hull, yet crested against the bridge supports with startling violence.
    In a sheltered area on the north side of the bay, Rory sailed in