Vineyard Chill Read Online Free

couple of years later, he came to Boston with a new wife and enough money to rent himself a nice apartment and get his BA from Boston University.
    By that time I was married, too, and the four of us saw a lot of each other before he and his then wife sailed his now completed ketch south so he could take a job he’d been offered.
    And now he was coming again.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” asked Zee, bringing me back to reality. She had a quizzical smile on her face. “You haven’t moved since you hung up the phone.”
    â€œThat was Clay,” I said. “He’s on the next boat. Hearing his voice, I got to thinking about a couple of sails we took together. I think I’ve mentioned them. One down to Florida from Boston and another out to the Bahamas and back.”
    â€œI remember you telling me about the one to Florida, but I don’t remember the other one. Wasn’t the Florida sail the one where you ran into a bad storm?”
    â€œYes. You know what they say about sailing: hours of boredom interspersed with moments of stark terror. But it was a good boat so we lived to tell the tale.”
    â€œTell me about the Bahamas trip.”
    â€œNot much to tell. No storms. No problems. We sailed the boat out to Freeport, then sailed it back to West Palm. Fair winds both ways.”
    â€œWhat’s Freeport like?”
    â€œAll I saw of it was a dock and the inside of a bar.”
    â€œI should have guessed! Well, you’d better get started if you’re going to meet that boat. I’m looking forward to getting to know the mythical Mr. Stockton.”
    â€œYou’ll like him.”
    I drove to Vineyard Haven and had no problems finding a parking place in the Steamship Authority parking lot. The wind had shifted to the northeast and was coming off the water, so it was chilly. I stood inside the ticket office and watched the brand-new ferry, the Island Home, come into sight around West Chop. The Island Home was the pride of the Great White Fleet, and rightly so. It was only unpopular with those people who thought there were already enough people on Martha’s Vineyard and didn’t want to encourage more to come.
    There weren’t too many passengers aboard, and as they streamed down the gangplank, I immediately saw Clay, backpack slung over his shoulder, traveling light as always. He looked good.
    I went out to meet him as he walked toward the ticket office and we wrapped ourselves in each other’s arms, then stepped back and looked at each other, grinning.
    â€œHaven’t changed a bit!” Clay said.
    â€œA thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
    â€œHow long’s it been?”
    â€œWe’ll figure that out over martinis at home. Come on.”
    As we walked to the Land Cruiser, he glanced once back toward the boat. Then, walking on, he slapped my shoulder. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
    â€œYou don’t get to leave until I know everything.”
    â€œSuits me. You sure your wife doesn’t mind me visiting?”
    â€œShe thinks you’re a myth. You get to prove you’re not. It may take some work because I’ve been telling lies about you for years.”
    â€œProbably better than telling the truth!”
    â€œProbably!”
    We drove out of Vineyard Haven and headed for Edgartown. The bare trees let us see deep into the woods on either side of the road, revealing houses that were out of sight during the summer. There weren’t many cars on the road.
    â€œNever been here in the winter before,” said Clay. “Last time I came here, we were both in college.”
    â€œThat was a while back. Our place has changed a bit. New rooms for the kids, another bathroom, a woodstove in the living room. The bunk room is the guest room now, and my dad’s bedroom is the master bedroom.”
    â€œAny work available this time of year?”
    â€œIf you build houses or wooden boats,”