The Best Way to Lose (8 page)

“It proves I’m human!” Trace shot back. “That I’ve got feelings and hurts the same as you! You’re so wrapped up in your own grief that you think you’re the only one who cares that he’s dead. All right, so maybe I offended you this evening, but all I wanted to do was give comfort and be comforted. It started out all very innocent, but unfortunately I got carried away. When I left this house, I felt about as low and rotten as a man can get! But I don’t expect you to understand that. According to you, I don’t feel anything!”

The bitterness and suppressed anger in his voice lashed out at her. Pilar didn’t retaliate, although her dislike of him continued to glitter in her eyes. Perhaps there was some truth in his explanation even if it didn’t justify his behavior.

He swung away from her silence and reached for the duffel bag sitting on a corner of the countertop. “I’m going to borrow your car, Cassie. You can pick it up tomorrow morning under-the-hill.”

The slamming of the door vibrated through the kitchen. Pilar unconsciously flinched from the sound but her expression remained hardened against him. She flashed a look at the black woman, standing so silently by the table.

“You think I was wrong for speaking out the way I did, don’t you?” Pilar challenged, preferring to air their disagreeing views.

There was a faint shrug of Cassie’s shoulders that wouldn’t pass judgment. “I know him better than you do. I know the things that are good about him, and I know the things that are bad. He has troubles that you don’t know about and I think it’s better that way.”

“What do you mean?” Pilar frowned at Cassie’s deliberate attempt at mystery.

“I mean that you’re going to have a hard enough time without taking on any of Trace’s problems,” she replied. “He’ll have to work them out himself. I just hope he does a better job of it than he’s done so far.”

A fine drizzle fell from the low, murky clouds, instilling a damp chill in the air, but Trace didn’t feel it under the bulky thickness of his navy wool sweater and unzipped windbreaker. The deck beneath his feet vibrated with the whine of the engines. Wisps of fog trailed across the surface of the intercoastal waterway, too thin to present any hazard.

There was a single, blaring blast of a towboat’s horn, which was echoed by his boat. Straightening from the railing, Trace swung his gaze to the front, beyond the prow of the first barge, and spied the towboat pushing barges toward them. They were riding high in the water, a clear indication that their holds were empty. One blast of the horn signaled the towboat’s intention of passing on the port side.

As the tow vessels drew abreast, a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. A string of multicolored lights circled the pilothouse of the towboat, and an artificial, faded green wreath was tacked onto a large life ring on the side, near the name
Sophie B
. Trace lifted a hand in silent greeting to the man at the controls. Engines throbbed, turning props and churning up water in a muddy wake as the towboats passed.

The faint smile lingered on his face as Trace pivoted to slide an amused glance through the opened window of the wheelhouse at the pilot taking his turn at watch on the
Delta Belle
. “Either the Swede hasn’t been sober since Christmas, or else he’s getting a headstart on next year.”

“Ill ask him.” Dan Bledsoe chuckled and picked up the radio mike. There was a crackle of communication over the short-wave before he came back with the answer. “He said he hasn’t been home for Santa Claus to visit him. It’ll be another week before he gets back. Hope we don’t get stuck like that. My wife’s due to have her baby the end of the month.”

“This is supposed to be a turn-around haul,” Trace replied.

“Yeah.” There was a skeptical quality in the response. “I’ve heard that before.”

So had Trace, but he wasn’t a family man like some of the others on the crew. He didn’t complain about the delays in port, or the junk hauls they’d been making recently. He tapped the windowsill in a gesture of decision.

“I’m goin’ below. She’s all yours.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Bledsoe replied absently, already looking ahead at the bend in the channel.

After hours at the wheel negotiating through an early-morning fog and drizzle with one eye on the radar screen and an ear tuned for the blast of a horn, Trace was ready for a break. It hadn’t been his watch, but as the senior pilot, he hadn’t been willing to let the green Bledsoe take it alone, since he’d only obtained his river pilot’s license seven months ago.

A pot of coffee was cradled on a back burner of the stove in the mess cabin. Trace filled a cup and carried it to the table where Evers, the cook, was cheating at a game of solitaire.

“Want something to eat?” Evers chewed out the words through the cigar in his mouth.

“Nope.” Trace took off his hat and dropped it on the table while he combed a hand through his hair, then let it rub the knotted muscles in his neck.

“Your mail’s still sittin’ over there. Ya never did open it,” Evers reminded him and slipped an ace from the pile.

“It’s just bills.” Trace rocked his chair back to reach the short stack of envelopes with his name on them, then leafed through them, looking at return addresses before bothering to open them.

“What do you suppose is gonna happen to the line now that your old man’s gone?” Evers lifted his chin to frown curiously at Trace, the cigar wigwagging from his teeth.

“What do you mean?” He used his pocketknife to slice open an envelope. An eyebrow arched briefly when he saw the amount listed as damages at the bar where he’d had the fight six weeks ago.

“There’s been some speculation that his widow might sell it. I just wondered if you knew.” The ash fell off Evers’ cigar onto the cards. The cook muttered under his breath and swept it off the table with his hand.

“Could be.” Trace shrugged with disinterest.

Evers began flipping down cards again. “Can’t imagine a woman running a barge line.” He darted an interested look at Trace. “You’d get some of the money if she sold it, wouldn’t ya?”

“Mmhmm.” It was an affirmative sound as he slid the knife blade under the flap of another envelope. He unfolded the official-looking letter and skimmed the notice of a special stockholders’ meeting of the Santee Line, Ltd. Disinterested, Trace shoved it back in the envelope.

“She wouldn’t get much for it if she sold it,” Evers announced, continuing the
conversation whether Trace was interested in the subject or not. “The business has been going downhill the last few years. Equipment’s getting older and prices are getting higher.”

“There have been too many cheap loads to undesirable ports,” Trace acknowledged—undesirable from the standpoint of getting good loads to haul out. “And too much money has been spent on repair and maintenance of equipment that’s too old to warrant it.”

“Hell, anybody on the river knows that,” the cook declared. “But I wouldn’t want to take bets on how long it’s been since anyone at the main office has been out on these waters. These boats and barges are just numbers on paper to them—and the ports are just places on a map. You let me run this company for a month, and you’d see plenty of changes.”

“That’s what we all say.” Trace’s mouth quirked as he drank down his coffee.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Evers smiled, too, at his own braggadocio. “It’s just talk, and it never amounts to nothing. That’s why I’m sittin’ here on this vibratin’ machine and they’re sittin’ in some plush office and smokin’ five-dollar cigars. They don’t make presidents out of river bums.”

“Right,” Trace agreed absently as he scooped up his mail and fingered the envelope with the notice of the stockholders’ meeting.

A chair was pulled out for her at the conference table. Pilar smiled briefly at the attorney
before smoothing the back of her navy linen skirt to sit down.

“Thank you, Mr. Forrestown,” she murmured.

“I believe you know everyone here,” he said.

“Yes, I do.” Pilar glanced at the half-dozen men slowly resuming their places at the table now that she was seated.

“I hope you don’t object to my inclusion of Mr. Cunningham,” the attorney offered respectfully. “I know he isn’t a shareholder in the company, but since he’s been acting as an interim president, I felt he should be present for this meeting.”

“Of course,” she agreed and nodded to the squat, balding man sitting across the table from her. “I’m glad you could join us.”

Payne Forrestown remained standing. “Since all the directors are present, and the shareholders are represented, either by proxy or their presence, perhaps we should get down to the business of electing officers and appointing a new member to the board.” There was a nodding assent around the table. He smiled down at Pilar, slightly patronizing. “We won’t be formal about this. Whenever you wish to speak or ask a question, feel free to do so.”

“Thank you.”

None of them were entirely comfortable with her in the room, and Pilar could feel their restiveness. Many of them clung to the old
tradition that kept women and business separate.

“Perhaps we should begin by nominating—” He was interrupted by a knock on the door to the conference room. “Come in,” he called out impatiently.

When Trace Santee walked in, Pilar sensed the ripple of surprise that passed through the room. Unlike the other men, dressed in dark business suits and ties, he was wearing a tan windbreaker over a white shirt, opened at the throat.

“Trace, I—” The attorney stopped and glanced down at the papers on the table in front of him. “I didn’t realize you were going to attend. I believe I have your proxy right here.”

“I believe you’re mistaken, Payne.” A smooth smile spread across his rugged features, which carried none of the bruises that had marred it the last time Pilar had seen him. “I didn’t mail one in.”

“I see.” But it was obvious that the attorney didn’t
see
anything. Trace’s appearance had thrown everyone in the room off stride. “You’ll have to forgive me. I must have presumed you wouldn’t come, since you never have attended any of our previous meetings.”

It seemed everyone in the room drew an audible breath when Trace pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down. “I haven’t,” he agreed smoothly. His gray eyes made a slow survey of the men seated at the
table and lingered an instant on Pilar. “But I’ve never owned the company before.”

A little shock seemed to vibrate through Pilar. It wasn’t possible. According to the will, the bulk of Elliot’s shares had come to her.

“In case you haven’t counted them lately”—Trace looked straight at her when he spoke—“between the shares my father left me and the ones I received from my mother’s estate, I hold the majority of shares in the Santee Line.”

“Well, yes … that’s true.” The attorney nodded a dazed confirmation. “But—” He was plainly at a loss for words.

It was not resentment of his ownership that smoldered behind the calm facade Pilar showed him. After all, he was Elliot’s son, so it was natural that he should inherit control of the company. It was a distrust of the capricious whims that ruled him, and his lack of respect for the established order of things. She saw the gleam in his gray eyes that issued a challenge and amusement. Trace Santee was enjoying the discomfort he was creating.

“How typical of him,” Pilar thought, “to arrive unannounced and throw everyone into confusion—stirring up trouble.” She quietly seethed, conscious of the heated tempo of her pulse. He sat crookedly in the chair, a pose of lazy indolence with one arm stretched on the table to idly turn a pencil in a circle.

Cunningham hunched forward in his chair and turned his bald head in the direction of
the end chair. “You have never taken any interest in the operation or management of the company before, Trace. Naturally the members of the board are surprised by this apparent turn-around.”

“It’s been four or five years since the company has issued any dividends to the shareholders.” Trace seemed to throw that out as a reason while he eyed the interim president through the tops of thick lashes.

“In the past,” Pilar said and heard the huskiness in her voice, “you never bothered to attend any of the previous shareholders’ or directors’ meetings. This is rather a sudden concern about the financial status of the company, isn’t it?”

“But in the past”—he paused, eyeing her steadily, yet with that gleam of mocking amusement that had taken on a harsh note—“my father ran the company, Mrs. Santee.”

He picked up the pencil, and tapped the eraser end on the table. The little gesture seemed to draw to a close any further discussion of this subject. The lazy pose was thrown off as he straightened in the chair and rested his forearms and elbows on the table. With the action, the control of the meeting seemed to flow to him.

“I don’t know how these procedures are conducted, but”—his cool, challenging gaze swept the table—“maybe we should begin by installing a new president.”

The brief silence was broken by the attorney
as he sat down in the empty chair next to Pilar’s, relinquishing his authority over the proceedings. Nervously he cleared his throat, conscious that the others were looking to him. “Dale Cunningham has been acting as interim president,” he said. “I believe the general opinion has been that the position would become permanent. Elliot thought very highly of his management abilities.”

“I have one quarrel with Cunningham taking over as president of the Santee Line,” Trace stated, apparently indifferent to the tension in the air. “He hasn’t been on the river in twenty years or more. He’s lost touch with the business and the changes it’s made.”

No one commented on his assessment of Cunningham or his lack of endorsement. Payne Forrestown studied the documents on the table in front of him, giving them a pretense of attention, and asked the question no one else wanted to voice. “Is there someone you would like to suggest for the post?”

“Me.” The slow smile that spread across the bluntly chiseled features held no humor.

Forty-five minutes after Trace had walked into the conference room, the meeting was concluded. It had been awkward for everyone except Trace. So Pilar wasn’t surprised when they all remembered appointments elsewhere and cut short the idle talk that usually followed the formal gatherings.