Page 51 of Winning Match
“I will,” he promises.
“’Bye, Grandpa.”
“Talk soon, kid.”
I disconnect the call and stand, running my fingertips underneath my eyes to get a grip on the tears that threaten to fall.
“You miss your family.”
I jump at the sound of Mr. García’s voice. My eyes dart to the hallway and I see him standing in the doorway, his brows pulled together as he studies me.
I nod. “Very much.”
“And your father…he’s unwell?”
“Early onset Alzheimer’s,” I explain somewhat stoically. “He’s regressed quickly and is having a rough morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. García’s voice is hushed, swept with compassion I didn’t expect.
“Thank you.”
“My son tells me you sail.” He steps into the room, and I’m surprised that he hasn’t dipped out to give me a moment to collect myself. Or give himself a reprieve from having to witness my messy emotions. “That your family owns a company that builds sailboats.”
“Yes,” I breathe out, smiling. “Prescott Sail.”
“Hm.” He takes a step closer. “Tell me about it. You’re heavily involved in operations?”
I nod, wondering how he knows to ask right now?
How does he understand just how much I want to talk about my dad? About the pang of homesickness lodged behind my breastbone. About the crisp mornings and the breeze that rolls off Narragansett Bay in summer. About the Cliff Walk Mom and I used to take in Newport and the bluffs that cut into the sea. The spray that hangs in the air, the blustery winds, the salty marshes that make up my childhood just as much as the memories of my parents.
“My grandfather founded the company in 1962. He had recently inherited the land from his own father’s passing. He was newly married, with $10,000 in the bank, a $50,000 loan, and a dream.” I grin, recalling how my dad would tell this story in the exact same way. “My family has been in Rhode Island since the 1700s. They were involved in whaling back then. My grandpa always said the salt and sea are in our blood,” I chuckle lightly. “He built Prescott Sail, but the company expanded greatly under the leadership of my dad, with my mom’s support. Grandpa never anticipated stepping back in to oversee things at this age but…” I trail off.
“He has no choice.”
“No.” I meet his steely gaze. “And neither do I.”
“You’re passionate about sailing.” It’s a statement, not a question, so I don’t say anything. A moment later, Mr. García adds, “A lot of young people don’t have passion these days.”
“I think passion, true passion, has always been a rarity. Some of mine is inherited though. My dad loved sailing, truly loved it. It’s the only thing he hasn’t forgotten.”
Mr. García nods before gesturing toward the deck. “Come, Marlowe. We must check the paella.”
I slide my phone into my purse and follow Mr. García outside.
Ale gives me a long look when I step onto the deck, but I smile, letting him know all is well.
And it is. Because when Mr. García hands me the first plate piled with delicious paella, there’s respect in his eyes.
And I know it was earned, not just given.
“My family loves you,” Ale says quietly as we drive back to the city.
“Your family is wonderful.” I reach over and drop my hand to his thigh. “You’re lucky you have them.”
He snorts and places his hand on top of mine. He leans back in the driver’s seat before glancing at me. “I never truly realized that until today. You know, growing up in my father’s shadow has always felt like this insurmountable pressure. Pressure to perform, to have a pristine reputation, to uphold a legacy. I used to be jealous of my sisters because Papá never rode them as hard as me.”
“What changed?”
