He faced me. “You’ve taught me a lot. I’m not convinced you don’t have anything more to teach. Sir.”
My eyes misted. We hung, all of us, in that uncomfortable moment before parting. Ricky Fuentes, gangly and awkward in his early adolescence, came to me hesitantly. We looked at each other. Suddenly he flung himself on me, burying his head in my chest, hugging me fiercely. I gave him a squeeze.
“Good-bye, boy. I’ll see you again.”
“Will you?” His eyes were red.
“Yes. I promise.” I regarded our onetime ship’s boy with affection. “I have some advice. At Academy, don’t hug your drill sergeant, no matter how much you like him. It’s bad for your health.”
“Aye aye, sir!” He grinned like a foolish puppy.
I eased into the car. “Take me home, people. I’ll see you later at the party.” I closed my eyes, feeling the car jounce over the potholes. I was going home. To Amanda. To my crew. To my ship.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID FEINTUCH worked as attorney, photographer, and antiques dealer before turning to the writing of fiction. He’s had a lifelong interest in the British Navy and the Napoleonic era, which provided background material for his first four novels. The several volumes of the Nick Seafort saga took eight years to complete.
Mr. Feintuch was raised in New York, schooled in Indiana and Boston, and now lives with his daughter in Michigan in an elderly mansion furnished entirely in antiques, except for his computer. He is an inveterate traveler.