Death. Imminent. Ann rolled to her side, sending mental instructions to her chirping alarm watch to spontaneously combust. A second later her brain rolled, following her body—only her brain kept rolling, which sounded like a good idea to her stomach so it started rolling too.
Four-thirty A.M. Oh my God.
Chirp-chirp-chirp. She groaned, groped, knocked a pen off the bedside table, found the watch, shut the damn alarm off and flung the culprit back onto the table, head pounding, mouth rank. Last night was such a good idea. Seriously. Tossing back three glasses of scotch on no food. Brilliant. A MacArthur genius grant was in her future.
Another good one: letting Patrick kiss her. But wait, there was more! Letting Patrick screw with her head until she decided her marriage had been empty and cold. Nice! This place did wonders for the soul. Next she’d find out she really hated her parents. And, she was a lesbian with an insatiable desire for young girls.
At least she’d stopped at letting Patrick screw with her head, and hadn’t been stupid enough to let him screw the rest of her. Or wait, maybe he was the one who hadn’t been stupid enough. In any case, no screwing had happened. She was too drunk and too freaked out, and he was too employed.
Or no, too gay. She forgot.
After that one intense thirty second kiss, her instinct had kicked in with bad-idea messages, and then, thank God, Patrick had drawn back, looking confused, and insisted he hadn’t known what came over him, that this wasn’t like him at all, that he hadn’t been with a woman since high school and that he liked Ann too much to yadda and yadda, plus his job at the so on and so on would be etc., etc., etc.
Right. Even Peter Pan wouldn’t believe in that fairy.
She’d come close to asking how stupid he thought she was, but then figured if he wanted to keep pretending he was gay, he could go right ahead. Most likely he worried that if he took advantage of her drunken vulnerability, she’d wake up pissed and get him fired. Instead, she got the fun of waking up fatally hung over on a day she’d have to spend with fish-smelling men in a bob-’n’-weave boat.
Whee.
New experiences, Betsy had said, new experiences to help channel their lives in new and exciting directions. Ann didn’t want new experiences. She wanted her old familiar ones back.
She brought herself up to her elbows, squinting and miserable. By five freaking A.M. she had to be dressed and ready to be picked up at the parking lot. Five women, each going out for the day with a different lobster guy.
Her legs made it onto the floor. Her body hoisted itself out of bed, which beckoned, Come back to me, Ann darling, the most seductive offer she’d ever had.
Maybe she should call in dead.
But if she didn’t show, they’d send someone to see what was wrong, and her simple need for sleep would turn into another excuse for them to reach inside her with pliers and try to yank out her inner feelings. Or, if Patrick was anything to go by, to plant inner feelings they’d like her to have.
Fine. She’d go.
Fifteen minutes later she’d showered away the worst of the self-disgust. Ten minutes after that she’d dressed in jeans, wool socks, and a few layers under her sweater, since it would be cold out on the water at this hour, and didn’t that entice her even more.
Forget makeup. Forget hairstyle. Forget breakfast. She was as ready as she’d ever be.
The van ride down Shute’s Point on the narrow twisting sand and gravel road was stomach torture, as were the perky driver and chatty passengers. Of course, Ann was the last dropped off, abandoned at the mouth of a side road with cheery waves and enthusiastic “havefuns” that made her want to throw up even more. What was wrong with silence? What was wrong with having a really good bad mood on? Ann had never had the slightest problem with either.
She dragged herself through the woods on the rutted fern-and moss-lined road, which after nearly forever widened into a small clearing, home to a battered white shed surrounded by low blackberry plants and higher raspberry plants. She stopped to pick a few berries, whose sweetness helped battle the sour taste even vigorous toothbrushing hadn’t erased.
At the shore, the greenery ended; Ann stepped carefully down three rock steps set into the eroding earth, onto a wide flat ledge. In front of her a small cove, low tide, of course, so the muddy, clammy smell could be at its ripest. At anchor a dozen or so yards out, her home for the morning, the Tiger Lily II, dark green hull separated from white by a neat crimson stripe.
On board, one man, middle-aged in a ball cap, peering at her through the windshield. She gave a halfhearted wave. He returned a quarter-hearted wave and went back to whatever he’d been doing before he spotted her.
Well. How jolly. Did he expect her to swim out?
At home—her home with Paul—she’d still be asleep. At seven, her alarm would go off, she’d plow efficiently through her routines, barrel to the office—in sheer nylons, a wool suit, and expensive-but-tasteful jewelry. All day long she’d network, negotiate, coddle, manipulate, then rush home again to Paul, to neatness, to order, to luxury…
She wanted that back so badly, it hurt even more than her pounding head.
The door to the shed opened and another man, about her age, stepped out, dressed in yellow rubber overalls and black boots, carrying another pair of each, which she guessed were her fashion attire for the day. He stopped when he saw her, glanced at the boat, then strode over to greet her. He was medium height, maybe an inch or two under six feet. Dark short hair, dark blue eyes, handsome actually. Tiny bit of a cleft chin. Very serious expression. As if he wasn’t exactly looking forward to having her on board.
Which meant they had a lot in common right off the bat.
“Ann.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Clive.” He held out the coveralls and looked her over critically. “At least you’re dressed.”
She raised an eyebrow. Charmed, she was sure. “You were expecting naked?”
“Some women show up ready for a day at the beach. See if the boots fit.”
Yes, sir. She snatched the boots, holding back her thanks. If he wanted lack of manners, he’d found his dream girl.
The boots fit decently, the rubber overalls were beyond special, but they’d cut the wind and protect her from wet, so what the hell. If she was going to play Suzy Fishergirl, she might as well do it up right.
“This way.”
She clumped after Clive of the Silver Tongue, over the flat rocks, then gravel, then mud, to a skiff at the water’s edge and climbed in, hands on the gunwales, keeping her weight low, thankful for her sailing experience with Paul, so she wasn’t a complete dork around boats.
Clive took charge of the oars and pulled the skiff to the Tiger Lily with powerful strokes, then skillfully finessed it alongside. “Get in.”
Yes sir! She clambered over and was met with a very uninviting whiff of dead fish, which did her stomach no favors whatsoever. Nor was she enchanted by the cloud of mosquitoes, which decided she’d make a perfect breakfast. Did she mention she wished she were home?
“Hi.” She managed a smile at the wind-weathered older man—she guessed he was pushing sixty—standing in the open cabin by the controls of the boat. “I’m Ann.”
“Arnold. Welcome aboard.” He gestured to a chair set near him, and turned back to wait for Clive to tie up the skiff and cast off the mooring.
She sat, bile rising from the fish smell and the gentle rocking of the boat. Arnold fiddled with his shortwave radio, twisted dials on another contraption, consulted a chart on a clipboard, seeming at ease with the silence. Or at least unwilling to break it. Maybe he’d already forgotten she was here.
Perfect. All she’d have to do was sit still, watch, and try not to puke.
A few shallow-breathing bug-slapping minutes later, Clive was on board and Arnold fired up the engines and pulled Tiger Lily out of the cove, radio barking static and gibberish at regular startling intervals. Immediately the blessing of losing mosquitoes to momentum was offset by diesel fumes mixing themselves in with the eau de dead fish. In the open waters of the bay, the regular climb and plunge only added to the fun.
Ann launched herself out of the chair and moved astern, seeking open air, which blew by in a steady, blessedly fresh stream. She gulped a few breaths, then a few more. Better. Barely. The coastline rapidly miniaturized, while the seascape expanded around them to emphasize shoals, other vessels, and countless buoys. Arnold decreased his speed to pass another lobster boat; the crews exchanged somber raised-hand greetings while the attending gulls outdid them in enthusiasm. Tiger Lily caught the wake of its erstwhile neighbor and wallowed.
Urgh. Ann flung herself to the side, hung on grimly, eyes closed, breathing carefully and deeply through her nose.
“Seasick?” Clive’s voice, faintly amused.
“Not generally.”
“Tied one on last night?”
She didn’t move. Screw him. “That’s my business.”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
“Also my business.”
“Not entirely. Did you?”
She began a good glare, then the boat lurched and she hung over the side again, fighting the rebelling noncontents of her stomach. “No, mein führer, I didn’t.”
He muttered something she was glad not to catch and strode to the front of the boat, came back and pushed into her field of vision a large blueberry muffin, carefully wrapped in plastic.
“No.” She waved him away when he pressed it on her again. Damn it. She’d left camp to avoid being mothered. “I don’t want it.”
“Eat. We’ve got two hundred traps to haul today. I don’t need you sick while we’re trying to get our jobs done.”
This time the boat held steady long enough for her to deliver her best go-to-hell stare. Breeze lifted the dark hair from his forehead; his blues eyes didn’t so much as glance away. She wanted to scoop up a bucket of herring bait and dump it over his head.
Except, though it pained her to allow this much maturity into her snit, he had a point. Lobstering was dangerous. Paul had a friend in high school who’d been snagged by a line on its way overboard and dragged to the bottom. Clive and Arnold needed to concentrate on their work, not on a hung-over Diva Princess. Ann should have stayed in camp.
“Take the muffin. There’s coffee in the big thermos. Don’t drink it until you’re finished eating. You don’t want that acid on an empty stomach.”
She took the muffin from his large sturdy hands, feeling like a five-year-old told which coloring book to use and which crayons. But fine. She’d eat the damn muffin. And when it became fish food, he’d learn to leave her alone to her death wish.
The muffin turned out to be exceptional, tender, buttery, stuffed with intensely flavored Maine wild blueberries, better even than the saucer-sized ones she and Paul got from Pallas Bakery, around the corner from their condo in South Boston. Unsure at first, her stomach rose to the challenge, and after a cup of coffee—damn good coffee—she grudgingly admitted, to herself only, that Commander Clive had been right to insist.
Fine. It didn’t mean she had to be nice to him.
Humanity partly restored, she could focus on what was going on around her, which was a lot. Traps hauled in, contents inspected, most creatures discarded back into the waves, sometimes all. Nonlobsters—urchins, crabs, blundering bottom-feeders—got thrown back. Lobsters too small, thrown back. Lobsters too big, thrown back. Most Clive discarded by sight, but those close to legal size he measured with a gauge to make sure the beasts were under the maximum, over the minimum.
She stayed determinedly silent and out of the way, but when Clive cut a notch in the tail of a lobster before he threw it back, curiosity got the better of her sulk.
“Why did you cut that one?”
“Berried female.”
“Buried?”
“Eggs on her. Berries.”
“So if someone else catches her, she’ll be thrown back again?”
“Yup. Larger males and breeding females are safe.”
“For lifelong uninterrupted nookie.”
He lifted his cap, brushed the wrist of his glove across his forehead, and went back to rebaiting the trap.
Ann rolled her eyes at his back. No sense of humor. Well, okay. Don’t mind her, she’d stay here in her leper colony and watch.
The men worked with skilled precision, no movements wasted, minimal communication. Clive threw legal lobsters into a crate, then rebaited the traps with knit bags stuffed with ripe herring bits, and launched them back overboard. Bricks in the bottom carried each trap swiftly down to the place Arnold and his fancy imaging equipment chose.
“How long have you been doing this?”
Clive glance over his shoulder. “Learned from my dad as a kid.”
Splash. The trap sank back into the sea; the engine surged as they moved forward, the sea gulls giggled and complained. His answer surprised her. His skin wasn’t weathered enough, his hands not rough enough, and something else about him didn’t quite fit the lifelong-fisherman mold, though it was entirely possible she was just being snotty. Wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last. She’d had an expert teacher in Paul, for whom the concept of “enjoying the finer things in life” gradually became more important than whether he actually enjoyed any of the things or not.
“You’ve been doing this all your life?” She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice, but he sent her a look that told her she hadn’t been entirely successful.
“Not all.”
“What else did you do?”
“Odds and ends.”
“Like…”
He set a line around the pulley and started the winch, winding up the next trap from the bottom.
Okay. Private Property. Trespassers will be prosecuted. Which made her even more curious, of course. If Pandora had been Pandoro, the infamous box would have stayed closed. Though mostly because it would soon have been covered by all the other manly junk he piled into his ancient garage.
“How about you, Arnold?”
“Eh?”
“How long have you been lobstering?”
“Learned from Dad.”
“Are you married?” She wondered the same about Clive, but the question felt awkward put to a man her age, now that she was single. “Do you have kids?”
“Ayuh. Two sons. Oldest is in the military, youngest has his own boat now. Got his license a year ago. Used to be able to get a license right away. Now it’s three to one—three fishermen have to give theirs up before the government will issue a new one.” He gestured around him. “Used to be half this many buoys. Now you can walk across the bay on ’em.”
After that veritable explosion of dialogue, she settled back and watched some more, sometimes wandering, sometimes sitting, enjoying how the warm sun made the cool breeze comfortable and vice versa. This was good. She was glad to be here. And it hit her that this was probably the first time those phrases applied in a long, long time.
“Feeling better?” Clive stood in the back of the boat, gloved hands on his hips.
“Almost human.” Wow. Could he in fact be pleasant? She smiled, just to see what he’d do.
What he did was stride to the front of the boat, grab a pair of gloves and thrust them at her. “You can make yourself useful.”
Her smile died. Right. No tolerance of Diva Princesses. Mrs. Clive would be solid, uncomplaining, dinner always ready at five-thirty, fine with her whether Clive wanted sex or to watch wrestling on TV afterward, just let her do the dishes first…
“Help stuff the bait bags.”
“Love to.” She pulled on the gloves and turned to face the drum of stinky herring bits, newly shored-up stomach threatening to rebel again. But Ann Redding never backed down from a challenge. Which attitude earned her a black eye when the challenge was class bully Duffy McPherson, and a scholarship when the challenge was to be the first in her family to get into an Ivy League college. She thrust her gloved hand in among the clouded staring eyes and exposed guts and flesh and bones, and stuffed fistfuls into the bag, vowing that herring would never again grace her table.
“Here.” She pulled the string fastener shut and shoved the full bag at him. “Just like Mom used to make.”
He nodded his unsmiling approval, then showed her how to hang the bag back between the net funnels the lobsters crawled through to get their sorry asses caught. At the back of the trap was an escape hatch, closed with rings designed to corrode easily in the saltwater. If the trap got lost at the bottom of the sea, animals would eventually have a way out.
She could use one of those. A lot of people could. How about Clive? Arnold? Did they feel trapped in this work, in this life, or set free? She didn’t dare ask.
As the morning wore on, Ann found herself caught in the men’s rhythm, able to enjoy the air, grin at the noisy persistent sea gulls following the boat with high hopes of herring. Off in the distance, Camp Kinsonu had become a quaint cluster of shingled dollhouses, while around them the sea was live and vast and vivid.
Way earlier than she usually ate lunch, Clive passed around thick ham and Swiss sandwiches. Ann managed half of one, took her cue from Clive and Arnold by eating quickly, drinking more coffee, and going back to work. No extended expense-account lunch break here. Two hundred traps, hauled, emptied, rebaited, reset. The catch of legal-sized lobsters swelled in the crate, claws banded to keep them from nipping fingers or each other.
By the time the last trap splashed back into the sea and they were heading for the pound, Ann was exhausted, elated, face freshened by the wind, hair stiff with salt spray, nose sunburned, stinking of fish and rubber.
She pulled off the guts-splattered gloves and moved her chair out into the open area near the stern, put her feet up on the side and turned her face to the warm sun, closed her eyes, making herself think about where they’d been, not where they were going. At the pound, they delivered their catch, took on more bait, and were on their way, long day over at mid-afternoon.
Too soon the boat slowed, reentered the quiet cove, men coming home after a hard day’s work. Arnold back to his wife, Clive back to…who knew?
Her mood downshifted with the motor. Back to the van, back to camp, back to crowded dinners, back to the shared cabin, closed in, watched…a zoo animal once more.
And back to whatever had happened—or not—last night with Patrick.
“We tire you out?”
She turned to Clive and found him watching her, hands resting on the mop he’d been using to scrub the deck. Unexpectedly, she didn’t have the heart to be snotty to him. Even if he was asking hoping he’d kicked her white-collar princess ass to the moon.
“This was a really great day.”
His eyes narrowed, as if he expected the other shoe to fall. Not that she could blame him. Being earnestly grateful wasn’t exactly her strong point. But she was earnestly grateful. And she wanted him to know it. Even if he was a fascist.
“I haven’t had many great days recently, so this was…” Her mind spun frantically. Oh God, she was going to say that word, someone help. “…special.”
Ew.
“Seriously, thank you.” She glanced back to include Arnold. “Both.”
Clive stood watching her until she wanted to jump up and shriek in his face to break the tension. “You hungry?”
She blinked. “Am I hungry?”
“I’ve got food up at the house. Fresh coffee. Save you having to go back to camp yet.”
She stood slowly, needing more power. “What makes you think I don’t want to go back?”
He shrugged. “Do you?”
She bunched up her mouth, then relented. “No, not really.”
“I’ll call Betsy and let her know. Drop you back at camp later.”
“I haven’t said I’d come yet.”
“Well?”
She didn’t know what bewildered her more, his sudden invitation or her panic over a very simple decision.
Arnold chuckled. “He’s harmless. You go on up. Best cook on the point. I’ve gained five pounds since he’s been on board with those muffins of his.”
She didn’t hide her amazement. “You made those muffins?”
“Should I call Betsy or not?”
Ann waited, enjoying his embarrassment. A muffin-baking sailor who’d barely tolerated her all day suddenly wanted her up to his house? Not that she’d been a disciple of Miss Manners either on this trip.
Okay, she’d go. She was too curious not to. A good excuse to put off being another slide under the Camp Kinsonu microscope.
Clive’s house was a small neat colonial farther west on Shute’s Point, past a stretch of blueberry barrens, off a long narrow road through the woods. The interior confirmed that there was indeed a Mrs. Clive, though no visible signs of little Clives. But this was not a bachelor pad—at least not a straight guy’s bachelor pad.
If he turned out to be gay, she was going to introduce him to Patrick and see what happened.
The walls had been painted a warm straw yellow, colorful without being intrusive. Against them, arrangements of dried flowers, curly willow snaking out in all directions; a “Bless this Home” framed circular needlepoint; a hanging figure of Christ on the cross. Elsewhere, coordinated pillows and furniture, and on the fireplace mantel, candles, more dried flowers, and a bunch of those prissy porcelain figurines she detested more than they probably deserved.
The clincher? Wedding pictures, on the end table next to the couch, one of either his parents or hers, and one of the blushing bride herself, a plain stocky woman on whom the delicate veil and poufy Cinderella gown looked utterly wrong.
The overall domestic effect? Cozy Nest, though somehow Cozy Nest self-conscious and untouched. But cozier and nestier than her and Paul’s place, which had been decorated Chilly Expensive Chic.
The comparison felt uneasy, but Ann wasn’t going to take that feeling out and examine it for all the group therapy in the world.
“Shower?” Clive reemerged from a hallway holding out a towel, which she took gratefully, even as she felt odd planning to get naked in a strange man’s house. Which proved her brief run as a wild single woman in her teens and early twenties was way too far behind her.
“I’d love a shower, thanks.”
“I’m betting I don’t need to offer you a drink.”
She winced comically, surprised at his sudden switch into Mr. Hospitality. “No drink for me. I’ve sworn off. Nothing until…oh, let’s say…tomorrow morning, right after breakfast.”
As soon as the joke exited her mouth, she realized he could very well report her back to Queen Bee Betsy for consuming alcohol and planning to do so again. Patrick could get into trouble as her supplier…
God, it was all too annoying.
“Clive.” She followed him into what was obviously the master bedroom, a king-size-bed-dominated room decorated rather ookily in ruffly peach and beige and light green. “We’re not allowed alcohol at Camp Kinsonu.”
“I know.” He turned at the bathroom door and gestured her in.
“So…” She stopped opposite him, clutching her towel, feeling like a complete grade school dork. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t—”
“Tattle?” He grinned, and a surprise dimple appeared in his cheek. How did she miss that all day long? Hadn’t he smiled? “How you choose to deal with your pain is your business.”
“Thank you.” She hugged the towel to her chest. “I’m…not used to other people’s rules.”
“Believe it or not, I guessed that.”
“Hey, I stuffed your bait bags, what more do you want?”
This time he actually chuckled, which made her feel like she’d won some competition. “Have a good shower. If you need anything, holler.”
“Okay.” She stepped into the bathroom, but peeked around the door frame so she could watch him stride out. He moved on land the same way he did on the boat, calmly, confidently, but as if everything he did needed to be accomplished in the minimum amount of time. Yet something was different here. He seemed nicer, yes, more relaxed, maybe, but something else. She couldn’t place it yet.
The shower was heavenly, though the bathroom was frighteningly spotless and as ordered as the living room and bedroom, to the point where her filth seemed an affront and she peered anxiously in the tub for stray hairs after she stepped out. What would Mrs. Clive think of her trespassing? Most likely Clive was calling her right now: Honey, brought home another wacko from the camp. Where should we bury this one?
Refreshed and defished, she dressed again, dropping the layer closest to her skin so she wouldn’t have to put sweaty clothes on a clean body. Back through the dust-free living room, she found the kitchen, cheerful in a brighter yellow with red accents throughout—a bowl of wooden apples; a red teapot displayed on a shelf; a red, yellow, and white decorative plate perfectly centered on the wall behind the table. Again, all the right ingredients for “cozy” but…not quite.
Clive had showered and changed, jeans and a white long-sleeve knit shirt that looked thick and soft. Without his rubber coveralls, she was able to enjoy the view of a very nice body. Compact, powerful, she could only imagine the shape his muscles must be in.
As soon as she had the thought, she wished her brain could spit it out like something rotten. What was wrong with her? Paul had been dead only six months, and she’d kissed one man last night and was ogling another today? This was not how a recently widowed woman should be acting. Hell, this wasn’t how she usually acted. She’d been dazzled by Paul, dazzled by his talent, his charm, his professional hunger, and most of all by his interest in her. Once they were a couple, when she was all of twenty-four years old, she stopped looking, always felt a little odd when her girlfriends drooled over men not their husbands, thinking maybe she was undersexed. Paul’s death seemed to change that. Or was it just another part of the temporary insanity of grief? She needed a guidebook to get through this.
Clive put a big glass of water in front of her and she gulped it gratefully, alcohol, wind, and caffeine having robbed her of liquids.
“When I was young, my favorite meal on a hung over stomach was breakfast.”
“You’re not young anymore?”
He smirked. “I don’t drink anymore.”
“At all?” She sounded horrified. Geez, Ann. Let him not drink if he wants to.
“Not much.” He opened the refrigerator, peered inside and started taking out items: a small plastic container, a carton of eggs, a package of bacon, half an onion. “But I don’t drink as an activity, as a way to spend an evening. There lies the path to self-destruction, weight gain, and dead brain cells.”
“Gotcha.” And bingo, she knew what was different. He was more articulate, more sophisticated. Out on the boat he’d been Mr. Monosyllable. What made the transition happen? Being off the job? Being away from Arnold? Being…alone with her?
Stop, stop, stop, and while you’re at it, stop.
“Back in my drinking days, my favorite hangover cure was BEPO.”
“Beepo? Is it some kind of drug?”
“Bacon, eggs, potatoes, onions. Tastes better made over a campfire, but we’ll make do.” He put an omelet pan on the stove, added a slab of butter to start melting, sliced leftover quartered potatoes and tossed them in to brown.
Her response was automatic. “I’m not really hungry.”
He sliced the onion, stirred the potatoes. “You need to stop starving yourself.”
Surprise delayed her reaction, but hello, how are ya, here it came, the all-too-familiar simmer of temper, this time tinged with disappointment. “Gee, I thought I was away from camp. Or are you allowed to boss me around too?”
“I’m making an observation. You’re skeletal.”
Compared to your bovine wife? “I’ve been through some rough times.”
“No excuse not to take care of yourself.”
“For God’s sake.” She clutched her temples. “Can I not have one conversation where someone doesn’t point out how I need to change? Anything else you’d like? Boobs too small? Bags under the eyes annoying? Plastic surgery is so good nowadays, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”
He stayed calm, chopping bacon. “You done?”
“No, I’m not done. What the hell makes you and everyone else think that losing someone makes me public property?”
“People want to help.”
“I’m so sorry, of course, you’re right. Criticizing me is for my own good. Making me feel I’m even more of a failure at grief than I was as a wife is for my own good. No, even better, ‘helping’ makes you feel good, which is what really matters.”
He turned and met her eyes with that hard stare she wanted to scratch off his face. “Done now?”
“Completely.”
Apparently there was a clock in the kitchen, because its ticking was suddenly very obvious. No doubt it was red. No doubt he and his anal-compulsive neat-freak wife had picked it out together. Bacon sizzled, the smell making her stomach react as if it had been on a hunger strike only until it got this exact meal.
Her anger started to dissolve into fatigue and hopelessness. And then the unthinkable.
She dropped her eyes.
Ann Redding never backed down. Well, with Paul she never had to; he withdrew rather than fight. But she could stare any coworker under the table, had a reputation as a barracuda. This man’s blues had defeated her.
Worse? It meant she knew he was right. She was too thin. She needed to eat more.
Crap.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry.” Louder than the first time.
“Didn’t catch it, what?”
“I said I’m sor—”
She raised her head and caught him grinning, hand cupped to his ear.
“Okay, okay.” She smiled unwillingly. “You won another round.”
“You’ll have me begging for mercy at some point, I’m sure.”
“I’ll try.”
She watched him break eggs, stir, pour, scramble. So how long have you been married? The question wouldn’t come out, and she realized with a jolt of horror that right now she didn’t want his wife to be real.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Right here.”
“You’ve lived here all your life?”
“Not all. How about you?”
She tightened her lips. Okay, so he wasn’t going to talk about himself. Fine. Then she’d tell him about herself. “I grew up in Framingham, Massachusetts, daughter of a junior high science teacher and an insurance salesman. I went to Brown, then to Stanford business school, met my husband Paul when I was twenty-four, got married six months later, started a career in IT sales, got fired, got a call that Paul had ruined us and killed himself, and bingo, just like that, here I am, at your counter, ready to have BEPO.”
Her voice had risen steadily so that she was a defiant coloratura by the end. There. He had it all. More than she intended, but Paul’s story sprawled out with the rest of it. If he told her she needed to explore her feelings and her rage more deeply, she was going to push his face into the pan.
He moved the eggs around one more time, turned off the flame and added salt and pepper. One glance over at her, then back to his task. “I guess after all that, it better be damn good BEPO.”
She gaped for a half second, then burst out laughing. He turned and grinned, and the shared humor made her laugh again, fresh spasms of giggles overtaking her until she got her breathing under control with a slow in-and-out sigh that reminded her of Martha. “I thought I’d heard every possible reaction to my tale of tragic woe. That was the funniest. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Ann.”
And there, in his gentle deep voice, was genuine and respectful sympathy and regret, and maybe even admiration for what she’d had to go through.
Her burst of pleasure was nearly sexual. She wanted to waddle over on her knees and embrace his, call his wife and tell her to stay away, so Ann could wallow a little longer in the sensation of not being treated like a patient.
“Here we go.” He served up the glistening concoction, put one plate in front of each of them. “Dig in.”
She dug. Fifteen minutes later she’d polished off her new true love, BEPO, along with two pieces of wheat toast, liberally buttered, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, and a cup of excellent espresso.
“So.” Clive’s face defined the concept of smug. “She’s not hungry.”
Ann sent him a look. “Because she’s been starving herself for so long.”
“Is that right?” He shook his head in mock amazement. “You’d never know it to look at her.”
She rolled her eyes and got a dimpled smile back. “Can I help with the dishes?”
“Leave them.”
“Really?” What, he left messes for his wife to clean up?
“I’ll do them later, come on.”
She tried to hide her dismay. “We’re going back.”
“I want to show you something. Outside.”
She followed him out his back door, into a neatly mown yard bordered by grasses grown wild, then by more forest, glimpses of the ocean through the trees about a hundred yards off. Down just shy of where the shore dropped in a dozen-foot-high cliff to the rocky water’s edge, a small building perched, a lean-to really, walls open on three sides, screened off from bugs.
Inside, room for a chaise and a chair, pulled up to a built-in writing or reading or eating surface with a spectacular view. To the right, the spine of a sandbar curved inward, forming a shallow clear tidal pool in its arch. To the left, forested mainland ending in dramatic ledges sloping to the sea. Ahead, a clear expanse of water, and beyond, more green fingers of the mainland grabbing at the sea.
The sight lifted her mood even higher. Was that what he’d intended? “It’s beautiful.”
“If you need somewhere to go, some time to yourself some afternoon or on a Sunday, just let Betsy know and I’ll come get you.” He glanced at her, then back out into the bay.
Wow. She felt shaky and odd and vulnerable again, and profoundly touched by his offer after she’d been something of a pig to him, not that he’d been Prince Charming either.
If she didn’t watch out, she’d develop a crush on this guy too. Widow Becomes Maneating Nymphomaniac.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” Clive glanced at his watch. “I should take you back.”
“Yeah. Okay.” To her surprise, the news didn’t fill her gut with as big a ball of lead as before. Not when she had the promise of escape. Another day out on the Tiger Lily II next week, and the offer of this peaceful glorious place. She might even survive seeing Patrick again, sorting through her confusing feelings about him and who she was now. She might even manage not to maim Dinah.
Maybe she’d turned a corner.
“Look.” He touched her arm, pointed out over the water. An enormous bird flapped into sight, glided lower, landed and stood in the shallows on long spindly legs. “Blue heron.”
She stared at the bird, who appeared to be posing for a Come to Maine postcard, and found herself moved, not only by the sight, but by the simple fact of standing in silence, watching the bird with a friend as entranced as she was.
One tear slid silently over her cheek. When did it end, this need to pour out saltwater over something that had happened so many months ago now?
She turned away before he could see, pretending to find something in the woods far more fascinating.
“Grief sucks.” His vehemence startled her into unlikely laughter.
“No kidding.”
“You’ll get through it, Ann. Good things will come out of it. It’s just hard to see them at first.”
“You’ve had experience.”
“Few people haven’t.”
“Right.” She got the tear under control, wishing he’d tell her his story too. “Right. Thanks.”
“And another thing.” He took a step away from her, watching the heron intently. “People kill themselves because of who they are, not who they know. His death wasn’t your failure.”
The tight ball in her throat wasn’t a surprise this time. “I’m trying to believe that.”
“You can. Once you stop making his death about you.”
She bristled. “I don’t think—”
“Stop.” He turned and looked at her calmly. “Don’t take that the wrong way. You proved on the boat that you’re not as much of a prima donna as you seem.”
She made an open-mouthed sound of indignation. “Oh, that’s just—”
“Down, girl.” He winked and showed his dimple. “I’m teasing you.”
“Half teasing.”
“Okay, half teasing. I admit, I thought you were going to be a pain in the ass at first. Arnold and I have seen it all.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Take women out on the boat? For the cash. Plain and simple.”
“Right.” Ann forced her tense shoulders to relax, and grudgingly let her anger go. “Well, thanks. I guess.”
He nodded. The heron took a few long-legged delicate steps in the background. Some small animal scuttled through the dry underbrush nearby. A mosquito investigated her forehead.
“So…” He gestured to the house. “I really do need to take you back.”
“Okay.” She met his eyes, felt stronger again, and able to cope.
They drove in comfortable silence, his truck bumping and squeaking on the rough entrance road into camp. She was already looking forward to next time, and looking forward to anything was a rare luxury these days.
“Thanks for today, Clive. For the lobstering and…everything else.”
“You were good company. And a good worker.” He slid his truck into a parking place. “It was easy having you around.”
“Thanks.” He might as well have told her she was Mother Teresa, Marilyn Monroe, and Marie Pasteur all in one. She was definitely going soft in the head. “And thanks for the food.”
“No problem. They told me I had to fatten you up.”
Oh Christ.
She knew her face fell. Even though she turned away immediately, she knew he saw it fall. Stupid girl, thinking she’d been out of reach of the Grief Brigade.
As if to underline the concept, before she was even out of sight of Caretaker Clive, here came Patrolling Patrick, striding on the path, heading for the truck. Subject returning. All monitoring systems engaged.
Clive turned off the motor. She glanced at him questioningly. “Staying?”
“I need to talk to Patrick.”
Ann laughed, a bitter unpleasant sound. “Of course. A report on the patient.”
She opened the door, slid out of the truck, wanting to put the whole day behind her now.
“I meant what I said about coming by any time.”
“Right.” Another directive from the Betsy Gestapo. We believe Ann might do better in a more isolated environment. If you could pad the walls of your lean-to, we think it might be an ideal place to further our experimentation. “For my own good.”
“Ann…” He got out of the truck, came around and stopped, eyes focused behind her on what must have been Patrick’s approach.
“Hey, there, Lady Ann, good to have you back.” Patrick’s voice, big and hearty. She turned and saw him, tall, confident, movie-star handsome, eyes glowing with warmth and welcome. “How was your day?”
“You know? I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that.” She turned and gestured to Judas, standing solidly planted on the gravel lot. “Why don’t you save yourself trouble and ask Dr. Clive.”