* * *Scuffing my Converse on the pebbly pavement, I work my way back to the harbor. No running. My backpack feels like it weighs 500 pounds.
But as I’m walking down the harbor’s dock toward Lanette and Ahab, an oddly delicate sound brushes my ear. Like a glass needle threading sunshine.
Tink.
Tink, tink.
Lanette must hear it too. She turns and looks up at the huge white yacht docked next to Bite Me. On the big boat’s middle deck, a blonde woman wears gigantic sunglasses and a teeny-tiny pink bikini.
Tink, tink.
Oh. She wears one other thing—a diamond ring. She taps it against the champagne flute—tink, tink—held in her left hand. Sunlight stabs the stone.
Ahab mutters something that ends in a curse.
Bikini Lady lifts the black bug sunglasses. She gazes down from her high perch.
“Sorry.” Her tone says she’s anything but sorry. “Did I interrupt your annoyingly loud conversation that’s been disturbing me for almost an hour?”
“Yes,” Lanette replies. “But we’ll forgive you.”
Ahab barks out a laugh.
Bikini Lady doesn’t reply. Unless you count the weighted silence of condemnation that falls on us peasants down here. And during it, I realize where I’ve seen this woman before. Blasting past me and Aunt Charlotte on the Irwin S. Garrish Highway. And in the medical clinic, chewing out Bill Brogan.
Cady Cavendish’s mom.
The sunglasses go back over her eyes. Champagne flute held high, she flips her blonde hair over one tan shoulder and disappears from our worm’s-eye view.
Lanette goes right back to Ahab. “And you’re positive you’ve never seen sauerkraut brotazoan any other years?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe . . . what?”
“Maybe I don’t remember everything like I should.” He scratches his ear, flaking skin. “I’m old. And who knows what kind of crap’s in my system from all the pollution these fat cats spew from their yachts. Can’t stand the hypocrites. They’ll tell you they want to save the planet. But give up their yachts? No way.”
Lanette closes her stainless steel notebook. “Thank you for your time.”
“You come back any time.” He hands her that foggy bag containing the sauerkraut stink. “You’re the real deal, girl.”
* * *
As we’re walking away from Bite Me, Lanette asks, almost casually, “Where did you go?”
“Parks building. There’s a geologist.”
“Helpful?”
“Sure.” My heart sinks.
Lanette stops at Elmer’s shack and raps on his window. When his wrinkled face appears, she asks, “Could you recommend a place for lunch?”
He points across the harbor.
Charcoal smoke plumes from a small blue lean-to. Fishermen stand outside. I can smell the smoke.
Burgers. Fries. My mouth waters.
“I’m a pescian,” Lanette says.
Elmer scowls. “What the hell’s that?”
“I eat fish but not meat.”
He stares at her. Then at me. “You peschy too?”
My growling stomach does not have time for the nutritional distinctions between fish and meat. “I love cheeseburgers.”
“Then you’ll be happy. They got burgers. And fish. Fried fish.”
We head for the blue shack along the pier running parallel to the boats down below. From here I can see the top deck of Bikini Lady’s yacht. She’s lounging there on a chaise under that yellow umbrella. Ice bucket of champagne beside her. I check my watch. 2:24 p.m. It would appear Cady’s fine.
“So tell me about the geologist,” Lanette says.
We are ten feet from the nirvana of cheeseburgers and fries. But the line to order is five-fishermen deep. “Have you ever heard of Richard P. Feynman?”
“Is that the geologist?”
“No. He’s a physicist.”
She pushes the glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Should I know who he is?”
“He’s kinda famous. My best friend’s obsessed with him.”
“The same friend who’s obsessive-compulsive?”
A pang grips my heart. I’m making Drew sound like a loser. She deserves much better. “She was obsessed with him before the OCD stuff. But for years she’s quoted Feynman, mostly about science. One of her favorite quotes is, ‘The first principle is that you must not fool yourself, and you are the easiest person to fool.’ ”
Lanette’s small mouth falls open. A silent Oh.
“What’s wrong?” I look around but don’t see anything strange. Unless it’s the plumes of burgery smoke. “This place? He said they have fish. It’s a harbor, they should—”
“No. Say that again.”
“Uh . . . Fish?”
She pries open her backpack. “The quote. Say it again.”
The fishermen standing in the line in front of us turn around. Lanette holds a pen, ready. I repeat Feynman’s words. Twice, because she’s writing them down and can’t keep up. The fishermen haven’t turned back around. When I look at them, their sunburnt faces are a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.
Lanette reads the quote aloud. “The first principle is you must not fool yourself, and you are the easiest person to fool.”
The fishermen turn back around.
“If I ever get a tattoo, that’s what it’s going to say.” She drops her gaze to the notebook. “Although considering my size, where would all those words fit?”
The fishermen glance at each other, eyebrows raised.
“I always shorten it,” I tell her. “As in, You are the easiest person to fool.”
“That would work.”
I gaze up at the tote-board menu. It’s coated with that beautiful amber gunk that means one thing—grease from a smoking grill. Burger. Double burger. Cheeseburger, double cheeseburger . . . That hum’s already rising in my throat. Not that a pescian would understand my devotion to sizzling meat.
“You still haven’t told me about the geologist,” Lanette says.
“It can wait.” I keep my eyes on the board. Extra-large fries. That’ll help. “How was Captain Ahab?”
“Well.” She pushes the glasses. “Once I remove his rants about rich people, environmental hypocrites, and how we’re all killing the planet for financial gain, I’ll have some decent information.”
“Great.” My heart sinks again. My visit to the geologist killed my theory. And not even my watering mouth can drown out the despair. Greasy salty fries. Seared beef. A milkshake. Then I’ll feel better. But then I think about how this was another dividing point with my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—DeMott. My choice in food. And because I just don’t feel bad enough already, my mind does a little recap. Crazy mom, long-suffering dad, sister who’s as helpful as a hole in the head. Best friend who won’t leave her house. So, hey, I’ve found ways to cope. Running. Losing myself in rocks and minerals. And enjoying the heaven-on-earth of cheeseburgers, fries dipped in mayonnaise, and ice-cold Coca Cola.
I told DeMott, Don’t knock it until you walk in my moccasins.
Not the reply DeMott wanted.
I look over at Lanette. “Will you be offended if I eat two or three cheeseburgers?”
“No. But don’t expect me to watch.”
“You’re a serious pescian.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“Probably not.”
“At some point I’m probably going to give up fish, too,” she says. “Considering how I want to go into marine biology, it feels like I’m eating my lab rats.”
“I am officially grossed out.”
“It’s easier for you.” She pushes the glasses. “Rocks don’t wind up on dinner plates.”
“Salt is a mineral. So’s calcium. Iron. Magnesium.”
“But do minerals have feelings?”
The two fishermen in front of us turn around once more. I decide their sunburned faces are on their way to Elmerland of wrinkles.
“Hi,” Lanette says to them. “Would you happen to know anything about sauerkraut brotozoan?”
Because our conversation wasn’t weird enough already.
“They don’t serve sauerkraut here,” says the guy on the left.
They turn back around, and order their meal from the kid in the window.
Lanette hands me five bucks. “Fish-n-chips, unless they’re fried in lard. And a diet Dr. Pepper. I’m going to wait over there. I can’t handle the smell of meat.”
She walks over the pier railing. The breeze flutters her hair, dark as coal, shiny as obsidian.
“Hi, what can I get you?” asks the guy in the window. He wears a silly paper hat. Otherwise, very cute.
“Are your fries cooked in lard?”
He waits. Like maybe that’s the first line to some joke.
I nod toward Lanette, standing at the railing that overlooks the harbor. “My friend doesn’t eat meat. Lard counts.”
Cute guy glances at the grill. An older man flips sizzling burgers.
“Dad, what kinda oil’s in the fryer?”
“Corn.” He doesn’t even look up.
Cute guy smiles. And is even cuter. “Does she have anything against corn?”
I look back at Lanette. She’s crouching, under the railing. Like she’s going to be sick.
“Lanette,” I yell, “is corn oil okay?”
She nods, so furiously that sunlight sparks off her shiny black hair.
“That looks like a definitely,” cute guy says. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Fish-n-chips, diet Dr. Pepper.” I wait for him to write that down. “And three cheeseburgers loaded with everything except pickles, two extra-large fries, one large Coke, no crushed ice.”
“No crushed ice.”
“Right.”
“What’s wrong with crushed ice?”
“It melts too fast. Waters down my Coke.”
“So this part is for you?” He smiles. Really cute.
“And a huge side of mayonnaise.” I brace myself. Here it comes. “For the fries.”
He grins. Even cuter still. “I love a woman with a discriminating palate.” He taps the order into a cash register. “And the Coke’s on me.”
He’s so cute. Too bad I’m now going to ruin it. “Did you happen to hear anything about artificial sweeteners lately?”
Another hesitation. Like this is another joke. “She ordered diet. Didn’t she?”
“Yeah, this is about something different.” I wish I didn’t have to do this. “It turns out artificial sweeteners poison the environment. Our bodies don’t, uh, break them down. They wind up in the water system. If you know what I mean.”
“Not really.”
My face reddens. “I was just wondering if any restaurants around here heard about that.”
He looks quizzical. “You want me to ask them?”
“No. That’s alright.”
I walk over to Lanette, my face on fire.
She’s still squatting below the railing.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She reaches up, yanking my backpack. “Get down!”
For somebody who’s four-feet ten inches—tops—crouching like this might not be a problem. But I’m almost a foot taller than her. My back gives a weird tweak. “What’s are you doing?”
She points. “Do you see him?”
I see fishing boats. Fishing guys. Hosing down boat decks. Sailboats. Harbor water sparkling in sunlight. “Him, who?”
“On the yacht!”
Bikini Lady. Lounging away on her chaise.
But next to her.
A tall guy. Shoulders slouched. His name rolls across my tongue and burns my lips. “Tex.”
“What’s he doing there?” Lanette asks.
I watch him for a moment. “Flirting?”
From the corner of my eye, I see her head swivel toward me. Slowly. With suspicion. No way am I looking into those inquisitive black eyes.
The silence between us fills with questions.
“He’s smooth talker,” I say, finally.
She waits a beat. “Is that so?”
My gaze stays on his back. That oh-so-casual slouch. The long muscular arms. He lifts a hand, moving it around as if he’s explaining something to Bikini Lady.
“So you’ve talked to him?” Lanette persists.
Man, do I feel sorry for those starfish. “Last night. At the inn.”
She stands up. “You didn’t tell me.”
“It was nothing.” I straighten, keep my eyes on the yacht. “We just ate cheese and crackers.”
“Together.”
“I ate mine, he ate his.”
“But together.”
I nod.
“I see.”
I hope she does see. It was nothing. But that incriminating silence returns, and when I look over at her, she’s studying me like I’m some urchin she found stuck in a tidal pool.
“He told me Cady was going to win.” And I explain what happened at the medical clinic this morning. “That woman on the yacht is Cady’s mother. I heard her yelling at Brogan, about her daughter.”
Lanette leans on the railing, staring down at the marina, watching the yacht. “She doesn’t exactly look like the grieving mother.”
“Then maybe Cady’s fine.” We watch her talking to Tex. They look comfortable with each other. “What’s weird is, I think she drove here. She and Cady passed me and my aunt on the road. Which makes me wonder how they brought a yacht, too.”
“Rich people hardly ever sail their own boats. They keep staff for that. And that woman is rich. I got an earful from Captain Wright about that yacht, how much gas it burns, how she keeps the air conditioner running all night.”
I nod.
But I’m only half-listening. My attention’s on his green T-shirt. His jeans. The feel of that pocket when I reached inside. The way he talked to me . . .
“Yuck,” Lanette says.
Bikini Lady has jumped up from her pillow top luxury. Her teeny-tiny bikini looks like pink dental floss. She grabs Tex by the shoulders and gives him that air kiss on both cheeks that’s as fake as acrylic nails.
“Double yuck,” Lanette says.
Tex walks across the deck. He appears to have no problem finding his way off the yacht. We both watch him walk down the wooden dock, toward the road. From here, I can see his dusty truck parked by Elmer’s shack.
“Here you go!”
I turn around. Cute guy holds two trays.
Lanette gives me a significant look. “To be continued,” she says.