Port Townsend, Washington
heavy wooden door with a large porthole window and walked in. Joan kept the office ten degrees hotter than normal humans and the ever-present dampness assaulted him as he set down his gear and stripped off the jacket. Expansive north-facing windows overlooked the marina. Yellow cedar logs passed through the floor and rose into the vaulted ceiling where oversized bolts held a network of rough-hewn support beams. Varnished tongue and groove trim and overstuffed leather seating softened the open space. A large sign hung behind Joan’s reception desk, as if guarding the back offices. Puget Charter & Island Sailing School was spelled out in raised lettering, forming a circle around an artist's rendition of a sailboat and a sunset. The sign said, est. 2001. Hank imagined nothing had changed since the grand opening except wear and tear. The neutral-toned Berber carpet had become proof of Pareto's principle—twenty percent of the carpet gets eighty percent of the wear. He followed the path to Joan’s desk, where she sat with an old-fashioned headset strapped to her head.
“Hi, Joan. Are you on the phone?”
“No, Hank. Where’s my chocolate?”
“I thought you were counting on a new pair of shoes. I’ve got these great sandals and I hear they’re all the rage,” Hank quipped as he tossed two Hershey Hugs toward her.
“Such a big spender,” she said, unwrapping both. “You got these next door at the brokerage.”
Hank bent forward and emphasized each word. “There. Are. No. Secrets. Around. Here.”
“Hank. Shut up. You promised not to tell. I could lose my job.”
“You’re the owner of the company. Remember?”
“I’m one of the owners,” she corrected.
“Well, you're the only owner I’ve ever met.”
“Whatever. Talk about secrets. What’s yours all about?” Joan asked.
“I’d rather not say.”
“Unacceptable. Lay it out or I’ll fire you.”
“I’m leaving that program I’m in.”
She shook her head and said, “It’s about time. It’s not like you’re crazy.” She screwed up her face as if she wished she could take back her words. “I mean, a program like that isn’t a good fit for someone like you.”
“Well, I had my face-to-face with the shrink, and I blew it. I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. Let's just say, I don’t think they’ll let me out of the program anytime soon.”
“Oh, no. What in the world did you say?”
“Remember how I told you I have a habit of saying the wrong thing around women?”
“Yes. But you do a good job around here.”
“Well, I’ve matured a lot.” He forced an insincere grin. “Remember I told you about my old girlfriend, Pam? How it was serious, and I even wondered if she was the one?”
“Yeah, the one that loved you in uniform.”
Hank nodded and said, “I never told you how it ended.”
Joan leaned forward in her chair.
“She took me home to meet the parents. The weekend had gone well. The two-hour drive back was already twice that because of traffic.” He spoke faster, reeling Joan in a little closer. “Pam had been talking nonstop about how wonderful her parents were and how much they liked me, all about how we needed to get away more, and on and on, blah blah blah—I tuned her out.” He put his hands up to cover his ears and stared at Joan a moment too long, then continued, “She stopped talking.” His hands dropped and his eyes flashed wide. “I looked over at her to see if she was okay. She gave me an evil stare. I mean evil, like it made my skin crawl.” Hank shivered and continued, “Well?” That was all she said. Well? Like I’m supposed to read her mind. I said, “Well what?”
“Since then, I’ve had time to think. My conclusion: she was expecting me to tell her how much I liked her parents or what a fun weekend it was or we should get away more often. But none of those things came to mind.” He fell quiet.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Hank. What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Sometimes I regret being nice.’”
Joan hiccupped a laugh and then became serious. “No, you didn’t! How could you?”
“Yep, that’s the only thing I came up with. She didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive. I carried her bags up to the door. Then she told me I was an asshole and to never call her again.”
Hank placed one hand on her desk, leaned down, and thoughtfully stroked his dimpled chin with the other. “Since that time, I’ve grown.” He paused, “You know what I’ve learned?”
“What?” Joan asked.
Hank matched her serious expression and said, “Sometimes I regret being nice.”
Joan bust out laughing, then faked anger and heaved herself from behind the desk with surprising agility. Hank turned and beat it for the door saying, “I’ll be back.”
It surprised him how easily Joan could be distracted. Then he realized the personal dread he’d felt only an hour before was gone. His pace slowed as he descended the marina’s main ramp. He looked down and pulled up his hood. A two-wheeled cart waited at the bottom of the ramp, and he put his gear into it and pushed it as he casually walked between the boats tied up in their slips. Nobody was around, but he heard a motor in the distance and became more aware of his surroundings with each step.
“Stay cool, it’s okay. Breathe,” he said quietly. “Hell is what you make it.” Hank exhaled deeply and thought, I wonder if that's true.