Ahoy!

by Maggie Seacroft

  Perplexed, I plodded around the back of the house, but not before tripping on the downspout, which had the audacity to be there in the first place. If my presence had indeed been undetected up to that point in time, the cat was not only now out of the bag, it was out of the bag and had scampered down the street.

  When I reached the back porch of the house, I thought for certain Bugsy’d be there, waiting for me, hands on hips, ready to chastise me for trespassing. Again. I peeked my head around the corner quickly to catch a look and found the porch cozy but as vacant as my good sense. There was a new cushion on the back-porch swing that looked inviting. My trek continued around to the far side of the cabin. I’d looked in every window to that point and had caught not so much as a glimpse of a whisker of the jerk. Odd, since his truck was in the driveway.

  At a big open window, I crouched low. I could hear person-type noises coming from within, singing that resembled something like a broken garbage disposal. I bit my bottom lip to keep myself from laughing when I realized our marina manager was assaulting the peaceful summer night with his rusty pipes.

  “Wise men sa-aaaaay, only fools rush in...” were the off-key words that came tripping out of the window. They were followed by a watery noise. Holy moly, this is the bathroom! I was suddenly jerked into stunning sobriety as I remembered my exit from that very window some days earlier on my key expedition.

  I’m generally not good at containing emotions, laughter included, and my stomach was beginning to convulse painfully as I fought my reaction to Bugsy’s crooning. When my will finally broke, I burst into laughter as I crumbled on the porch. My knees had buckled, and I thought I’d lose control of my bladder. The jig was most definitely up.

  “May I help you?” soon came the familiar, slightly gravelly baritone voice of the man who lived there. I did not respond, suddenly muted in mortification. A moment later, he lifted the window up a little higher and poked his head out through the gauzy curtains. “Well?”

  “Um, would you mind terribly singing in key for a change?” I said as I lay face up on the porch floor, holding my side and looking up at the red-faced soloist looking down at me. I hoped he had a towel covering his bottom half because he had nothing on the top and, but for the wall between us, the situation would have been scandalous. I looked at him and burst out laughing again, which I’m sure is not the reaction he was going for.

  “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” he asked in staccato and with the earnestness of a vice principal. It reminded me of my encounter with him earlier that day in my galley, the major difference being I wasn’t topless at the time.

  “Who me?” I asked indignantly, as though I’d every right to be lying on the floor outside his bathroom window while he was in the buff and belting out the oldies.

  “I don’t see anyone else here.”

  “I lost something,” I said.

  “Was it by any chance the ability to knock?”

  Surprise, surprise, Bugsy has a sense of humor. That fact and the sight of his toned chest covered in tangles of dirty blonde hair made me sit up and take notice, and in my sitting up, I can confirm that there was indeed a towel south of the border.

  “Would you like to come in?” he asked.

  “You mean in the tub?”

  “In the house!” he said then rolled his eyes.

  “Well, since you asked.” I ambled to my feet and made it to the front door without injury. The time it took for me to get from the bathroom window to the front porch was sufficient for Bugsy to pull on khaki shorts and a white t-shirt. When he opened the door, the shirt was wet with water from spots where he’d not dried himself completely. But I had no complaints.

  “So, this some strange addiction of yours? Peeping?” he asked as he held the doorknob with one hand and, with the other, gestured for me to enter.

  “I was just looking for someone.”

  “Was it by any chance me?” he asked.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, I was bored and needed to get out,” I said as I walked into the cozy quarters of the cottage, looking from side to side as I made my way farther into the living room.

  “She had to fly back for a meeting,” Bugsy said, “but you probably knew that or you wouldn’t be here.”

  I ignored his words, not sure what he was trying to prove.

  “Would you care for a beverage?” he asked over his shoulder on his way out of the room.

  I followed his lead and hopped up on a white-painted stool at the peninsula in the kitchen. “Well, aren’t you the gracious host.”

  “One of us ought to be, don’t you think?” he said, then stuck his head in the refrigerator. The next thing I knew, there was a bottle of white wine in his grip and he angled it toward me. “Does that, uh, meet with your approval?”

  “Sure,” I said. I’m easy to please where wine’s concerned. As long as it’s white and Italian, and very cold, I’m in. The only problem I have with it is that it makes me sleepy. Bugsy proceeded to open the bottle with a corkscrew, the handle to which looked like a varnished bit of gnarly driftwood, and I assumed that it came with the place along with the waffle maker I’d seen the only other time I’d been there.

  “Where’s your friend? The one from the store,” he said as he pulled two wine glasses off an open shelf.

  “You know her name and I think she’s on a date,” I smirked.

  “So, why aren’t you on a date?” he asked while he made a couple heavy pours into the glasses.

  “I wasn’t in the mood,” I said, lying. Truth was, I hadn’t been asked and all the men I knew were already in bed or playing cards.

  Bugsy came to my side of the peninsula and handed me a glass of wine. He stood very close as he looked critically at my forehead, probably noticing how the greenish hue of my bruise accentuated my eyes. I flinched when he touched my forehead.

  “Sorry, your bandage was coming loose. How’s the head anyway?” he asked.

  “I’ll live.”

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking my glass and he took a sip. “Have you eaten?” He turned back toward the fridge, crouched down, and stuck his head back inside.

  “No, but I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he murmured, looked back at me, and proceeded to remove one thing after another from the fridge. “Far be it for you to be trouble,” he chuckled. From the looks of things, we would be having a feast of nibblies – cheeses, prosciutto, some olives, and marinated artichoke hearts. I made a note to myself to stop by more often. “You like chorizo?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I replied enthusiastically and took a sip of my wine. “This is good.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad somebody likes it,” he said and took a sip himself.

  I surmised that the somebody who didn’t care for it was Bunny, the beverage snob.

  “Santa Margherita, Pinot Grigio,” he read the label and nodded with satisfaction. “Do you eat bread?”

  I was wondering what type of trick question that was until I remembered Bunny and her estranged relationship with carbs. “Love bread,” I said and watched him lay out a small baguette and begin sawing through it. Before long, a charcuterie board had been created before my very eyes. And it looked good enough to eat. My host handed me two small plates and picked up our platter of goodies, and then hitched his head in the direction of the living room.

  “Well, come on!” he said and I practically leaped from my perch to follow him.

  I sank into the navy-blue down chesterfield near Bugsy, folded my legs up beside me, and balanced a luncheon-sized plate on the arm of the sofa. “So, tell me about yourself, Sarge,” I said before popping an artichoke heart into my yap.

  “Actually, it’s Major. Well, it was Major.”

  “Potato, poh-tato.” I giggled.

  “Who’s that?” I pointed to a picture on the mantle, a little boy with a dog. “Is that you?” It certainly looked like him.

  “That’s my boy.”

  “You mean to tell me that
someone procreated with you? Was her name Bunny or did she have some other equally ridiculous woodland creature name?”

  He chuckled. “No, she has a regular name.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Didn’t work out.” He was terse and took a bite of the French bread topped with goat cheese and chorizo.

  “Oh, come on, there has to be more to it than that.”

  He held up a finger and finished some prolonged chewing. “Turns out I wasn’t good enough for her in the end. She wanted more and I couldn’t give it to her.” He shrugged and sipped.

  “What more could she want? A hot guy who sings off-key Elvis in the tub and talks like a drill sergeant. Sounds sexy to me. Oh, and the cheeseboard is good too.”

  He smiled a smile that couldn’t be contained. “You think I’m hot?”

  “No.”

  “You just said I was.”

  “I don’t remember saying that.” I felt myself turn a little red and tried to douse that feeling with the vino. Dammit. I told myself to change the subject. “I thought your old man was rich.”

  “He is. Doesn’t mean I am. Why do you think I’m here? I’ve been exiled, shooed out of the company head office to parts unknown, where if I‘m lucky my son and ex will stop by every now and then.” Bugsy took a drink.

  “Well, that sounds kind of rough when you put it that way.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to. Want some more wine?” he asked. I noticed he was almost done with his already.

  “Sure, I’m not driving.”

  He laughed. “No, I guess you’re not. What do you think you’ll do with the dough?” Bugsy called out from the kitchen and reappeared with the wine bottle.

  “What dough?” I asked, wrinkling my nose when I looked up at him while he topped me up.

  “You know, the money in the will,” he said, draining the last of the bottle into his wine glass.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not opening a home for wayward ex-soldiers with cute kids, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No, that’s not what I was asking.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, just making conversation,” he said and took a long sip.

  “Can we talk about something else?” I asked, locking eyes with him.

  “You say that a lot, I notice.”

  “You notice a lot,” I said and changed the subject myself. “You know, this is a really nice place.” I looked from end to end, and save for the mess of moving boxes, the cottage could have been in a magazine.

  “Thanks. Coming from someone who lives on a boat, I take that as a compliment.”

  “Don’t knock the boat,” I said, nudging him with the foot I had curled up beside me.

  “You mean don’t rock the boat.”

  “That too.”

  “You really like living on it?”

  I paused to reflect on what he’d asked. “It beats being homeless,” I said and tossed him a toothy grin, not sure he’d understand.

  “Yeah, like you’d ever be homeless.”

  “I was homeless. I mean, I feel like I was.” I angled toward him, knowing he’d need clarification. “You know, when you’re working sixty hours a week at some job you hate and you arrive back at your mailing address, it isn’t really a home. It’s a house. Actually, it was a condo. Precast, predesigned. Even pre-furnished. Nothing special. No quirks, no flaws, no character. Just a place to open a spreadsheet and order in.” I smiled as I considered the Alex M. in stark contrast. “Now that I live on my boat, I’ve got quirks up the wazoo. But it’s home. Home is… well, home is where you make it, and if you don’t have time to make it or contribute to making it and it’s not you, then it’s not home, you know. When you’re home, it feels right. Like rain on parched earth, like a cool breeze on a hot day…” When I looked back at Bugsy, he seemed to be lost in thought, staring through his wine glass.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring you down,” he said.

  “You didn’t.” I smiled back and shook my head once or twice. Along with making me sleepy, white wine also brings out the philosopher in me.

  “Well, it looks like you’ll have two boats. What do you think you’ll do with the Splendored Thing?”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I asked. I was not in the mood to talk about Nat’s fate, whatever it may be. I just wanted him to walk through the door, pull up a chair, and ask Bugsy how he’d acquired such questionable taste in women.

  “Sure, what do you want to talk about?”

  “How about why you still have so many unpacked boxes in here.”

  “How about something else.” He winked at me.

  “Don’t you change the subject now, or we’ll never talk about anything.”

  “Ok, I’m not sure I’m staying.” He shrugged. “I did get a new bed though.”

  “Did Bunny enjoy it?” I don’t know why I asked the question — I really didn’t care to know the answer and I wished I could take it back as soon as I’d said it.

  “Well, you’ve got a dirty mind.”

  “Oh, I know, aren’t I a little devil?” I smiled and took a sip of wine, relieved that there came no talk of the two of them making out like rabbits. “Hey, this isn’t the crummy music you were listening to in your truck,” I said, noticing the soundtrack to our conversation predated the invention of the internet.

  “No, a little variety from time to time is key.”

  “Oh, hey. Speaking of keys… I’ve been wondering. How did you know I took the key to Nat’s boat?”

  Bugsy got a smile on his face. “Hagen’s card. It was on my bathroom floor and I knew I didn’t leave it there.”

  “Damn it,” I said and shook my head. That’s where the card went.

  The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine and, before long, I was yawning, not due to the company so much as the booze and snacks. The evening breezes billowed in the shears and I put my head down on the arm of the down-filled velvet sofa — it felt so sumptuous I couldn’t resist.

  “Make yourself at home.” Bugsy chuckled.

  “Just give me five minutes and I’ll get outta your hair,” I murmured.

  “Oh, you ask for five, you’ll take ten, and I’ll kick you out in fifteen,” he said through a yawn.

  I let out a whimper as I curled my legs up a little more and closed my eyes. “Five minutes,” I whined, like a kid who didn’t want to get up for school. I was conscious long enough to see Bugsy mimic my pose at the other end of the couch. It was long enough that we could curl up end to end without really infringing on each other’s territory too much.

  ✽✽✽

  When I opened my eyes, the sun was up. Through those slits and the teensiest bit of a hangover, I could see from the clock on the wall that my five short minutes had dragged onto something more like five long hours. I knew immediately that I was not in my own home.

  The absence of a dog licking my face, the sight of white shiplap, and a strange man lying on the other end of the couch tipped me off. I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t have the spins or the urge to throw up in someone else’s toilet.

  Propping myself up on my eyebrows, I looked back at Bugsy, curled up and sleeping peacefully under the quilt that had somehow migrated over us. I noticed what a quiet sleeper he was and hoped that I’d been just as courteous. I’ll admit that sometimes when I’m really exhausted and fall asleep on my own sofa that I occasionally jolt myself awake with the odd bit of snoring, an audible slap in the face to any notions I have about being lady-like.

  I carefully pushed myself up off the couch, slid my feet into my shoes without tying them, crushing the canvas backs with my heels, and I quietly made my way out the front door, relieved that it no longer squeaked.

  CHAPTER 11

  “You’ll never guess what I saw this morning,” Aggie sang at me from behind the counter of her place an hour later.

  I’d already sent a scowl in the direction of the bell that announced my
arrival. Inconceivably, it seemed louder than usual. “Do tell,” I said, keeping it brief.

  “I saw my best friend doing the walk of shame from Bugsy’s place,” she said with a glint in her eye and a smile so big it’s a wonder she got the words out. “So, how was it?”

  “How was what?” I grumbled back with agitation and a longingness for caffeine and sugar.

  “How was he?” she asked. Her emphasis on the word made me wince.

  There was no way I could deny it. It’s not like she could have confused me with someone else, so I did what all good avoiders do and I tried to change the subject. “Where were you last night?”

  “Nice try. So?” She looked at me with expectation as she held a pot of freshly brewed coffee aloft, looking like she’d withhold it unless I coughed up the details.

  “So, nothing. I slept on his couch,” I said and failed to mention that he’d slept on it too. “And if you’d been home, it wouldn’t have happened,” I grumbled.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. I just wanted to chat with someone and the rest of the gang were off playing cards and you were gallivanting.”

  “Gallivanting?” Ags echoed and raised her eyes at me. In truth, it’s not a word you hear people throw around every day.

  “Can I just have some coffee, please?” I’m not sure which made me feel worse, the tinge of a hangover or the fact I’d spent the night on enemy territory.

  “Here you go,” Ags said, then she poured me a coffee and slid me a fritter. “So, you went to talk to him?” she asked then licked the sugar off her finger and wiped it on the towel she had tucked into her belt.

  “His were the only lights on.” I shrugged and rubbed at the back of my neck. I was sweating a little.

  She chuckled. “And?”

  “And nothing happened,” I said and took a big bite of my fritter.

  “Ok, let’s start over. But, this time, lie to me. Pretend something happened.”