Nearest and dearest, I’m grateful to Bill for his unfailing support and ready smile, and for reminding me to stop working and have some fun. And finally, I am so thankful for my daughter, Grace, who fills my life with love and laughter.
Lee Tobin McClain’s The Off Season series continues! Read on for a sneak peek at the next book, coming soon!
Book Four of The Off Season series
by Lee Tobin McClain
CHAPTER ONE
“THAT’S A WRAP on oyster season.” Bisky Castleman tied her skiff to the dock, fingers numb in the March morning chill, then turned toward the wooden shed that connected the dock to the land. She hung up her coverall on the outside hook, tossed her gloves in the bin and sat down on the bench to tug off her boots. “You coming?” she asked her sixteen-year-old daughter, Sunny.
“I’m coming. I’m just dragging.” Sunny hung her coverall beside Bisky’s and then flopped down on the bench beside her, letting her head sink into her hands. “Sure doesn’t feel like a vacation day.”
It was one of those teacher workdays they hadn’t seemed to need when Bisky had gone to school. “I appreciate your coming out dredging and culling when most of your friends were sleeping in.” Bisky slung an arm around her daughter and tugged her close for a quick side hug. “Come on, I’ll make pancakes and then you can take a nap.”
Sunny frowned. “No pancakes, thanks.”
“You sure? You’ve been working hard. Too hard.” Bisky paused, thought about it. “Maybe I’ll see if we can hire some of the teenagers from around here to work the traps with us, come crab season. Heard Tanner Dylan dropped out of school.”
“He’s not going to want to work with us, Mom.” Sunny’s face flushed a deep red. “Please don’t ask him.”
If Tanner was one of the boys who’d been teasing Sunny about her height and size, Bisky would tan him herself. She lifted her hands. “I said maybe. We need to find some help. If you have better ideas, tell me, because I’m not keeping you out of school.”
Now that they were done oystering, the second half of March would give them a rare break. Mostly, they’d spend the next couple of weeks scraping down and repainting the hull of their boat and trading out the dredging rig for the simpler setup they’d use for crabbing season.
It was increasingly hard to find a crew to work the water, and Bisky worried about her family business. Worried about a lot of things.
At the outdoor sink, she and Sunny washed their hands, and then they both pulled their hair out of ponytails and shook them out. Bisky ran a hand over Sunny’s brunette hair, removing a piece of oyster shell. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask Tanner if it embarrasses you. But if you think of anybody else who needs a job, send ’em my way.”
If she could help out a needy teen in the process of hiring, she would. The community of Pleasant Shores had taken care of her and helped her out since she was a kid, and she tried to pay it forward.
“I’d know you as mother and daughter if I’d never met the pair of you before.” The voice behind them came from Mary Rhoades, the energetic seventy-year-old philanthropist and bookstore owner who was one of Bisky’s closest friends. She approached with her dog, Coco, a young chocolate-colored goldendoodle who was as tall as Mary’s waist, but lanky. Coco let out a bark but remained at Mary’s side. Clearly, her training was coming along.
“Hey, Mary.” Sunny turned and smiled at the older woman. “No, don’t hug me. I need a shower. And Mom needs one, too,” she added, wrinkling her nose at Bisky. Then she knelt down to pet Coco. The big dog promptly rolled onto her back, offering her belly for Sunny to rub.
Bisky pulled a plastic lawn chair forward for Mary and then flopped back down on the bench. “Have a seat. I’m too tired to talk standing up.”
“I will, just for a few minutes,” Mary said. “I’m supposed to meet the new Victory Cottage resident this morning. Hoping he’ll take on the therapy dog program. If not, I’ll have to advertise for someone.” Mary was one of Pleasant Shore’s major benefactors and had started many useful programs in town, including her latest, a respite cottage for victims of violent crimes and their families. Victory Cottage was a place for them to heal, volunteer in the community and find new hope.
“Don’t advertise for someone,” Sunny said with more energy than she’d shown all day. “I can do it. I can start the therapy dog program.”
Mary patted her hand. “You’re good with dogs, for sure. Just look how Coco loves you. But I need an adult for this.”
“But—”
Mary cut off Sunny’s protest. “There are legal requirements and regulations. And anyway, you need to be a kid, not take on more work.”
“She’s never had the chance to be a kid,” Bisky said, sighing. “And it’s my fault.” Money had always been tight, and Bisky had the business to look after. Sunny had started early with cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and serving as Bisky’s assistant on the boat. No wonder she was strong and assertive, just like Bisky was.
“It’s not like you have people pounding down your door to work in Pleasant Shores,” Sunny argued now.
“I have connections, if the Victory Cottage resident doesn’t work out,” Mary said.
“When he doesn’t, and you can’t get an adult to take the job, you know where to find me,” Sunny said, just on the edge of disrespect. She gave Mary’s dog a final ear rub and then headed across the street and toward the house.
“Sorry she’s sassy,” Bisky said. “Getting up at the crack of dawn puts her in a mood.”
“Aaanddd the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Mary observed, watching Sunny depart. “She got her sassiness from you, and it’s a useful trait in a woman.”
“It can be. I’m glad she’s not afraid of her shadow like some kids.”
Mary nodded. “You’ve raised her well. No doubt she could start a therapy dog program. She could probably run the high school or Salty’s Seafood Company if she wanted to.”
“You’re right. She could.” Bisky watched Sunny walk toward the house, holding her phone to her ear as she jabbered with one of her friends, and a wave of motherly love nearly overwhelmed her. “Raising her is the best thing I ever did.”
“Of course it is.” Mary’s voice was a little pensive, and it made Bisky remember that Mary had had a daughter and lost her.
“So tell me about this new guy who’s coming to Victory Cottage,” Bisky said, trying to change the subject.
Mary ran a hand over Coco’s furry head, and the dog sat down, leaning against Mary. “He’s from here, actually. And like everyone who comes to the cottage, he has a sad story, but that’s his to tell.” She frowned. “I just hope that the support system we’ve put into place will work. He’s set up with counseling, and the cottage is a dream, but I’m still unsure about what volunteer gig he’ll be best suited for.” Volunteering was an integral part of the Victory Cottage program, just as it was in Mary’s other program, the Healing Heroes project.
At the dock beside them, an old skiff putted in, and eighty-year-old Rooker Smits gave a nod as he threw a rope to his five-year-old great-grandson, who’d been waiting to tie up the boat. Rooker waved to the boy’s mom, who was dressed in scrubs, obviously headed for work now that Rooker was back to help with childcare.
Like many watermen from these parts, Rooker wasn’t a talker, but he’d give the coat off his back to her or Sunny or any neighbor. Now he and his great-grandson tossed scraps from the oysters he’d culled into the bay. Gulls swooped and cawed around them, drawn by the remnants of a day’s fishing.
The smell of brackish water and fish mingled with that of the newly fertile March soil. Spring was coming, Bisky’s favorite season. Maybe she’d plant some flowers later today, if she could find the energy to get to the hardware store for seeds.
She stretched and yawned. “Boy, that change to daylight savings is a tough one,” she s
aid. “I’m like Sunny, probably going to need a nap today.”
“You work too hard,” Mary said. “And speaking of work, I should be on my way. Lots to do.” She stood and hugged Bisky against her protests—Sunny had been right, Bisky needed a shower—and then she and Coco walked off toward town.
Bisky stood and stretched her back. At thirty-seven, she was starting to feel the aches and pains of a lifetime’s physical work. She loved what she did, loved the water, but it took its toll.
She spent a few minutes wiping down her rig, did the minimum she could get away with and then called it a job done. Not well-done, but done. As she crossed the road, heading for her house, she glanced in the direction Mary had gone. A tall figure walked slowly down the middle of the road. So tall and broad-shouldered that she had to look twice at him, because it wasn’t anyone from around here.
Or rather...
She stared, then took an involuntary step toward the man, unable to believe what she was seeing. It looked like her beloved childhood friend William Gross. Only, that wasn’t possible. Because William had sworn—with good reason—that he’d never, ever come back to Pleasant Shores.
* * *
AS WILLIAM WALKED the familiar and yet strange road toward the home he’d successfully escaped almost twenty years ago, he heard a man’s shout. “Look out, boy. I told you not to play by those...”
William cringed, an instant flashback to his childhood here: his father’s yelling and the likely painful aftermath. He snapped back to the present and turned in time to see a huge pile of crab traps teetering near a boy of five or six, who was poking at a small crayfish on the dock. The child didn’t even glance up.
William bolted toward the child and swept him up just as the big wire boxes crashed to the ground.
A couple of the traps bounced against William’s back, and he tightened his hands on the boy’s waist, holding him high and safe. As the clatter died away, William blinked, studied the startled-looking boy to ensure he wasn’t injured and then deposited the child in front of the old man who’d shouted. “Is he yours?”
“He’s my great-grandson, and he’s not to be playin’ around this close to the docks or the water. And that’s why.” He gestured at the cluttered heap of crab buckets. “Come on, boy, you can help me clean up the mess you made.”
Fair enough. William was just glad the kid wasn’t going to get a beating. “Need any help?”
The old man looked at him. “No, the boy needs to learn. Sure do appreciate your pulling him out of harm’s way.” He cocked his head, studying William. “You look like a kid who used to live here, name of Gross.”
William held out a hand. “That’s me, William Gross.” He tilted his head to one side. “And you’re...Mr. Smits?”
“Guess you’re old enough to call me Rooker.” The old man shook hands and studied William, curiosity in his sharp blue eyes. “Been a while.” He limped over to the cluttered traps, ushering the boy in front of him.
“You sure I can’t help you straighten out these traps?”
“We got it. Get to work, boy,” he told his great-grandson, and then turned back to William. “Heard you’re living in the city.”
“Uh-huh,” William said. “Nice talking to you.” He wove his way through the fallen crab traps before the man could ask any more questions.
When he got back to the street, he stood a minute, processing what had just happened. Three college degrees and twenty years hadn’t served to disguise him. He’d be recognized here. He’d have to figure out how to deal with that.
The sun was at its peak now, casting a surprisingly warm light that made William slide out of his sport jacket and sling it over his shoulder. Just being here made him think he shouldn’t wear a sport jacket, anyway. He felt pretentious, dressed up, here on the docks.
“William?” came a soft voice behind him. A voice that brought him back to laughter on sparkling water, and catching crayfish, and good meals around the table of a family that actually liked each other.
He turned and studied the tall brunette who stood before him. She wore work clothes, and she was older than the last time he’d seen her, but he’d never forget the eyes and the smile of his childhood best friend. “Bisky Castleman?”
“It is you!” She flung herself at him and hugged him fiercely.
She was tall for a woman, and more muscular than she’d been in school. Still, it was the first woman he’d held in two years and the hug felt good. Having a friend felt good and was something he needed to try to cultivate, now that he’d sworn off love.
They let each other go, finally, and stepped back.
“Where have you been, and what are you doing back?” Bisky asked. “I heard you were teaching in a college.”
“I was.” The casual way she asked the question told him she didn’t know what had happened. “Life’s dealt a few blows, and I’m here for an R & R break.” He tried to keep the words light.
She didn’t buy it. “Come over here and sit down,” she said, taking his hand and drawing him toward the same old fishing shack her family had always had. There was the same bench outside it, a little more weathered than he remembered. “Tell me what’s going on, because I know it would take a lot to bring you back to Pleasant Shores.”
“I appreciated your note when Mama died,” he said instead of starting up the story of where he’d been and what all he’d been doing, what had transpired.
“I’m glad my note found you. No one seemed to have a recent address.”
“I’ve lost touch.” He looked out over the bay, watched a pelican dip, snag a fish and carry it away.
“Heard you had a daughter. About the age of mine, sixteen?”
She didn’t know. He glanced at her and then shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said through a tight throat.
It had been two years, and he still couldn’t talk about it. Still hadn’t really processed it, and that was why his department head at the college had teamed up with someone from HR to find this program for him. It was his last chance to heal before he’d lose his job that he’d gotten worse and worse at.
He’d agreed to do the program despite its location, because Mama was gone and his father had moved away. He wanted to heal for the sake of his students who’d come to be his whole world.
But those of his students who’d gotten too close had seen the ugly, damaged side of him, had scraped his emotions raw. He couldn’t let that happen again. Couldn’t let anyone get too close.
He had to make sure that these people who’d known him in younger days didn’t worm their way into his heart.
“What happened to her?” Bisky asked quietly.
He’d dodged that question a million times, but for some reason, he couldn’t dodge it when it came from Bisky. He cleared his throat, hard. “She was shot by an intruder who broke in to steal a TV. She was taking a nap and surprised him, from what the police could figure out.”
Bisky’s face contorted with horror she didn’t try to hide. “You poor, poor man,” she said, tears in her voice and eyes.
“Don’t feel for me. Feel for her.” He didn’t deserve the sympathy of Bisky or anyone.
She ignored that. “As a mother, I can only imagine... Oh, William.” She leaned close and hugged him again.
Maybe it was because of the familiar, salty smell of her, or the fact that she knew him from childhood, but something broke off inside William then, a tiny piece of his grief. His throat ached and tears rose to his eyes, even though he tensed all his muscles trying to hold them back.
“You can cry in front of me,” she said, patting his back as if he were the child. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
She was right about that. He remembered, then, the rabbit he’d kept as a pet, what his father had done to it and how he’d beaten William for crying. William must have been seven or eight, and he’d run to his bes
t friend for comfort. She’d hugged him and cried with him then, just like now.
He pulled out his bandanna, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. Then he smiled at her, a real if watery smile. “Thanks. I guess I needed that,” he said.
“You’re here for the Victory Cottage program.” It wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “The woman who runs it wanted to seek out people who had a connection with this place. I’m the perfect candidate according to her.” He quirked his mouth to show Bisky he didn’t think he was perfect at anything.
“You are,” she said thoughtfully. “There are plenty of people who’ll be glad to see you.”
“That I doubt,” he said. “My family wasn’t the most popular.”
“No, but most folks knew you were cut from a different cloth. Come inside.” She gestured toward the house across the road, where her family had always lived. “I’ll make pancakes and coffee. Sunny could use a meal, and I could, too.”
The thought of sitting around the table with Bisky and her daughter—her alive and healthy daughter—tightened a vise around William’s insides. “Thanks for the invitation,” he said, “but I won’t be able to. I need to get going.” He ignored the puzzlement in Bisky’s eyes as he turned and strode away.
He couldn’t let himself get that close, feel that much.
Don’t miss the continuation of Lee Tobin McClain’s
The Off Season miniseries, coming soon!
Copyright 2020 by Lee Tobin McClain
ISBN-13: 9781488068904
Christmas on the Coast
Copyright © 2020 by Lee Tobin McClain
Christmas on the Coast Page 27