Oil & Water

by Nikki Andrews

  Ginny chuckled. “Can I get down onto the beach?”

  “Oh, sure. There’s a sandy beach to the left, with a couple of staircases down from the Way. But my favorite spot is the second inlet if you go to the right. You can’t actually get into it unless you want to do some rock climbing, but there’s a nice place to sit and rest just above it. Should only take you about twenty minutes.”

  “What’s so special about it?”

  “I’ll let you find out for yourself,” Camille teased. She cocked an eye at the clock on the microwave. “Now’s a good time to go. The tide’ll be turning soon. That’s when it’s best. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, you’ve been most kind, thank you.” Intrigued by her hostess’ hints, she closed the door behind the woman and went to the window, opening it wide to let in the afternoon breeze. Yes, she could indeed hear the water from here, crashing against the rugged rocks of Israel’s Head. The Atlantic was a distant fading blue that merged imperceptibly into a vague horizon. She closed her eyes and, once more, breathed deeply of the fresh sea air. Her irritation with Linc and her worry about Thompson faded away.

  After a while, she stirred. The day was beginning to cool down, and reluctantly, she closed the window. Stowing her clothes and toiletries took only a few minutes, and she was just debating the benefits of a shower when her cell buzzed. Her two employees had heard about the missing artist and sent her a link to Bill Thompson’s website. With another vow not to get involved, she texted her thanks and firmly ignored the link.

  ****

  A quick reconnaissance to get her bearings and a quiet moment at the shore would do her more good than a shower. She needed to stretch her legs after the long drive and the tensions of the afternoon. As she went down the stairs, she heard Linc speaking loudly in his room, and she hurried through the open living area on the first floor. A radio played soft classical music and a cozy fire burned in the hearth, but no one was about. She slipped quietly out the door.

  As Camille promised, the route to the Marginal Way, a paved footpath along the shoreline, took only a few minutes. She turned right at the miniature, nonfunctional lighthouse and joined the tourists ambling past the massive thumb of black stone that thrust into the ocean and defied its assaults. Salt spray erupted with each wave, occasionally reaching the walkers. Young folks and children scampered on the rocks, and a band of fishermen plied their extra-long rods.

  The Way curved landward around a rocky inlet, then seaward again. She came to a stone bench, one of many along the Way, and returned the smile of the older couple seated there. As she stood for a moment, just enjoying the breeze and the sun on her back, she became aware of a rhythmic hiss and clacking and took a few more steps across the broken, uneven stone to find its source.

  A narrow cleft in the granite cliff lay at her feet, with a bed of loose, sea-smoothed cobbles at the bottom. Each incoming wave swept over the cobbles, pushing them higher into the cleft and washing the sides of it with a long, sighing swisssh. As the wave retreated, the cobbles settled back into place with an almost bell-like rattle. She enjoyed the sequence over and over, entranced with the syncopated music of the ocean.

  “This is one of my favorite places.”

  She nearly lost her footing at the sound of the voice just behind her. Her hand sought a hold on a boulder beside her. “Oh, you scared me, Linc!”

  He reached for her, but she leaned away before he could grasp her shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I thought you heard me coming.”

  I should’ve been paying more attention. “I guess I got lost in my thoughts. I do love to listen to the waves on the shore.” She gestured at the waves breaking on the rocky scree below them, the cobbles rolling and clicking in endless variations on a sound. No wonder she’d been unaware of his approach.

  Linc apologized again, then folded his long legs like a jackknife and perched on a rock beside her. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Have you been here before?”

  “No. I’ve been to Bar Harbor, and once, a long time ago, I visited Acadia National Park with my family. I used to bring my kids to York Beach when they were little. Of course, I know the seacoast in New Hampshire much better, since I live there.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll let me be your tour guide. There is so much to see and do here in Ogunquit.”

  She didn’t want to respond to that and searched for a way to redirect the conversation. A question occurred to her. “Is this the first time Oil & Water is being held here?”

  Linc smiled. “It is. Mostly because it’s so hard to find space here, given how popular and crowded it is. There’s not much in the way of open space, like a park or town common. We got lucky this year. The Playhouse is undergoing renovations and has no shows scheduled this month, so they let us use their parking lot. And the restroom facilities are already finished, so we can use them, as well. Otherwise, we’d be up in Wells, at the high school.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, if you haven’t already chosen a place to eat, I’d like to introduce you to a place I’ve found to be very nice. Best lobster in town.”

  “Thank you very much, Linc, but I’ve already made plans.” The last thing she wanted was an intimate dinner with him. Her plan, decided in that very moment, was to dine alone at the first decent-looking Italian restaurant she came upon. Lobster was all well and good, but she was sure it would be included on the menu at the reception tomorrow night, or at the dinner on Saturday. Besides, Italy had a fine reputation with seafood.

  “Then perhaps a nightcap?”

  He just doesn’t give up, does he? “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I had a long drive, and I’d like to make it an early night.” Tomorrow the other judges would arrive, and she’d feel more comfortable in their company.

  He straightened up. “I understand. Shall we walk back to the inn together?”

  “I think I’ll stay here a while longer.”

  He held her gaze for a moment. “I hope you know you can count on me for anything you need. I’m looking forward to working with you.” He turned and strolled off.

  Keeping her thoughts carefully away from Linc’s attentions and the uncomfortable worry about an artist she didn’t know, Ginny returned to her contemplation of the motion of the sea. But the sound of the cobbles had lost its ability to soothe her.

  Chapter Three

  When a party of teens invaded the inlet, leaping from rock to rock with whoops and snickers, Ginny got to her feet and headed back to the pavement. Along the way, she picked up a small cobble someone must have dropped and slid it into her pocket. It was smooth and cool; stroking her thumb across it was oddly reassuring.

  This time, she headed in the opposite direction on the Marginal Way and toward the center of town. Shadows were growing long, and the eastern horizon had turned a deeper shade of blue. Light would linger late this close to the summer solstice, but her tummy insisted it was time for food. The lobster roll had long since ceased to fill her up. Stopping at the Visitors Center, she asked about restaurants. “Good seafood, not too expensive, doesn’t have to be fancy. Just Italian,” she specified.

  “Well,” said the volunteer manning the booth, “there’s Vertulli’s. Very classy.”

  “I’m hungry now. If I go as I am…” She gestured at her casual clothes.

  The volunteer shrugged and smiled. “Okay, Briatorre’s in Wells. Great food, lots of people go there.”

  “Oh, isn’t there anything local? I really don’t want to go that far.” Ginny leaned on the counter and lowered her voice confidentially. “Be honest, where do the locals go?”

  The woman laughed. She ran her gaze appraisingly over Ginny and shrugged. “If you really don’t mind the bar scene…”

  “I don’t mind the bar scene,” Ginny assured her.

  She took out a local street map and made a mark on a side street. “Murphy’s. Lots of fishermen hang out there for spaghetti and beer, but the cioppino is wicked good. This morning’s catch. My name’s Marnie. Tell
them I sent you.”

  ****

  The rumble of conversation died down a bit when Ginny stepped into Murphy’s. She was aware of many eyes on her, but Marnie’s name seemed to reassure the rough-looking men—and a few women—that their watering hole was not being invaded by an outsider. The noise level rose again, and the waitress raised an approving eyebrow when Ginny ordered “a good local beer” to go with her seafood stew.

  “Comes with bread and coleslaw. That do ya?”

  “Absolutely.” Suddenly, Ginny was very hungry.

  “Comin’ up.”

  Ginny joined a line for the ladies’ room, which, she was glad to see, was not labeled “Gulls” as at so many seafood joints. A hand-lettered sign read “She’s” while the men’s room was “He’s” instead of “Buoys.” When she returned to her table, her beer stood in a sweating bottle and a generous basket of bread steamed enticingly. By the time she had buttered and eaten a thick slice and downed a third of the beer, the waitress was back with a huge, deep dish of the stew and a bowl of slaw.

  “’Nother one?” The waitress nodded at the beer.

  “Not just yet, thanks. Maybe later, okay?”

  “Ayup. Laytah.” Off she went, hollering, “Hold your horses, I’m workin’ as fast as I can” at a table full of well-lubricated men, fishermen by the roughened state of their hands. Rude comments and plaints of “I’m a starvin’ man, Loretta,” followed her progress through the room.

  Ginny chuckled quietly, tucked a napkin under her chin, and scooped up a spoonful of cioppino. Her mouth exploded with pleasure. The briny broth, expertly seasoned and rich with tomatoes and onion, was the perfect counterpoint to the shrimp, mussels, clams, scallops, and—was that lobster meat? The textures delighted her, and every mouthful left a finish of olive oil and garlic that melded lovingly with the beer. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure.

  She had worked her way through half the serving and was mopping up some of the broth with a heel of bread when Loretta plunked another bottle on the table. “Oh, no, I don’t think—” Ginny began.

  “Compliments.” The waitress tilted her head at a nearby table and hustled off.

  Just what I don’t need. Someone else hitting on me. To be polite, Ginny nodded to the dark-featured man who lifted his glass to her, then she returned her focus to her plate. Should I take some of this back to my room, or should I pig out and finish it all?

  Just then the noise level, which had been rising all along, erupted into the ear-shattering range. Chairs crashed into each other, dishes and cutlery clattered to the floor as tables overturned, and glasses and bottles smashed against the walls. A mug hurtled past Ginny’s head, and she hit the floor under her table to shelter against further assaults. So much for pigging out.

  From her new vantage point, all she could see were heavy-booted feet and worn pants. Their owners were completely uninhibited about expressing themselves. Women screamed, men roared, and all of them swore. Ginny heard fists impacting flesh and desperately sought a route to the front door.

  “This way!” shouted a voice, and a hand appeared in front of her face. She grasped it and was pulled close to a rather nasty-smelling wool jacket. “Come on!” the voice urged.

  Hunched over and weaving a perilous course through the melee, Ginny and her rescuer shouldered a way to the exit and stumbled out. The hand yanked her down the sidewalk while the brawl spilled out into the road. Sirens whooped in the distance.

  By the time she reached Main Street, Ginny recognized her savior as the man who’d ordered her second drink. She extricated her hand and stopped to catch her breath.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She answered with a nod and a gulp. “Th-thank you, mister…?”

  “Thompson, Fred Thompson. And you?”

  “Ginny Brent.” They shook hands formally, which Ginny found hysterically funny. She giggled. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just so—”

  “I know, I know!” He let out a howl of laughter and stomped his foot on the sidewalk.

  Between giggles, Ginny really looked at him for the first time. He was maybe forty, well-built, and trim, with just a few gray strands in his dark-brown hair. Though his clothes were casual, they were of excellent quality, except for that jacket, which had seen better days.

  Realizing her silliness was a reaction to the brawl, she leaned back against the building behind her and forced herself to think calmly. “I suppose we’d better hang around for the police?”

  “Nah, this happens every now and then. Murph’s used to it. He’ll have the place cleaned up in half an hour, and everyone will be friends again. Don’t worry about it.” He, too, leaned against the wall. “You could probably even go back and get a refill on your dinner.”

  “Oh, good heavens, I never paid for it. I should go back.” To her utter amazement, her purse dangled from her shoulder. She didn’t remember retrieving it from her chair.

  “You’re an honest person,” he said with some surprise. “Look, let’s go have a drink at Merlot’s to calm down, and then if you still want to, I’ll walk you back to Murphy’s.”

  She hesitated, but to tell the truth, she was still a little shaky. The last thing she wanted to do was return to the B&B and possibly have to face Linc. There would be no harm in a drink with Fred.

  ****

  Merlot’s was only a block or two from Murphy’s and closer to the water, but it was worlds away in atmosphere. Where Murphy’s was downhome cozy and unpretentious, with battered wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and faux lobsters on the wall, Merlot’s aimed for a certain level of sophistication. Soft music mingled with a water wall to mute conversations; tall booths with thick tufted upholstery offered privacy; and the floor was carpeted rather than sprinkled with sawdust.

  Ginny automatically raised a hand to smooth her hair and brush at a smudge on her sleeve, but Fred’s firm hold on her elbow precluded any chance of slipping back out the door. An impeccably attired host glided up on silent shoes and, with a few words of welcome, escorted them to a secluded booth. Fred must be well known here, Ginny thought. She was decidedly under-dressed, and his attire, too, fell on the low end of acceptable.

  She ordered a glass of a reliable malbec but declined the assorted cheese and nibble tray Fred had the waitress bring. He made appreciative noises as he speared a cube of chèvre with a toothpick. “So, what brings you to Ogunquit?”

  She explained her role in the art show. “I was honored to be invited as a judge,” she added.

  He nodded. “I don’t know much about art myself, but Oil & Water is good for business in town. Shame about that artist disappearing.”

  Ginny agreed. “Oh,” she added, “is Bill Thompson any relation to you?”

  Fred grinned. “I suppose, if you go back far enough. Not that I care to. We don’t see eye to eye on much, me and Bill.”

  Biting back her curiosity, Ginny said only, “I see. What business are you in?”

  “Little of this, little of that. Mostly fuel oil.”

  “Home heating oil? You must go through a lot of that up here.”

  “That and diesel. I deliver to truck stops, gas stations, that sort of thing.”

  Reluctant to start sharing business anecdotes, Ginny asked, “Living here, I imagine you have a boat.”

  “’Course I do. Nice little lobster boat I picked up at auction a few years ago, not that I fish commercially. But they’re sturdy and I fixed mine up for pleasure trips. Me and a few friends, that sort of thing. And I have a private lobster license.” He pronounced lobster with a broad Maine accent—lobstah.

  “Private license?”

  “Yeah. I can only drop five traps, can’t sell what I catch, and I gotta go by all the regular lobster rules. Hey, would you like a tour of the hahbah t’marrah?”

  Ginny struggled until her ear translated the last two words as “harbor tomorrow.” She demurred. “I’m not a very good sailor, I’m afraid. And I will be tied up all day—all weekend, in fact—with th
e festival. But thank you for the offer.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, I need to go back and pay for my meal. Thank you so much for the rescue and for the wine.”

  “Let me walk you back, and I’ll see you to your hotel.”

  She laid a few dollars on the table. “Again, thank you, but I think I’ll get a cab.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “Neither is a cab,” she said firmly and slid out of the booth. “It was very nice meeting you, Fred. Perhaps, I’ll see you at the show on Saturday.”

  He accepted her decision with reluctance but made no further offers. “I may just stop by,” he said and shook her hand. “Good night.”

  ****

  “You came back to pay your bill?” Loretta’s eyes widened in surprise. “Hey, Murph, this lady came back to pay her bill!”

  “Well, I’ll be.” The landlord emerged from behind the bar. “There’s a first time for everything, I s’pose. Let’s see, you had the cioppino and a beer, right? A Cloutier’s, wa’n’t it?”

  “And Fred Thompson sent her a refill,” Loretta added.

  “You had to put up with ol’ Fred? Nice lady like you? Well, hell, that’s worth a supper bill. No charge.”

  “No way,” Ginny argued.

  “I insist.”

  “So do I.”

  They glared at each other for a moment. “How about if I just pay for the cioppino? I only got to eat half of it.”

  “Let me get you another bowl—”

  “Please, no. I’m stuffed. It was fabulous.”

  “But Fred—”

  “He pulled me out of the ruckus, so I was fine with that. What was the riot all about, anyway?”

  Murphy waved a hand. “Oh, the usual. Somebody accused somebody of pulling his lobstah traps.” He sighed. “Too much of that these days. Didn’t used to be so bad. Some o’ these young kids, they don’t care about the fishery no more. Last week, I got two berry hens in my order, can you imagine?”

  “Berry hens?”

  “Females with eggs. Supposed to notch ’em and throw ’em back. I won’t buy from that boat again, let me tell you.” Murphy shook his head over the wickedness of the world.