The Pickle Boat House

by Louise Gorday

  “I would have gone for a Yankee dime while I had the chance,” a quiet voice whispered from behind him.

  Ryan jumped. “Damn it, Hector! Don’t creep up on me like that again.”

  The figure of a man stepped out from behind a nearby oak and approached. “Glad to see you can fit a little skirt chasing into the business day,” he said, and chuckled.

  “Screw you! Making a few contacts in the area will be helpful.”

  “Is that what that was? Could have sworn it was personal.” Hector swung around the side of the bench and flopped down.

  “And what the hell are you doing here? No, wait, scratch that. I don’t care why you’re here. Fuck off back to wherever the hell you came from. I don’t need you breathing down my neck. Where’s Earl?”

  “No can do. Suits want to make sure this is all going to go down smoothly.” Hector tossed his cigarette down and ground it out under his shoe. “Earl’s taking care of business somewhere else. Gonna meet up with him later. Look, Ryan, my boy, I don’t really care what you do on your own time. Screw this up and you’ll be packing up your desk. Unless you want to admit that you just don’t have it anymore?” He laughed again—a cold, spine-tingling sound. He lit another cigarette, took a long draw, and slowly exhaled smoke at Ryan as he gazed through narrowed eyes. “Don’t make me hate this any more than I do already. I don’t need you dragging me under—got my own problems. Just take care of business so we can get out of here. No loose ends.”

  “Have there ever been?”

  “I’d hate to take it out of your hands.”

  Ryan looked at him with disgust. “Come on. Let’s go find someone else for you to bullshit.” Ryan got up and headed for the parking lot. Hector chuckled again as he got up and followed. He flicked the cigarette away but didn’t bother to put it out.

  “By the way, since you’re such a smart-ass, what is a Yankee dime?” Ryan asked over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BRING IT

  Nevis demanded nothing. That was the appeal for Van: it let her go at her own pace. She had no desire to think about her estranged husband, and she couldn’t think about her son. The memories were so painful that right now she could deal with them only by burying them beneath layers of neglect, guilt, and time and hoping they would just quietly fossilize there. So when she wasn’t dedicating herself to work assignments she spent her time documenting and putting to paper all those who had come before her, ensuring that they were not forgotten, that they had left some trace. The thought that even one of them could slip into oblivion hurt her physically. The thought that the one forgotten could be her son was unbearable. And yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to put his death date on the family tree.

  Everything in her life seemed to have slipped away—everything, that is, except Nevis and the pickle boat house. They had a good old Southern feel, offering comforting memories and the illusion that life was slow, without any purpose other than its own. There was a healing strength here that even Van couldn’t fully describe, and she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Van and Jean spent lovely, lazy time on Van’s front porch, listening to the Beach Boys and watching boats off in the distance ambling up and down the bay. They took turns bringing the booze or the iced tea (or both), depending on their mood that day. More importantly, neither ever failed to bring game or conversation. Just as they had predicted when they met, they became fast friends. It felt as if they had always been, and they could tell each other anything. Jean was a good listener, and even when she couldn’t give advice she made Van laugh about her troubles. Van was laughing for the first time in years. Jean was a newfound ray of sunshine.

  “I met the most interesting man on the boardwalk today.” Van tried not to look directly at Jean, because she knew that since the divorce Jean had pretty much sworn off anything that smacked of romance. The moment Van said it she regretted it.

  “What did he look like?”

  Van felt suddenly flustered. “I don’t know. Like a man … pants, a little stubble on the face, a callus or two …” She sank further down in her chair. “Jean, I should have known you’d be so superficial! I, uh, is that the best you can do?”

  Jean locked her in her gaze and sucked her upper lip in. “Not once in all the time I’ve known you have you discussed a man with me—any man. With the exception of Charlie, of course, and he doesn’t count. Men are not big on my list anymore, but there must have been something special about him for you to bring him up. Come on; come to Mama. How hot was he?”

  Van gave her the most condescending look that she could manage, and then proceeded to melt under Jean’s scorching gaze. “He was so hot,” she wailed, hiding her red face in the crook of her arm.

  “I knew it, knew it. Bingo!” Jean crowed, and giggled like a schoolgirl. She tried to pull Van’s arm away from her face, all but tumbling them both onto the deck. Van had no hope of retreating from this physical assault, and she, too, began to giggle.

  “Spill, before I have to go check the boardwalk for him myself,” Jean demanded.

  “Okay, okay, let me catch my breath,” said Van. “It wasn’t so much that he was hot. Don’t get me wrong; he was good looking. But mostly, I was just so incredibly drawn to him. Can you believe it? I was actually flirting with him.”

  “Jeesh! You are a woman, remember, and a damn fine-looking one at that! Did he ask for your number? When are you going out? I want to know everything, starting with ‘Hello, beautiful.’”

  “Stop being a lunatic and slow down, Jean. He’s coming back into town later this week, and he said he’d give me a call. It’s nothing more exciting than that. Even then, I’ll believe it when it happens. Wait! He gave me …” Van pulled the pen he gave her out of her pocket. “… this. See, I didn’t make him up. He really does exist!”

  Jean took the pen and flipped it over to read the inscription. “Hector Young and Associates. We should look this up and see if he’s on the level.”

  Van burst out laughing. “What do you think he’s going to do: rob me of my virtue and steal my inheritance?”

  “Not while I’m here. He could be a serial killer, or something worse. Just leave it to Mama. I’ll look him up and get back to you. Nobody gets through Mama Jean.”

  “Jean, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. What could possibly be worse than a serial killer?”

  Jean reached out and grabbed her arm. “Seriously, Van, stop laughing at me. It’s been a while since you’ve been in the market. Don’t jump in too fast. Go slow and don’t overcommit. Think it through a little bit. If he seems too good to be true, he probably is. The devil’s in the details.”

  Van rolled her eyes and took Jean’s hand off her arm. “For jeesh sake, it’ll be a cup of coffee and maybe a few smooches. Get a grip, girl. You act like there’s something wrong with my BS detector. All I ever do is think things through. It’s constantly one analysis after another. I need an interesting diversion. Besides, he didn’t have that serial-killer personality. He didn’t seem to have any ulterior motives.” Van looked back out toward the bay to hide her grin as she remembered how his flirtation made her feel. It would be disappointing if he never called. She frowned as she caught sight of a red triangle fluttering in the distance.

  “Small-craft warnings are out,” Van mused.

  “Really? But the weather seems so clear.”

  “As any sailor can tell you, calm as the bay seems, it can get you if you don’t pay attention.”

  “Speaking of the devil being in the details, have you see Charlie Sollars today?”

  “No,” Van replied, her eyes going back to Jean. “I can hear him clipping hedges around the back of the house. Why?”

  “Cut his hair real short—looks like a porcupine.”

  “Charlie doesn’t have enough hair to look like a porcupine,” Van said, laughing.

  “You know what I mean. It’s sticking up all over where he has it. By the way, how much do you pay him to
clip the hedges?”

  “Nothing. You know Charlie—busy hands are happy hands. He won’t take money for anything he does. I love that man … reminds me of my dad. When I first moved down here Charlie and his wife, Debbie, took me under their wing. I think I filled a void. Their only daughter had run away from home as soon as she was old enough, never to be heard from again. He’s been over here a lot since Debbie died—really took her passing hard. They were married forty years. Listening to them, you’d think they were oil and water, bickering all the time, but you could see the true love right below the surface. She died in his arms.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet. He does have a kind look about him, as long as you stay out of his flower beds. Hey, did you hear about Charlie and the bikers?”

  Van laughed and shook her head. This sounded good. All Charlie stories were good—even better if he was doing the telling.

  “Well, you know the house down the street from Charlie’s mom’s house, the one that sold on Eighth Street?” The people that bought it are bikers. Seems they were driving people crazy, roaring up and down the street. Well, Charlie decided he was gonna set them straight on proper behavior. He went over one night and knocked on their door, all set to give them life’s lecture. When he knocked on the door the biggest ass-fucking Diablos biker—

  “Jean!” Van said, eyebrows raised in feigned shock. “Do you eat with that mouth?”

  Jean chuckled. “As a fisherman’s granddaughter, I would think you’d heard this all before.”

  “Oh, I have, but the first and last time I tried to repeat it, my grandmother washed my mouth out with soap—Zest soap! I think I was five!”

  “Listen, do you want me to finish this or not? A big-ass Diablo answered the door and asked what he wanted. Charlie’s no fool. He forgot all about the life lesson. He asked if they wanted to donate money to his church. The biker said sure, and now every time they see Charlie, they give him money. Isn’t that hysterical?”

  Van laughed. “Poor Charlie! It’s a wonder they didn’t beat him to a pulp. I don’t know what I’d do without him around here. He fixes everything I ask him to fix, and things that I never even knew were broken. Such a sweetheart.”

  “Let’s hope the two houses that just sold down that way haven’t gone to any more Diablos. That’d be a little too much excitement. Those people scare me, especially that Rusty Clark fellow. I move to the other side of the street when I see them. I’m so relieved that Marla never got mixed up with that crowd.”

  Van gasped, straightening up in her chair and snapping her fingers. “I knew there was something I was forgetting to tell you. The last time I saw the Morgans they said they sold their place and were moving down near their kids.”

  “I’m sure the Morgans weren’t one of the two I heard about. I think it’s more likely the Jeffries and the Spencers. The Morgans are way over on the other side of town. There was a third house vacant over on Chestnut, but it burned down the other night.”

  “Not another arson?”

  “Haven’t heard yet,” Jean replied. “Sure’s hell hope not. That’d be the third in the last few months. You know, though, it’s probably a good thing the Morgans are moving. They’ll be closer to the kids … Did you know that old Mr. Morgan drives along the edge of the road so he can tell where he is? If the riding gets rough, he knows he’s on the shoulder and he moves back over.”

  “No,” said Van, laughing. “I did see him backing up the exit ramp on Route 261 near Owings a couple of months ago. But don’t change the subject on me. Sure are a lot of home sales for such a sleepy town. I can’t recall so many houses selling at once. Can’t imagine why anyone would want to come here unless they were already connected. And then, on the other hand, there’s Joe, the fella that helped me move in. That poor guy finally gets the jump on a house, and somebody burns it down! Odd.”

  “Noted,” Jean said with a nod, and she immediately launched into a new story about the time she got locked in a bathroom stall and had to crawl underneath the door to escape. Normally, Van would be howling at her antics, but the breeze off the water had picked up, and she shook from the sudden chill. The pickle boat house creaked and groaned behind them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CLOSURE

  Van didn’t have to wait long. Ryan called her several days later and arranged to swing by her house on his way back to New York.

  It’s no big deal; he’s no big deal, she kept repeating to herself. But by the morning of his visit, she was a mass of nerves. She cleaned excessively, changed clothes three times, and was pacing as the time drew near. Something about Ryan really pulled her. She couldn’t quite put it into words.

  In ultimate surrender to nerves, she picked up the phone. “Jean, ah, could you come over for a minute?” Van was too embarrassed to explain why and was relieved when Jean didn’t ask any questions.

  “What’s up?” Jean asked, coming in through the back door. She didn’t knock anymore. No one in Nevis bothered to lock their doors. In fact, most residents still left their car keys in the ignition. Nevis would be a field day for the unscrupulous, if any should bother to notice.

  Van sat at the kitchen table shuffling a deck of cards. “I feel like I’ve been neglecting you lately,” she said. “Come play some rummy with me.” She managed a smile despite the queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “Sure,” Jean said. “Dressed awfully fancy for rummy, aren’t you? I only dress up for five hundred. Let me know next time; I’ll come formal.” She smirked as she walked around behind Van and gave her a little pat on the shoulder as she went. “Let’s play till Ryan gets here. What time’s he coming?”

  For all her quirkiness, Jean was often right on the money. Van kept her head down and continued to shuffle. “Soon.” Nothing more was said as the two friends began to play cards and wait.

  *

  As he approached Van’s front door, Ryan paused and looked down at the yellow flowers planted along the walkway. Yellow was his soft spot when it came to flowers. He reached down into the flower bed and picked the biggest blossom. When he arose again, he found himself looking straight into the disapproving face of Charlie Sollars.

  “Oh. Hi, there. This one had a broken stem.” Ryan grinned feebly, offering up the flower like exhibit A. The grin went unreciprocated. He cleared his throat, turned toward the porch, and bounded up the steps. Giving his clothes the once-over with his hands, he knocked on the door.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” said Van, pleading with Jean as she bolted up out of her chair and headed for the door. She took a deep breath and pulled the door open to reveal a smiling Ryan. Van relaxed at once.

  “Hi. Nice to see you again. Here, I brought you something.” Ryan’s eyes sparkled as he handed her the flower.

  Van felt the blush rise on her face. “Oh, that’s sweet! A marigold!” she said, laughing. “You shouldn’t have. Can you give me just a minute? I’ll put this in some water in the kitchen.” Van started to turn away from Ryan when she suddenly whipped back around to face him. “Wait a minute. You just gave me that with your left hand. You’re left-handed, you dog! Why’d you give me such grief over my shirt the other day?”

  Ryan slowly began to smile. “You’re cute when you’re angry. I enjoy feisty.”

  Van could only answer his boldness with a deeper blush. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be right here,” he replied.

  Van darted back into the kitchen. “Go,” she said, sweeping Jean out the back door with one hand and grabbing her arm and pulling her back inside with the other. “Wait! Do I look okay?”

  Jean looked down at the marigold that Van was still holding. “You know he picked that out of your flower bed, don’t you? And your face is just as red as a geranium.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Van said, and giggled. “But he’s still sweet.”

  “Let me know when you want me to smack that goofy smile off your face,” Jean said, and the back door swung shut behind her.

  When Va
n came back into the living room Ryan was studying the collection of pictures she had on the wall above her couch.

  He turned as she entered. “Daguerreotypes. These are amazing and in good condition. Are they family? I really like this one,” he said, pointing to the picture of a man and a woman, both dressed in black, gazing solemnly at the photographer.

  “Yes. I love genealogy. I’ve done a lot of research, quite a few pictures, but these are my favorites, especially that one. It’s my great-great-great-grandparents, William Seagle and Eliza Kline. They look so young! They were married in 1850. I’ve always wondered if this was their wedding picture.”

  “And the man in this one,” Ryan said, picking a picture up off the table. “Who’s this? He looks familiar. I think I know him from somewhere.”

  “Him? I don’t think so. That’s my husband, Richard.”

  “Oh, you’re married? You never mentioned that little nugget of information. Perhaps I should go.”

  “No. Richard and I have been separated for a while. I just filed separation papers. When I have fulfilled legal separation requirements, I’m filing for divorce. Our life together is over and has been for a while.” Van shifted uncomfortably on her feet and flipped her hair back behind her ear. “Look, I’m not in the habit of spilling my life story to men I meet on the boardwalk, even if they do buy me ice cream. Is that enough information for you?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I do appreciate your honesty. I just don’t want to be the cause of any friction between you and your husband. As far as I know, I have never intentionally gotten involved with a married woman.”