The Pickle Boat House

by Louise Gorday

  “See? Damn, dumb dog.”

  “Are you deaf? The dog’s name is ‘Susie,’ not ‘Hoffa’!”

  “I don’t like ‘Susie’—too girlie.”

  “Girl dogs are girlie!”

  “Doesn’t matter. Besides, she reminds me of someone I used to know in Detroit.”

  “I don’t think I want to know. What happened to ‘Spot’? No wonder she doesn’t come. You have her totally confused.”

  “Damn, dumb dog,” Ryan repeated, shaking his head.

  “What if I started calling you by a different name?”

  “Like ‘James,’ for example?” Ryan asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Van laughed. “Okay, one point for you, but you know what I mean. Cut the poor dog some slack or I’ll have to take her back. I don’t care how much identity conflict you two share.”

  “Nope, nothing doing. That’s too much trauma, Indian giver.”

  Van laughed again. “Okay, she has been through a lot, but don’t push me.”

  “I meant trauma for me. I’m stressing about it already. I think I need a hug at the very least,” he said, waiting for Van to take the bait, which she did with little prompting. As usual, their chaste kiss deepened as the heat between them rose.

  Ryan was the first to pull back as the sound of a clearing throat burst the bubble surrounding them. Reluctantly they separated and turned to the contractor, standing in the framed-in doorway.

  Ryan heaved a quiet sigh. “Duty—see you later, doll.” He kissed her quickly one more time and took off after the foreman.

  “It’s really looking good in here,” Van said as she scurried behind him. “Are you going to hang anything on these walls? They look a little bare. Hey,” she said, a sudden wave of inspiration hitting her. “What about using some things from the museum? We could frame some of the posters and put them up. Not to put any thoughts into your head. I know you have a clear idea of what you want to do.”

  “Great idea,” Ryan called over his shoulder as he disappeared from view. “I trust you. Surprise me—bring them over? Hands are kinda full …”

  Van stopped. There was no use trying to keep up with him. He was a man on a mission. “No problem,” she called back. “I can think of a few things that would look great in here. Do I have free reign—understanding, of course, that you have veto power? If so, I’ll head over there tomorrow and grab some stuff.”

  Ryan poked his head back in the door at the far end of the room. “I’m sure I’ll like anything you do. Sorry … these last few weeks. I’ll do better once we open. It’s just the final crunch, you know?”

  “No, you’re still good in my book,” Van replied. “I like seeing you happy and occupied. You go ahead. You don’t seem at all stressed about doing this. Are you? You’ll get town people to come, but I’m still worried about you making a living off it.”

  “I’m not overly worried about the income. With the right advertising and promotion, it’ll come. This town needs a draw—maybe lots of little draws—to reenergize it. Revitalization doesn’t have to come at the expense of charm and history. You don’t have to sell out. If more people came and saw what a gem of a place this is, they’d want to buy a home, spend time and money in quaint little Nevis. The more competition HYA has, the better. Nevis just needs promotion, and I’m going to do everything I possibly can to make this an uncomfortable place for HYA to sneak around.”

  “And I love you for that,” Van said. “It would be nice if the tavern had a long run like Betty’s,” she mused, gazing out the window at the little kids racing by on their bicycles. “Bicycles—that’s it! Ryan, have you ever seen the bicycle pelotons that come through Nevis? Sponsor a bike race! That could give you lots of press in some very strange places. It could be an annual event with prizes and T-shirts. A big whoop, you know? Feature microbrews from around the area.”

  Ryan bought right into the idea, and it wasn’t long before Van found herself researching Maryland breweries and contacting bicycle clubs.

  *

  In one of his last managerial decisions right before opening, Ryan agreed to hire Marla, but only as a favor to Jean. He didn’t need a lot of staff and would have preferred someone with bar experience. Still, he had total faith in Bennie and his ability to draw out the best in anyone. He wasted no time in making Marla a project of Bennie’s and not one of his own.

  “Marla, I’d like you to meet Benjamin Bertolini, better known as Bennie. Bennie was the best bartender in Manhattan until he took the job here.” Marla extended her hand and smiled as she gave Bennie the once-over, eyes settling at last on his shiny dome. She hated the style. It was impossible to decide whether a guy shaved his head as a fashion statement or was truly bald. It did make a difference.

  “Bennie, this is Marla. I’ve just hired her as our hostess. She’ll also be assisting you as barmaid. If you don’t mind, she’ll need you to show her the ropes. She’s new at this, but I think she’ll be a natural.”

  “Marla, it will be a pleasure working with you,” Bennie said, smiling. “I’ll teach you all the shortcuts—piece of cake. We’ll have a good time. Our trial run is on Wednesday. Maybe you’d like to come in the afternoon on Tuesday—that is, if it’s okay with Ryan.”

  “Bennie, like I told you, the bar is yours. Do what you need to, to make it successful. Just let me know what you need, and I’ll take care of it.” He clapped Bennie on the shoulder. “I have great faith in you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have fires to put out, so to speak.”

  “Come on, Marla,” Bennie said. “I’ll show you what needs to be done. We’ll start with garnishes. You drink? Yeah? You’ll love this part. Oh, first, let me see your hands.”

  Marla timidly extended her manicured hands. Bennie took them in his short, meaty fingers, flipping them over to look at her palms and firmly placing them together in his right hand. He patted the tops gently.

  “Just what I thought. You might want to trim your nails a little, hon. They get soft being in and out of water all day. You don’t want to tear them up any more than you have to.”

  Marla fought back tears. “I thought I was mainly going to be a hostess. I’m not sure I want to be washing dishes and nasty stuff like that. Maybe I need to go back and talk some more to Ryan.”

  “Nonsense. You’re gonna love it back here with me. Come on,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and steered her back behind the bar.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  FAVORS AND FATHERS

  The morning of the opening was just spit and polish. Bennie had conducted a successful dry run yesterday, and arrived on opening day with a wicked attitude and a huge smile. With Ryan backing him, he knew it wouldn’t be long before a “Best in Bar” award hung from the main bar mantel.

  The locals came out of curiosity. New businesses were a rarity in Nevis—interested parties lacked the capital, and disinterested ones flocked to greener pastures. Still, there was a customer base waiting to be served. And serve them Ryan did. Once it became clear that the food was going to be good, the prices reasonable, and the beer cold, the Phoenix had no trouble attracting customers. No need to send someone in a wine bottleshaped sandwich board out to the main street to drum up business. With Van’s help, Ryan scouted out a local cook who could serve up meatloaf on Mondays, spaghetti on Wednesdays, and she-crab soup Fridays. Topped off with Betty’s homemade pie, pretty soon everyone in town was fitting the Phoenix into at least one day in their weekly planner. The place had a mystique of its own, and the potential to be the heart of a little town.

  Van stood off to the side and observed comings, goings, discussions about the derecho, and general activity in the main room. Attendance was good. Most patrons were enticed by the promise of half-price fare and enough information to gossip about for quite a while. Ryan was endearing. He couldn’t stop grinning as he worked the room, slapping backs and sharing drinks. Van was immensely proud of him and happy that he had succeeded in creating his dream. He was good at this. She watche
d as he headed, drink in hand, for the customers sitting at the bar.

  “Officer McCall, glad to see you could make it,” Ryan said, patting the policeman on the back. “Having a good time? Drinks on the house.”

  “You trying to bribe me?”

  Ryan smiled at the curmudgeonly old cop and didn’t miss a beat. “Drinks are three bucks,” he said. “Pay Bennie at the bar, and don’t forget his tip. He’s used to getting a hefty percent in New York.”

  “My tip would be to keep his nose clean and go back to New York. Don’t think for a minute that I’m not watching you and yours, Mr. Thomas. I just came in to check your liquor license. I didn’t think you could get one of those in Nevis for love or money.” McCall eyed Ryan over the top of his beer glass before draining it and dropping a bill on the counter. He took his time leaving, seemingly taking in everything that was going on.

  “Everything okay?” Van whispered, coming up behind Ryan. “He’s not bringing trouble in here, is he?”

  “No, everything’s good—better than good,” he said, giving her a hug. “I really didn’t expect anyone to show up—figured it would take more time. I didn’t think they’d be this trusting of an outsider coming in and starting a business. This is terrific!”

  “I’m pretty sure that not everyone here is what you’d call trusting,” Van said, “but they know you’re with me, and that goes a long way. Clearly, I have excellent taste.” She kissed his cheek and took a sip of his drink. It was ice cold, smooth, and enticingly fruity. “What is that?” she said. “I want one.”

  Ryan looked at her and laughed. He whistled to Bennie, and a few hand motions later, Van had a drink in hand. “That’s called a Bennie plenty,” he said. “A few of those and you won’t care what hit you. You’re allowed one. I don’t want you stumbling off into the night with one of our patrons.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll keep that in mind. Just a little warning for you, my friend. I don’t know your usual intake, but I think you’re pretty well on your own way to getting sloshed. Maybe you should start pacing yourself, huh? No more of these?”

  “Yeah.” A tickled smirk lit up his face like a neon sign.

  Van looked around at the happy, drinking crowd. “I know word of mouth is a good thing, but it can’t be so good that it’s bringing in all these people. Half of them I don’t even recognize. Where are they coming from?”

  “It’s probably this big spread we had in the Washington Post ‘Weekend Getaway’ section,” said Ryan, spreading a newspaper out across the bar top. “They gave us a pretty good write-up and a lot of space. How could you not want to come see all this? This is more promotion and exposure than Nevis has gotten in the last eighty years.”

  “Ryan,” Van said, narrowing her eyes as warning bells started to ring in her head, “why on earth is the Washington Post giving us such a nice piece? Do you know someone at the Post?

  A smile spread across his face. “Someone … a favor … that kind of thing. Effective, huh?”

  Van wasn’t smiling anymore. “How are you going to start a new life if you can’t walk away from your old one?”

  Ryan laughed. “You worry too much. It’s not a problem, so don’t worry about it. Like I said, the last thing in the world HYA wants is attention. The more people come to Nevis, the less attractive it becomes for dirty business. This is a win-win.”

  Van remembered going down the “win-win” road before, and she found no comfort in his choice of words. “Don’t get cocky,” she said. “I hope that’s the liquor talking.”

  Ryan leaned in close. “I haven’t gotten this far along without knowing the right people. Relax.”

  “Just don’t be the kind of man I wouldn’t respect,” she said, leaning away from him. “Sometimes it’s not all about winning.”

  “Don’t be naive about all this,” he said, growing serious. “If you want to save Nevis, you may have to get your hands a little dirty. If you can’t handle that, don’t ask and don’t lecture. This is all or nothing—half measures aren’t going to cut it.”

  “Wow, that doesn’t sound like the Ryan I know.”

  Rather than say more, Ryan walked off, leaving Van speechless and feeling a little rebuffed.

  *

  With no one to keep her at home, Jean quickly claimed a place at the end of the bar. A week into the opening, she sat on her barstool, nursing a cosmopolitan. She laughed uproariously as Bennie leaned in close and whispered something in her ear.”

  “What kind of fool do you think I am?” she asked, pushing Bennie’s arm off the bar top. “You are such a bullshitter.”

  Bennie’s eyes sparkled in amusement, and he leaned in a second time to whisper something else, but this time Jean did not swat him away, and he made no effort to back off. Jean moved her hand to his arm, where it stayed as they continued to talk and flirt.

  Across the tavern, Van stood watching the easy banter between the two, and as they began to touch, her expression changed to one of disbelief. With raised eyebrows, she turned toward Ryan.

  Ryan shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. It’s been going on all week. I expect Bennie to have good customer service, but that looks more like pitching woo to me.” He laughed and shook his head. “If they get much closer, they’re going to be sharing the same stool.”

  “Well, I never saw it coming!”

  “A good bartender is a good listener, Van. Maybe that’s all she needed. Leave ’em alone. She could do a lot worse than Bennie. He is a gentle man with a heart of gold.”

  “You’re probably right. I didn’t pick you for your good listening skills,” said Van, with a teasing light in her eyes.

  “No, but I’m not a bartender, either,” he said laughing.

  *

  Watching Jean reminded Van of the loose ends in her life that were tying her down, preventing her from moving forward in her own relationship. She finally mustered the nerve to call Richard and asked him to come into the tavern for dinner and a heart-to-heart conversation.

  As she expected, he didn’t take it well. He agreed to meet, but the tone of their phone conversation went quickly from cordial to icy. The night of their meeting, Richard arrived at the Phoenix early and sat in a corner away from the bar. There he sat, nursing one bourbon after another until Bennie cut him off.

  Van saw him as soon as she came through the door—spouse radar after all their years of marriage. She realized how ready she was to close this chapter of her life when she chose at once to walk straight to his table. Months earlier, she would have pretended she hadn’t seen him, and headed directly for the room in the back. “Richard, you’re here … early. Let me get a couple of menus. We can—”

  “Sit,” he said. “Let’s just skip the song and dance.”

  Van took a seat across from him at the table. She had hoped they could ease into the discussion, but apparently, it was not to be. Richard had obviously had a few, and he wore an air of belligerence on his face.

  “Are you filing for divorce?”

  “This is so hard,” Van said. “It’s time, Richard. I’m going to file. I hope we can keep this amicable. For the sake of what we had, I hope we can remain friends.”

  Richard said nothing but looked into her eyes with an unsteady gaze.

  “There’s no point in us staying together,” she continued. “We had a beautiful life together, but it’s over. Don’t ruin the memories of what we had. I’ve moved on. Finally, I’m happy again. If you feel anything for me, let me be happy.”

  Richard shifted his eyes to study the bottom of his glass. Still he said nothing.

  Van had seen him drunk enough times to know that she was wasting her time. He wasn’t going to cooperate. Her eyes brimmed with tears that threatened to spill over. “Hon, let me go,” she said. “I’ll always love you, but we both need to move on.”

  Richard looked up at her again, and this time the emptiness in his eyes cut her to the core. “I can’t,” he said.

  “You can,” she said, putting her
hands on both sides of his face and drawing him closer to her. “We both deserve to be happy.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll beg you to stay,” he replied, his voice cracking from the emotional strain and the booze. He slapped her hands away.

  Van stood up from her chair. “Excuse me, Richard,” she said. “I have to go help with a few things.” And she fled to the bathroom.

  Even though she had had the guts to meet with him, she couldn’t maintain the bravado all night. Still, hiding in the bathroom forever was no solution. She dampened some paper towels and wiped her face and neck. If a long stay meant she could keep from facing Richard again, she was all for it. When she thought enough time had passed and she was sufficiently composed, she pushed open the bathroom door and walked out—straight into the chest of a waiting Richard.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

  “I didn’t think we were through. I was concerned when you didn’t come back.”

  “There isn’t much left to say. I wanted to let you know tonight that I’ve decided to file for divorce at the end of our separation.”

  “It’s that tall guy that built the bar, isn’t it? He’s gotten in between us and destroyed our relationship.”

  “No. No one else is influencing my decision. I really think this is the best thing for both of us. We both deserve better.”

  “So you think he’s better than me.”

  “Damn it, Richard, I didn’t say that. This is about you and me.”

  “Do you really think I’m that stupid?” He tossed a large yellow envelope down on the table in front of her.

  “What is this?” Van grabbed the envelope and ripped it open to reveal a series of pictures of her and Ryan together at various places around town, including her house, the boardwalk, and the Phoenix. They were pictures that could have been taken only by someone who was well acquainted with his subjects. While the pictures were not damning, there was no doubt to even the most casual observer that the subjects had, at the very least, an emotional connection.