by Sarita Leone
“Steve—I can tell you now. I’d love to take a motorcycle ride tonight. Dinner sounds excellent, too. So, I’ll see you at six, then?”
What could he do?
Meeting Norah’s gaze and completely avoiding Annie’s, he answered, “Six. On the dot.”
Then, he got the hell out of there. Fast.
Chapter 17
If looks could kill, he’d be dead so he counted himself lucky—if being the damn unluckiest guy in town could be called lucky. Shit—he sure could get himself neck deep in the stuff without even trying. All he’d wanted to do was something nice for an old buddy’s sister, and it’d bit him right on the ass.
That should teach him. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Until next time.
Steve stepped out into the street, not bothering to look up from the pavement, and got a blast from old Mrs. Gorman’s Caddy horn. Actually, the hulking, shiny black beast was her departed husband’s vehicle. She’d been denied the privilege of driving it while Mr. Gorman was alive. Now that he’d taken his leave and rested in the town cemetery, Mrs. Gorman drove like the bat out of hell her old man had feared lived within her.
He held an apologetic hand up, waving at the woman. She stuck her left hand, burning Marlboro dangling from arthritic fingers, out the window as she blasted him one more time with the horn.
The old lady had balls. He’d give her that much. She had to be at least seventy, and drove the car as well as any Saturday night drag racer. He’d barely cleared the front chrome bumper when she gassed it, maneuvering around him with just inches between his butt and all that chrome.
Damn, but women were strange creatures. If he lived to be a hundred—and he sure as hell hoped he wouldn’t—he’d never fully understand that half of the human race.
Only one thing to do when backed into such a tight spot.
He checked his watch. The Shack should be open, or at least opening. He wasn’t hungry for lunch yet, but a nice, cold beer would do just fine about now. And the bonus of not being in the company of a female for a half-hour or so was just icing on the cake. Highly unlikely he’d even have to speak to anyone, which suited him just fine.
Like a guided missile, Steve headed for the pier and the burger joint.
****
“Why didn’t Steve say hi? He saw us, Mama. I know he did.”
Sienna swung the small brown paper bag wide, narrowly missing smacking an elderly woman walking on the sidewalk. Annie motioned for her to tone it down, and the child did, making her motion less enthusiastic—but still wide enough the handful of clothespins inside made a satisfying noise.
Annie wasn’t in the habit of lying to her kid, but the occasional fib, especially when it meant she wouldn’t have to explain the stickiest situation she’d been in since their arrival in Lobster Cove, didn’t seem like a bad option.
“I don’t know.”
She took Sienna’s hand, then they crossed the street. Traffic was busier than usual. Tourist trade, probably. And it was interesting that she’d only been in town a short time and already felt attached enough to think of anything being unusual.
Maybe they’d found a place to call home. She wasn’t entirely convinced yet, but between Sienna’s happiness and Clarisse’s nightly persuasive, over tea or sangria talks she was beginning to feel swayed to stay. For a while, anyhow.
They reached the other side and blended into foot traffic. Clusters of shoppers meandered, browsing storefront displays and examining sidewalk sale items. A cloud of menthol smoke washed over her, and for an instant she wished she hadn’t given up the habit last year. It had taken her through the early widow days, the moments she wasn’t cuddling her baby and didn’t know what to do with her hands. A cigarette seemed a better option than wringing a tissue. It was hard to cry when smoking, so even though the habit had cost her it was cheaper than getting soused on homemade wine, the way some other war widows did. She’d never taken to smoking pot, either, even though a number of other widows at the support group she’d attended a few times extolled the virtues of weed.
No, her primary commitment was to her baby, and being stoned or drunk wouldn’t make her the kind of competent parent she knew she could be. So, she’d smoked Newports, until she realized they, too, were only a crutch. And one she could hardly afford.
But that didn’t mean that every now and then she’d love a drag off a cig… Being human had its faults, and this was one of hers.
“You know he saw us. He could’ve said something. He didn’t ask me to ride on his motorcycle—”
“You are not riding on any motorcycles, so put that right out of your head. Come on, Clarisse is probably already waiting for us.”
The idea to get out of the house and discuss their “options”, as Clarisse had been calling the thread of possibility they’d been tossing about, was a good one. And since Sienna had been begging to see the inside of The Shack since she’d spotted it the day they drove into town it seemed as good a place as any to meet for lunch. Clarisse’s morning at the Historical Society had her up and out before either of her two housemates were awake.
The no-motorcycle scowl that she’d been on the verge of receiving melted as they walked up to the front of the eatery. Annie opened the door, and her daughter skipped into the place, her steps matching the beat of Creedence’s Who’ll Stop the Rain?
Clarisse had chosen the table closest to the water’s edge. Small boats bobbed along the pier, and others wound in and out of their spots as they docked or left for the sea. Better than television, the comings and goings should keep the little girl occupied enough that the adults could speak without interruption.
Annie had been counting her blessings since moving to Lobster Cove. Clarisse was an incredible woman. Sienna was happier than she’d ever been. And here there was hope for a firm future, something she hadn’t expected to find.
“Hey, chickie, how’re you doing?” Clarisse held her cheek out and smiled when it was kissed. Sienna slid around the woman’s chair, plopped her sack on the table and sat in the chair closest to the wall of glass. She put her hand on Clarisse’s arm, and it crossed Annie’s mind that the pair looked like they’d known each other forever.
“I’m good. Cap’n Crunch for breakfast. And we got clips for the shirts at the store.”
“Sounds like a bang-up morning. Let’s see those clothespins.” Sienna opened the bag and they peeked inside. The older woman nodded her approval, and the child closed the bag and deposited it back on the table beside her paper placemat. “Just what you need to make more shirts. Too bad I don’t have enough, but they couldn’t be too pricey, could they?”
Annie answered. “Just a buck. And these are to replace the ones we used. You can’t hang your laundry with tie-dyed clothespins.”
“A small price to pay to see our business take off.”
A waitress appeared beside the table. No note pad, Annie noticed.
“Good to see you, Clarisse. It’s been a while.” A snap of bright pink bubblegum punctuated the greeting.
“You too. Yes, it gets pretty busy around now, as you well know. And I’ve had family come to live at the house, so we’ve been having fun getting better acquainted. This is Annie, my grandson Brian’s widow, and their daughter Sienna.”
Annie felt the other woman’s appraisal as they exchanged hellos. Then, “I’m sorry for your loss. The fighting?”
Annie sighed. Was there anything else that would kill a perfectly healthy man in this day and age other than that damned war?
“Thanks. And yes, he was shot in Cambodia.”
“Happening to too many good guys over there. What a damn shame.”
“It is.” Annie hated the small talk, as if reducing the carnage to a couple of murmured platitudes might make it somehow better.
Fortunately, Sienna had been perusing the menu on her placemat. She interrupted and for once Annie didn’t bother to correct her.
“Chocolate milkshakes—Mama can I have one with my grilled cheese?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, you may. And do you want French fries or onion rings?” On the drive north they’d stopped at a roadside diner and Sienna had discovered a love for batter dipped and fried onion rings.
“Rings!”
The waitress smiled. “I’ll make sure you get a big order, honey. You look like you have a taste for them. Me, too.”
Clarisse shrugged. “Make that two, please.”
Annie looked up at the woman who waited for her order.
“What the heck? Might as well make that three.”
When the waitress left, Clarisse steepled her fingers and took a deep breath. She let it out slowly, then said, “So. I stopped into the shop before my shift at the Society. I think that with a few alterations—and minimal ones, at that—we can turn the place into something new. Keep some of the old, but make space for the things we’re mulling over. A few dowels from that far wall will let us hang things. And the display shelves will hold any kind of merchandise. Not a big thing, even with a little bit of painting, to clean the old place up.”
A jolt of excitement shot through Annie’s center. It was a big step, agreeing to reopen the shop with Clarisse. It meant she planned to stay for longer than she’d initially thought. It meant spending the summer, at least. And, probably, the fall also. Sienna had to be enrolled in school somewhere…why not Lobster Cove?
A parade of “what ifs” sped through her mind.
“What if—”
Clarisse cut her off. Apparently what worked well for a child worked equally well for a senior because Annie’s mouth snapped shut.
“We’re not reinventing the wheel, Annie. If we can’t sell things to the tourists—who are just itching to spend some of their cash, if I may add—we can’t sell things to anyone. Really, it’s just a matter of giving people what they want. That’s all we need to do. Now, are you in?”
She drew a breath larger and deeper than the one Clarisse had drawn just minutes before.
Then, she took a leap.
“I’m in.”
The die was cast. No turning back, no disappointing an old woman. Just forward movement, and hopefully fuller savings accounts for both of them.
Clarisse slapped her hand on the table.
“Done! I hoped you would agree!” A smile stretched her facial features, pulling some of the wrinkles out and giving a glimpse of a younger version of herself. She must have been a stunner back in the day. “Now, all we need to do is get someone over there to do the heavy stuff. I think we can do most of the painting, don’t you?”
“Definitely.”
Their lunches arrived. The food looked amazing, and the scent of the fried onions made her mouth water. Sienna dug right in, popping an onion in her mouth, then fanning a hand in front of her lips.
“Hot!”
“Of course they are. Here, drink some of your shake.”
They waited for the child’s face to turn from bright red back to its normal suntanned glow before they began to eat. The food was simple but tasty. They ate in silence for a while.
When Clarisse swallowed the last of the first half of her sandwich, she wiped her fingers on the paper napkin in her lap.
She nodded toward the far end of the room. “I’ll talk with Steve. He’s right over there.”
Annie choked on an onion ring. Her eyes watered, and she was sure her nose was running. Struggling for air, she gasped, “Where?”
“Goodness, don’t take on so. Swallow—and here, have some milkshake. It cures everything, doesn’t it, Sienna?”
They watched while she composed herself. Drying her eyes, she said, “You mean he’s here?”
Clarisse resumed eating. Nonchalant, but with a gleam in her eyes.
“Mm hm. He’s been here since before you walked in. You missed seeing him but boy, oh boy, he didn’t miss seeing you. He’s been looking this way the whole time. Can’t keep his eyes off you, actually.”
She could imagine what he saw when he looked at her. Her cheeks heated at the memory of standing topless while he stared.
Clarisse said, “Although I’m kind of annoyed with him, to tell the truth. He was supposed to stop by the house the other evening.”
Her windpipe nearly closed a second time. “The other evening?”
“I asked him to go in the backyard and take a look at my shed. It needs gutters.”
He’d gotten more than he bargained for. And at least there was a reason for his presence—he wasn’t just a low-life voyeur. That made it somehow better.
Clarisse went on. “But he didn’t show, apparently. And he hasn’t been in contact. But that’s about to change, my dear. I’m going over there and ask him what’s up. And, I’m going to tell him we need some work done at the shop. We can’t open the place until it’s spruced up—so let’s get on the sprucing.”
Chapter 18
“You’re gonna rub the wood down to nothing, man. That boat couldn’t shine any more if you dipped her in that varnish.” Big Al settled himself on the piling, an act of precision given that his anatomy was considerably larger than the wood he sat upon. But he managed, with a small grunt and a bit of wiggling, to place himself within scowling distance.
Steve tossed the polishing rag onto the deck. He rubbed his hands down the back of his cut-offs and stared at the spot he’d been working on. The wood was mirror shined.
Big Al was right.
He sat on the sun-warmed starboard leather bench seat.
“I’m an idiot.” Steve plowed his fingers through his hair. It was long, hitting low on his collar. His fingers splayed the curls, then he slapped his hand on his cheek. Palming his face, he realized he hadn’t shaved in a while. The stubble was past the prickly stage, and onto feeling soft.
The last time his face had seen a razor was the night he took Annie out. The night he’d meant to make history with that smart, sexy mama. The night that had turned to shit faster than a heartbeat.
Damn, but his life sucked.
“Nah, you’re not an idiot.” Big Al carried a bottle of Coke in one beefy hand. He took a swig. Burped. “You’re just a guy who fell for a pretty face. It happens.”
“She’s more than a face, man. Much more.”
Raising the bottle in salute, he belched again. “Figured you’d say that. You’ve got it bad. Real bad. Any man can fall for a piece of ass—hell, we’ve all done it—but you’re gone on the whole package. There’s only two ways to deal with something like this.”
Since his father’s death, and with all the guys his own age off fighting in ’Nam, Steve had no real friends or confidantes. Sure, he knew everyone in town, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear what they thought about anything of real importance. Idle chitchat? Fine. Life-altering advice? No way.
Big Al was the best he had.
“Two options? Do a guy a favor and lay them out, if you don’t mind, because I’m just not seeing them. I feel…” How to admit he didn’t know how he felt? That this topsy-turvy mind trip was all new to him?
“Forget it. Doesn’t matter how you say you feel, all that counts is how you react to what you think you feel. So yeah, there’s only two ways through this.”
That struck a chord. His father quoted Winston Churchill whenever he felt Steve needed a push. Now, the line, and his dad’s voice, filled his head.
“The only way out is through. My dad said that—a quote from Churchill.”
Big Al snorted. Finished the Coke and bent nearly double to put the empty on the wooden pier. He straightened, wiped his brow and said, “A helluva guy, your dad. Churchill, too. But your father was right—and that makes my point even stronger.” He folded his hands across his stomach, his palms covering the straining fabric. “Like I said, two ways out. First, you can get your ass over there and work this out with the pretty lady. Whole town’s talking about her and Clarisse opening that old shop again. By this weekend, I hear. She’s over there now, painting the walls in a teeny-tiny pair of hot pants and one of those skin-tight midriff shirts.” He placed a han
d over his heart and fluttered the fingertips. “Damn near gave me a heart attack watching her bend over to refill that paint brush.”
A picture flashed through Steve’s mind. He pushed it away—fast. That ripe body had been in his head and dreams for days now, and adding fuel to the already-smoldering fire wasn’t going to do him any good.
“And the other option?”
Big Al shrugged. “Beat it outta town. Get on that shiny bike of yours and hit the road. Just give in, man. She’s outta your league, or maybe you’re too afraid to see if you’ve got what it takes to get a chick like that to fall for a dude like you. I dunno…it’s your call. But if you’re scrubbing a hole in the hull of this boat, you’ve either gotta make a move or leave. It’d be a damn shame to kill a perfectly innocent boat just because you’re too chicken to go after what you want.”
Shit. The fat guy didn’t pull any punches. No, he hit Steve’s Achilles heel, without worrying about the fallout.
Being the only healthy-looking man left in town, the only one not off serving his country, made walking the sidewalks very difficult. He knew the truth, even though he hated it. And he knew most everyone knew why he wasn’t carrying a rifle and wearing camouflage, but whether or not the good people of Lobster Cove believed the reason why he wasn’t doing battle was a whole other story. He looked fine. Why wouldn’t they assume he was fine?
And that left only one logical reason for his being the only “able-bodied” man in a town left bare of testosterone.
He had to be a coward. A chicken. Lily-livered.
His heart hammered in his chest. It beat fast and hard, like something caged seeking release.
Taking a deep breath, Steve stood and stepped onto the seat. One leg over the side, onto the pier. Then, the other. He met the other man’s gaze.
“I’m no chicken.”
“I know that. Now, go act like the man we both know you are. Go talk with that woman. Tell it like it is, man. If she’s who you think she is, she’ll accept it. If she doesn’t…well, it’s best to find out now if she’s just another cutie in hot pants.”