A young woman sat on the top of a piling at the start of the pier, talking with what looked, from the intimate slant of their bodies, to be her boyfriend. They, too, glanced at Julia as she turned onto the dock. They didn’t stare. Just glanced. They didn’t smile, didn’t speak, though they knew who she was. She could see it in their eyes as she walked on.
A pair of lobstermen anchored each end of a large locker as they carried it ashore from a boat. The locker was heavy; they struggled with it as they walked. One of them did nod at Julia as they passed, but the other just looked. Neither of them spoke.
She felt totally conspicuous. She was wearing the same tank top and denim capris she’d had on that morning, but she might as well have been wearing neon pink, had a green streak in her hair or two noses for the visibility she felt—which was truly ironic. She had spent a lifetime being the least visible person in the world. First her mother was the attention-getter, with Jerry and Mark duking it out for second place, then when Julia married, Monte became the main attraction. She was perfectly content to be in the background. It suited her quietness.
Nothing in her experience had trained her for being watched. She didn’t want it. It made her very uncomfortable.
So, maybe it was in her mind.
Of course it was in her mind. Being glanced at was not the same as being watched. But that didn’t change how she felt—which was precisely why she wanted to see Noah Prine. He wasn’t family, wasn’t even a friend. But he understood.
She had spotted the Leila Sue pulling into its slip when the ferry had first entered the harbor. Turning down that arm of the dock now, she singled it out. Noah was hosing down the boat, cleaning up after a day’s work. What she could see of his T-shirt was gray under spatters of blue and orange paint, but from midchest down he was covered by yellow oilskins. Wide bands cinched them at the shin. At the ankle, big rubber boots took over, and from what Julia could see, it was a good thing. Both oilskins and boots were dripping wet.
His hair was mussed and fell damply on his brow, over the curve of his ears, down the nape of his neck. He had regained color during a day of sun on open seas and was lightly bronzed. His eyes followed the spray from the hose. His bare arms gleamed, muscles flexing as he moved things aside with a gloved hand.
He didn’t see Julia, who stopped just shy of the boat. She was aching to take a picture or two. That felt like an intrusion, so she took the opportunity of his preoccupation to study the boat. It was long, with the same up-curved bow and low stern as other boats nearby, the same flat rail running all around, the same rubber-skidded platform on the back. The wheelhouse was enclosed on three sides, front windows angled open. On one side were steps that led to the cabin, with hooks along the way holding hats, jackets, and other gear. On the other side, a console housed the throttle, three separate screens, and numerous gauges. The steering wheel protruded from its front.
There was no seat at the wheel. Noah would be in and out, back and forth all the time. In keeping with that, immediately to the right, where the wheelhouse ended, were long hooks, winches, and pulleys. In the center of the boat, bolted to the floor, was a worktable; Noah was washing that down now. A pair of large crates and a trio of tanks were overturned in the stern. The water from the wash ran away through small holes at the sides of the deck.
She didn’t see any lobsters, though from the way Noah was scrubbing the boat and the soapy smell of whatever he was using to clean, she assumed they had been there not long before.
When he turned to hose down the crates in the stern, he happened to look up, and for a split second, his face was intent, blue eyes as dark as the North Atlantic. Then, incredibly, he smiled. It wasn’t a large smile, but it was spontaneous.
“Hi,” he said and continued with his work, but in a more relaxed way.
More relaxed now herself, she smiled and stepped forward. She stopped at the side of the boat and watched him work. He was quite handsome—every bit in control of his work—yes, alpha male here, which made watching him a delight. After a minute, he hosed down his overalls and boots. Turning off the water, he coiled the hose and tossed it aside.
“Where’d the lobsters go?” she asked.
He hitched his head toward the far side of the harbor. “The boxy building out there. Foss Fish and Lobster. Foss is the local trader. I catch, he sells.”
“Was the catch good today?”
“Not bad.” He tossed his gloves back toward the wheelhouse. “Pretty good, actually. I’ve missed a lot lately, so most of my traps were full.”
“Not all?” she teased.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
Still smiling that small smile, though crookedly now, he said with a one-shouldered shrug, “Bad place? Bad bait? Vandalism? You choose.”
“Vandalism?”
“Seals. Or men.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
He pushed an arm up to mop his brow, leaving his hair all the more mussed. “Men? I don’t want to say it, but a couple of my traps were bone empty. Two in a string. Like someone pulled the line and helped himself.”
“Can’t a seal take lobsters from both?”
“Oh, it can. Definitely. Seals can steal from as many as they want.”
“But you don’t think this was seals.” She could see it in his face.
“Seals make a mess of the trap. Men are pretty neat. These were neat.”
“I thought there was honor among fishermen.”
“There is,” he said, unhooking the straps of his overalls. He bent to dispense with the boot bands, then in deft movements kicked off the boots and slipped out of the overalls. His bare feet were well formed. His jeans were faded and fit him well. “Once in a while, you get bad guys. We’re working on it.” In a movement eased by long arms, he hung the overalls from a hook just inside the wheelhouse, and caught up a towel.
“What does ‘working on it’ mean?” she asked.
He stepped into clogs as each foot was dried. “Trying to get a message to the offending party.”
“Then you do know who it is?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She did, too, she realized. “The fruit guys?” When he gave her a quizzical look, she said, “Matthew Crane told me.” She had another thought. “Is this a gear war?”
“Not yet, but it could become one if they ignore the message.”
“What would happen then?”
“Not good stuff. It can get ugly. Part of me’s itching for it. I’d like to have a good go-round with someone.” He angled his chin toward her camera. “Been playing tourist on the mainland?”
“Uh-huh. Clothes shopping, mostly.”
“How’d it feel?” he asked. Those dark blue eyes were suddenly sober. He wasn’t talking about the mainland or the shopping. This was why she had come to see him.
“The ride out was hard,” she admitted. “Coming back was better. Did you feel anything like that?”
“No. But it’d be pretty bad if I did. I’ve spent most of my life on the water. I’m avoiding the place where the boats went down, though. That’s tough. How’re you sleeping?”
“Badly. Dreams wake me.”
“Itching wakes me.”
“Itching?”
He moved closer to the gunnel. His eyes were troubled, his voice low. “I wake up restless. Like I need to move or I’m going to die. Like there’s something I’m supposed to do.”
“Oh, boy,” she said, because it sounded familiar.
“Like something’s unfinished,” he added, though he sounded unsure of the word.
“Incomplete?” she put in.
He sputtered out a breath in agreement.
“That is so what I feel,” she said in relief.
His voice was cautious, his blue eyes baffled. “Have you figured out what you’re supposed to do?”
“Not yet.”
“How do you get past the restlessness?”
“I cook. Or I tend the rabbits. That’s calming. Does yo
ur work calm you?”
“Yes. There’s more to do, working alone. It keeps my mind busy.”
“Is it safe to work alone? What if something were to happen?”
“I have the radio. Friends are never far off.”
Julia wondered if he would hire another sternman once things settled down. The question seemed callous, though, with Hutch only buried a day. So she asked, “Where’s your dog?”
“Lucas?” He scanned the dock, looking down the row of boats. “He’s around.”
“Doesn’t he go out with you?”
“Sure does, only he runs off when it’s time to clean up. There he is.” He was looking at a boat two slips down. Lucas sat on its stern platform, looking straight at Noah. “He’s not much help with cleaning up, or with catching lobster, for that matter.”
“Can I help?” she asked.
His eyes returned to hers. “Nah. It’s grunge work.”
“I could do it,” she offered.
“If you had trouble on the ferry, this’d be worse. The ferry was big. The Leila Sue is even smaller than the Amelia Celeste.”
“I’d be okay,” Julia insisted, feeling strong still. She had survived the ferry today. The sea wasn’t taking her now. Besides, Noah had saved her life once. He wouldn’t let her drown.
“Ever handled a live lobster?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“With banded claws?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Know why those bands go on?”
She certainly did. She had asked the question at her local fish market, where lobsters filled a huge tank. “To keep them from cannibalizing each other.”
“And from taking a finger from the person picking him out of the tank. Those bands go on here in the boat. It isn’t easy.”
“Neither is diapering a squirming two-year-old who has diarrhea.”
He was momentarily startled.
She grinned.
He grinned back and put a hand on his hip. “Think about rotting seaweed and gull droppings. And fish in the trap that are half-eaten by the lobsters.”
Julia was defiant. “Kids throw up. It’s all over everything. Someone has to clean it up.”
“What about herring body parts?” Noah countered. “That’s my bait. Each trap that comes up has a bait bag that has to be refilled. Doesn’t smell like any perfume you ever bought.”
Julia wasn’t being beaten. “Did you ever open a fuse box and find a mouse nest filled with mouse stuff? Or open a cabinet and disturb a cockroach feast?”
“You haven’t.”
“I have. I live in Manhattan. Pests go with the territory.”
Apparently ceding the gross-out contest and opting for a new approach, he gave her a quick once-over. “You’re… slight. Lobstering takes strength.”
Julia stood straighter. “Doesn’t the winch do the hauling?”
“Sure does, but that’s only a small part of it.” He opened and closed his hand. “It takes strength to use the bander.”
“Same with using a manual can opener when the electricity goes out. Or lugging twenty-four-bottle packs of spring water in from the car. Or turning a king-size mattress.”
“You don’t do that yourself,” he said skeptically.
“Well, with someone else, but the point is, I’m not a weakling. And I really would like to see how you catch lobsters. Think of it as my island education. Besides, it’ll occupy my mind.”
“Until you figure out what it is you’re supposed to be doing?”
She smiled sadly. “Yes. Until then. Have you seen Kim Colella?”
“No. You?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I’d recognize her if I passed her on the street. I’ve only seen her dripping wet when they brought her in after the accident.”
“You didn’t see her in the boat?”
“No. Do you think she’s feeling the same things we are?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She still isn’t talking.”
“Maybe she’d talk with me, my being a woman and all. Is she getting professional help?”
“Counseling? I doubt it. The Colellas wouldn’t go for something like that.” Noah looked at her arm. “How’s it healing?”
Julia turned her wrist to show the red zigzag mark. “I forget about it most of the time.”
Noah’s gaze shifted. She followed it in time to see Molly start down his arm of the dock. The girl’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes excited.
“I did it,” she said with a smug smile as she reached Julia.
“Did what?” Julia asked.
“Convinced Rick Greene to hire me. It took a little talking—he likes his lean operation—but he knew my restaurant in Paris, and I told him a couple of things he could do with lobster, things I learned there, and then I said I’d work for free. I mean, it was a total no-brainer.” She grinned. “So I’m here for as long as you are, chaperoning.”
“Chaperoning,” Julia repeated quizzically.
“Making sure you’re all right,” Molly stated and turned to Noah with something that, to Julia, looked suspiciously like a challenge. “I’m Molly.” She stretched forward, extending her hand. “And you’re Noah.”
Noah started to put out his hand, pulled it back and wiped it on his jeans, started to extend it again, then paused. “This hand’s been working all day. You don’t want to shake it.”
“But I do,” Molly insisted and waited until the handshake was done. “Thank you for saving my mother’s life.”
“I didn’t do that.”
“She believes you did, and that’s all that counts.” Dismissing him, she turned to Julia. “I have to go back and shower. I’m starting tonight.” She took Julia’s arm.
Julia stood her ground. She pulled the keys from her pocket. “You go on up. When you get back here, I’ll take the car myself.”
“You’re staying?” Molly asked, less pleased now. “Here? On the dock?”
“I want to play with my camera,” Julia said.
Molly darted Noah an uneasy glance. “What about Zoe? She’s expecting you for dinner.”
“It’s too early for dinner. I’ll be there in an hour. Please tell her.”
Whispering now, Molly said, “That’s not very polite. She’s your hostess.”
Bemused, Julia whispered back, “Who was the one who insisted we leave Zoe for the entire day today? Who insisted I buy this camera? Who’ll be deserting Zoe tonight and every other night to work at the Grill?”
“But she was counting on you,” Molly argued. “You were the one who planned to vacation here with her.”
“That’s right,” Julia said, still quietly but with conviction, “and it’s my vacation. I want to spend another hour here. End of discussion.”
Molly looked startled. Julia was vaguely startled, herself. She wasn’t usually so forceful. But it felt good. She really did want to stay here— not for long, just for a bit—maybe even just to make a statement, rather than to be swept docilely along.
Recovering her tongue, Molly said, “Fine,” in an annoyed tone, and walked off.
Julia watched her for a minute, then gave Noah an apologetic smile. “I really do want to play. Could I photograph you?”
“No. Want to do the boat, be my guest. Me, I need a shower and food.” He went back to the wheelhouse, ducked inside the cabin and came up with a logbook, his thermos, a sweatshirt, and a cooler. Whistling for the dog, he used the rail as a step. His other foot had barely touched the pier when Lucas bounded past. Lifting a hand to Julia, he followed the dog.
By the time Noah let himself into the house, he was feeling disgruntled. Given his druthers, he’d have stayed awhile on the boat. That was where he felt most calm. Here in the house, there were ghosts. It didn’t help that the place was dark, but he didn’t see the point in raising the shades, when he was gone so much of the time. Besides, if he let light in, he’d see the emptiness. It was a trade-off, emptiness for ghosts.
He strode through the hous
e to the laundry room, where he stripped down and put every item of clothing he’d worn into the washer. Naked, he went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped into the stall. The water was cold at first, but he didn’t mind. Physical discomfort was a welcome diversion, so he focused on it until the water heated, then he took the soap and scrubbed himself, first with his hands, then with a brush. When he was done, he stood for a while, head bowed, under the spray, and he enjoyed it, until the itching returned.
Turning the water off, he reached for a towel and did a cursory job of drying off. Unfinished … unfinished … unfinished. With each swipe of the towel, he heard the word again. He would have had to be an idiot not to know what it meant. The accident had left a gaping wound in his life, and it wasn’t only Hutch’s place there that left its emptiness.
Wrapping the towel around his waist, he went to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and punched out Sandi’s number. It had barely started to ring when he felt the old anger rising up, accusations hurled his way, endless analysis of every word he breathed, making him feel less than little—and she was probably right. He could tell himself that a million times to Sunday, and it wouldn’t change things, at least not with Sandi. The sound of her voice brought it back.
“Hello?” she said.
“It’s me,” he said, struggling to sound kind. “Ian never called.”
There was a pause, then a resigned, “I know. He and I had a big fight about it. I think it really bothered him that Hutch died, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. I tried to talk with him, but he refused. I told him to call you, but the thought of doing that was even worse. He’s going through a hostile stretch. Right now, that hostility is directed toward you.”
“What have I done?”
“Nothing,” Sandi said with pleasant factuality. “Absolutely nothing for the last ten years. You’re there, Ian’s here. Yes, you call every week, but if he’s not home, you talk with me and that’s it. Talk? Well, I talk. I tell you what’s going on in his life, and you ask just enough to keep it going. I know you love him, but you’re so damned silent about it, how’s he supposed to know? As far as he’s concerned, you loved him until he turned seven, then you moved out and everything changed.”
The Summer I Dared: A Novel Page 14