by CF Frizzell
Chapter Three
Ellis tossed her hammer into the open toolbox and stretched her back, stiff and sore from the day’s work, but she was pleased with the outcome. The last item on her modifications list could be crossed off, and she considered celebrating. Finally, she had an interior wall separating her bedroom from her kitchen—actually, her forward berth from her galley. Chores at home always brought a satisfaction she seldom achieved elsewhere, and since her fifty-two-foot Nantucket Rose became “home” more than ten years ago, she often found herself thanking the boat as she would a friend.
“What would I do without you?” she mumbled and pulled a beer from a cooler in the galley before climbing the steps to the main deck. First week of May is never too chilly for a beer on the water, she mused, especially when you’ve worked up a sweat all day. She zipped a windbreaker over her sweater and drank greedily.
Several years of saving every last cent had rejuvenated the Rose, and now light shone on a future that had loomed dark for far too long. She knew she was back in decent financial shape at last, had a steady, albeit average income, and had a substantial roof over her head again.
“Lots of banging going on down there, Ellis. What’re you up to now?”
She squinted through the late afternoon sun to see the harbormaster standing on the dock alongside, hands in his jacket pockets, his head wagging at her in disbelief.
“Should have put up the partition way back when. Would’ve kept my electric bill down.”
“You’re one tough woman. Stubborn as your old man.”
She usually didn’t take well to comments about her father—his death at sea years ago still pained her—but this man had been his friend.
“You go and build a bulkhead,” he added, “and now you’ll roast in the summer.”
“Just a wall, Sam, and come summer, I usually sleep out here anyway.”
“Yeah, yeah. Pretty soon you’ll have condos and a pool on that old barge.”
Ellis offered a salute with her beer can as he strolled away. Only he, out of respect to her father, could tease her that way. A barge, the Rose obviously was not. The beefy, broad-beamed vessel, a sizeable fixture in this harbor even by Nantucket’s often glamorous standards, boasted a hard-worked history worthy of respect and envy. With tireless attention to duty, Ellis kept the Rose sparkling as brilliantly white above the royal blue hull as on that 1989 day her grandfather passed away and her father assumed ownership.
She dragged a deck chair astern and sank into it, relieved her weekends were free of ferry work and dealings with the general public and that she was free to enjoy her “yard.” The harbor’s flat sea and lack of activity presented a tranquil, soothing landscape, one she’d come to treasure. Only a quarter of the summer’s boats had arrived to date, and they sat dead calm at moorings, even fewer at slips like her Rose, and she appreciated the picturesque moment as only a native islander could. Several pleasure craft were put in today; more would arrive tomorrow and in weeks to come, but for now, the serenity and the few gulls swirling above were hers alone.
The silent arrival of Hank Tennon’s red trawler rounding Brant Point Light caught her eye, and she wondered if he’d had a successful run. Her father always said old Hank would stay out and starve before coming home “hollow as a hornpipe.” She looked harder to see how low the trawler was riding in the water and then nodded at the fisherman’s success. Good for you, Hank.
There weren’t many old-timers left from her grandfather’s day, she reflected, and too easily, she fell into memories of years on board with him and her dad. She took great pride in having grown up on the Rose, clinging to the “shaky arrangement” with the Atlantic that her granddad and relatives before him claimed to have made. She looked up to the bridge and scanned the wheelhouse, its expansive windshield curved and braced against the brisk onshore breeze. “Take the wheel, honey. You know the way.”
Today, the Rose’s proud bow deck offered plenty of lounging room beneath the watchful bridge, while aft, a fiberglass canopy now extended halfway to the stern, sheltering a head, wet bar, and luxury seating. The open stern deck surrounding her now sat rigged for all preferences of fishing, and she recollected the exciting—terrifying—day, almost twenty years ago, when a great white surfaced on the end of her father’s line.
She knew better than to dwell on the past, dredge up heart-wrenching images of their father-daughter team. Though her renovations hardly left a trace of them now, the once utilitarian flat-topped deck with its winches and crane boom, the cavernous holds below filled with pallets of crates and produce, they remained vivid in her mind and always would. She often had to remind herself of the living and maintenance quarters currently below deck, and that she’d done nearly all that work herself. Then, as now, driven by her family’s oceangoing heritage, she vowed never to forget how she’d reached this point in life. She was well aware that, in reincarnating the Nantucket Rose, she’d honored her past by providing for her present and enabling her future.
The puttering sound of a dinghy’s motor interrupted her musing and she was grateful, unwilling to sink into darker thoughts. The little craft drew across her bow and stopped, and the sandy-haired boater pressed a steadying palm to the Rose’s hull.
“Hey, Ellis! Have you planned supper yet?” The woman waved a mesh bag full of Nantucket’s famed scallops.
Ellis thought twice about the offer. Jan Medeiros ran a successful “middleman” operation, selling fresh catches to many island eateries, and frequently tossed some freebies her way, but they came with a catch of their own. Single and not caring who knew it, Jan was nothing if not persistent.
“Got plans, yes, but thanks.”
“Suit yourself. See you at the RC later?”
“Maybe,” she answered automatically, having no intention of joining the partying set at the Rose & Crown on this night. “We’ll see how the night goes.”
“Ah.” Jan frowned and pushed off from the hull. “Well, good luck with that.”
“Thanks, Jan.” Ellis watched her putter away, thinking that accepting one of Jan’s offers really wouldn’t kill her, that it wouldn’t shatter her damn, hard-won independence if she spent the evening—or the night—with such a lively, devil-may-care woman. With any woman.
She promptly went below and doused herself in a hot, two-minute shower, pulled on jeans and sweatshirt, and set about finding something in her stores for supper.
“Get off your ass and go shopping, idiot.” Pushing cans around in her cabinets, she found little appeal in baked beans, hash, Spam, or any of the other “emergency” staples she maintained on board. Vegetables, meat, and fish were gone from the food cooler, too, not to mention the paltry offerings of the drinks cooler. Only a single can of beer remained among a dozen bottles of water, and the lone bottle of zinfandel promised to nail her head to the pillow come morning. Again, she considered adding a real refrigerator to the galley—and stocking it.
“What a sorry state this is.” She straightened with effort and returned topside. “What a sorry state I’m in.” Begrudgingly, she headed off the dock for the thrilling adventure that was supermarket shopping.
*****
Maggie set the iron aside and trudged back up the stepstool to hang the fourteenth set of curtains. The arches of her feet complained about the narrow metal steps, her back ached from ironing, and her shoulders insisted on keeping track of how long she’d been at this. “Oh, how ambitious I was at seven thirty.” It was almost noon, and she had one more to go before she could tackle the fifteen naked windows on the second floor. She’d spent all of yesterday hanging rods in preparation for this.
Retta raced into the common room from the kitchen, knowing, as dogs do, that Bud was arriving, and stood not so patiently to receive attention from her new friend. Her tail whacked rhythmically against a coffee table while Bud ruffled both her ears.
“You’re getting there,” he said to Maggie, looking around at the warehouse-like assembly of furniture. “Ca
n’t decide what goes where, huh?”
“The least of my problems,” she said, climbing down and checking the fall of the fabric along the window frame. “One more of these and I’m done down here.” She puffed a stray wave of hair off her forehead and headed back to the ironing board. “How’s the painting coming?”
“Just touch-up by tomorrow. That’s all.”
She stopped, curtains in hand, and turned to face him. “Done done?”
“We need just a few more hours, yup. Took a week longer than I figured, what with the rain the last two days, but I think we can call it quits tomorrow.”
“Wow. The ship’s set to sail.”
He grinned. “You could say. If you have anything else to add to your fix-it list, now’s the time. Tomorrow, we’ll be leaving you to all your fun ’n games here.”
“Oh, thanks a lot. I only have two dozen recipes to try out, six beds left to assemble, a ton of towels to wash, ten bath—”
“You’re still dead set on not hiring help?”
“I’m doing things bits at a time,” she said, grinning back at him. “My system of priorities is based on which one of my body parts will wear out first.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can’t imagine it’ll be this insane on a regular basis. I mean, once I have things in place, I can establish a routine.”
“And you’re cooking, too?”
“Just light stuff, cookies, muffins, things I can offer buffet style, along with coffees and teas.”
“Well, don’t throw out that woman’s name I gave you. You didn’t, did you?”
“No. It’s pinned to the bulletin board in the office.”
“Good, ’cause she’s a wiz at this stuff. She worked the Coffin House for years, till her mom took sick and she had to quit to take her in. And she can cook.”
“Yes, Bud. I remember what you said.” She turned at the sound of her cell phone ringing on her desk. “Excuse me,” she said, hurrying off. “Duty calls.”
“Okay. Was just checking in. I’ll be back later.”
Retta watched through the screen door as he left, and then headed for her bed in Maggie’s office.
“Well, we’re delighted to have you both. I’ll email you all the particulars right now.” Maggie typed the address onto her laptop screen. “That would be fine, yes. Hopefully, we’ll see you that Friday afternoon. Feel free to call any time.”
She hung up and spun in her chair to Retta. “Number six, little girl. Maybe we’ll hit one hundred percent for the holiday after all.” She gave Retta’s head a quick kiss. “Gotta get back to work.”
“Ms. Jordan? Hello?”
The foreign voice from the common room set Retta back into motion, barking her way to the visitor.
“Good afternoon,” Maggie said, pushing rebellious hair off her face. A slim, freckle-faced young woman fondled the strap of her shoulder bag nervously as Retta quieted before her.
“Hi there, sweetie.” She offered her palm for Retta to sniff. “Such a good watchdog you are.”
“Hello,” Maggie tried again and commanded Retta to sit, which she did. “I’m Maggie Jordan. Can I help you?”
A long Irish-red ponytail swung off the young woman’s shoulder when she reached forward. “My name is Laura Kelliher,” she offered as they shook hands. “I’m pleased to meet you. I believe you know my mother, Irene, at the post office?”
“Oh, yes! Lovely lady, always so helpful.”
“I’m sorry to just pop in. You’re obviously very busy and I won’t take but a moment of your time, but Mom more or less pointed me in your direction, suggested I inquire about any summer work you may have. I’m home now until Labor Day, when I have to go back to Michigan for school. I’m a sophomore.”
Maggie waved her in. “I have to be honest. I hadn’t planned on hiring for a while, if I could save the money. Just starting out, you know.” She pulled two wicker wingback chairs together. “You’re welcome to have a seat. Sorry, the place is so disorganized still.”
“Oh, believe me, I understand about saving.” Laura unbuttoned her jacket and straightened her skirt as she sat, then swung her bag onto her lap. She glanced around at the many disarrayed pieces of furniture and bit back a grin. “Pardon me for saying so, but it looks like you could use a hand.”
Maggie laughed. “It shows, huh? Well, you’re right. We open in two weeks. Not a full house yet, but getting there, and I’m chugging along. I should have the place ready in time.” Laura’s disappointment showed in her large green eyes, so Maggie pressed on. She liked this young lady and wished Tuck’r Inn could afford her.
“What’s your major? University of Michigan?”
“Yup. Political science—right now, anyway. My parents aren’t too thrilled that I’ve been thinking about switching to theater arts.”
“Well.” Maggie sat back and studied her closer. “Now that’s a big change. Do you have a passion for the theater?”
“Oh, I do!” Her eyes flashed. “I’ve done community theater ever since I was a little girl in Connecticut, and then here with the Theatre Workshop, once we moved.”
“No theater opportunities at Michigan?”
“I could only get a lighting assistant job for the production of Nixon last winter. Being a freshman, I didn’t stand a chance of landing a part, but I still loved being around it all. I should have gone that route from the start.” She shrugged. “My dad went to Michigan, too, so…He wanted more for me than what Emerson offered.”
“Emerson’s a terrific school and considerably closer. Boston versus Ann Arbor?”
“Exactly what I told him.” Laura inched to the edge of her seat. Her enthusiasm was heartwarming. “But Dad was a state representative when we lived in Connecticut, and he has high hopes for me. Plus, they’re paying my way.”
“Sometimes paying off a bank loan is easier than paying back your parents.”
“Don’t you know it. Are you from around here?”
“Philly, but Albany, originally.”
“I bet this is a dream come true for you.”
Laura gazed at her, looking a bit awestruck, and Maggie figured plenty of dreams were living in that eager young mind. She found herself doing rapid calculations, crunching budget numbers, wondering if she could, indeed, afford to take on an employee.
“I know you need to move quickly on your job search—actually, it’s kind of late to be looking—but I’m afraid I can’t swing hiring anyone just yet. I would like to keep you in mind, though.”
“I’ve got three summers of housekeeping experience. Did I say that already? And I’ve got good people skills, plus I’m in good shape. I swim every day.”
“I’m just not at the hiring stage yet, Laura. I’m sorry. As business picks up, though, things could change.”
A week later, five days before her inaugural weekend, Maggie awoke at the keyboard with Retta’s muzzle on her thigh, questioning eyes asking for breakfast and a bathroom run.
Maggie blinked at the screen, which awakened far brighter than she had. She stared at the spreadsheet, and the anxiety that had plagued her into the wee hours returned. Orders had yet to come in for too many problem items: the largest suite’s nightstand (arrived broken); front staircase carpet runners (too big); fridge icemaker tray (arrived broken); freezer bottom shelf (missing); the list went on.
Minor things, like the nonstick mini muffin tins, the four lampshades, and a color-coordinated throw for one of the small rooms, she knew she could hunt down at island shops when she had time, but those others, well, she had to get back on the phone, pronto. And then get to Straight Wharf and Bud’s woodcarver for the little plaques she’d ordered to adorn each guestroom door. Hopefully, the painting of the celestial names she’d chosen had been done and she could hang them right away. Meanwhile, the dozens of plants delivered four days ago still needed to go in the ground and into window boxes. Her fading daffodils reminded her that someone else would be responsible for entering Tuck’r in the annual festiva
l next spring.
She drifted through her bedroom and across the kitchen. “You go check the yard for invading squirrels, Retta, and I’ll get us breakfast.” She opened the mudroom door to the chilly, overcast morning. “No digging!” she commanded as Retta ran out, and she sagged against the door frame. “Another night like last night, and I’ll probably wake up out here.”
Eager for a hot shower, she preheated the oven for her experimental recipes, started coffee, and was scooping dog food into Retta’s bowl when her cell sounded from her nightstand. She dashed off, weighing the merits of buying a wireless headset. How many days left till Friday? On the spot, she surrendered to the urge to call Laura Kelliher.
Chapter Four
Ellis waved the last truck off the Eagle and stood alongside as the driver crept into the line leaving Steamship Wharf. A temperamental northeast wind blustered against her jacket and threatened her cap as the driver spoke through his partially opened window. She really wasn’t in the mood for his idle conversation, but her role supervising debarking traffic held her captive.
“The three-day weekend is supposed to be decent,” he said. “I don’t know about you, Ellis, but I have my doubts.” He inched the truck forward in line, and Ellis stepped along with it to be polite.
“Weather’s picked up since the morning run.” She scanned the harbor and changed her footing to counter a gust of wind. “The heavy chop out there says something’s brewing.” And I’d rather ride it out at home.
He nodded as he stared through his windshield. “Sometimes I wonder what the TV weather guys look at, y’know? I’m glad this is my last run of the day. You doing the eight o’clock trip tonight, too, because of the holiday?”
Ellis nodded, not particularly thrilled her workday now extended to eleven at night with the holiday and summer schedules. “Yeah, the eight o’clock runs start tonight.”
“Hope the weather holds for you. Hell, wouldn’t have had to make this trip if I didn’t have a few rush deliveries. Most of this load could’ve waited till next week.”