by Dee Ernst
“So, Mona, I heard about you and your old man. Tough.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“And I hear you’re doing a little dating around, trying to get back on track?”
I wanted to ask where he’d heard that, then decided I really didn’t want to know. I couldn’t believe that Miranda had actually approached him about fixing me up. I preferred to think there was just a little birdie flitting around who told him. “Yes, I am dating a little. But only with men I already know.”
Bobby nodded approvingly. “Smart. Don’t want any whacko strangers when you’re just pulling out of the box. So how about Jack?”
I thought hard, then gave up. “Jack who?”
“My brother. You know Jack. He spends five, six weeks down here, helping out. He’s a teacher the rest of the year. An art teacher, but he’s not no fancy boy, just ‘cause he’s into painting and all that shit. He’s a little out there, you know? And he can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but a good guy. He’ll be here next week. What d’ya think?”
An out there pain in the ass good guy who’s not a fancy boy. What a referral. But I did know Jack. He seemed smart and funny. He also had beautifully shaped hands, thick straight hair and a very attractive smile. He always wore sunglasses and always gave me extra-crispy fries.
“Here,” I said, scribbling my phone number down on a napkin. “Have Jack call me. We’ll see.
Jack called Monday night after Brian had come by to pick up the girls. More precisely, he called as Doug and I were enjoying what we romance writers like to call a post-coital languor. I had to get off the bed, because Doug kept doing things with his tongue that made it hard for me to concentrate, but Jack and I agreed to meet for drinks that Wednesday at seven. As I hung up the phone, Doug flashed me one of his naughty grins.
“Cheating on me?”
“It’s a drink. I won’t be screwing him. In fact, I’ll probably come home and screw you.”
“This could work out well for me. Other men can wine and dine you, and I’ll get you in the sack.”
“I didn’t think it would be possible to cheapen this relationship any further, but I believe you’ve found a way.”
“It’s a gift.”
Jack and I had arranged to meet at a great little place on the bay where, if you were lucky enough, you could sail your boat up to the dock and walk up to your table. I drove, of course. Jack, apparently, flew.
He was just were he said he’d be – at the bar. He may have been there for days, because when I approached him, he had to squint at me for several seconds before recognizing me. He grinned broadly, began to slide off the bar stool, and slipped down to a heap at my feet.
Not an auspicious beginning.
But I was willing to assume the best, so I helped him to his feet, directed him to a small table overlooking the bay, and even held his chair for him while he cautiously sat himself down. I sat across from him, face carefully arranged, and said hello. He squinted again. Then looked out over the water.
“If we sit here, I may get seasick,” he said slowly.
“Seasick? But we’re not on a boat.”
He nodded at this piece of information. “That may be true, but I feel like I’m on a boat. Can we sit on the other side?”
This proved to be an exhausting exercise, because aside from navigating through several closely grouped tables, we also had to avoid getting run over by anxious waitresses carrying trays laden with food and drink. When we finally got to another table, safely away from the sight and sound of water, he squinted again, looking equally distressed.
“We’re not near the water,” I pointed out.
“I know. That’s not the problem. We’re too near the parking lot.”
The spot between my eyes started to burn. “What’s wrong with the parking lot? Do you get carsick too?”
“The fumes,” he explained. “I don’t like the fumes.”
“Do you want to go and get a table inside?” I asked.
There may have been a little something in my voice, because he looked suddenly hearty and eager to please. “No, not at all. This is fine. Drink?”
He waved his hand frantically in the air until a waitress hurried over. She was smiling at him like he was an old friend. Which, as it turned out, he was.
“Maggie, honey, how are you?”
“Oh, Jack.” She giggled. “I heard you were back.”
“Just this week, honey. Give me my usual, and whatever the lady wants.”
The lady wanted to get the hell out of Dodge, but I asked for a club soda. “I’m driving,” I said to Maggie, by way of explanation. Then I turned back to Jack.
“So, I guess you’re a regular here?”
“I live here.”
I laughed. “Really?”
“Yep. Really. In the spare room over the kitchen.”
I stopped laughing. “You live over the bar?”
“Yep. Have for years. Could stay with Bobby, of course, but he doesn’t like me smoking pot with his kids around, so it’s just easier to stay here. Maggie there? She’s the owners’ daughter. She, well, kind of looks after me when I’m here.”
“Does she now?”
Maggie returned with my club soda in what looked like a giant water goblet. Jack had something in the same sized glass. Clear, on the rocks. I stared as he took a long gulp.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Gin.”
“And what?”
He frowned. “And ice.”
“A classic,” I said.
He grinned broadly. “I find the simple things work out best for me. I don’t like a lot of stuff, you know? Stuff crushes the creative mind.”
I saw the straw and grasped at it. “Yes, Bobby says you’re an artist. Do you paint? Sculpt?”
“Right now, I’m working in what I like to call mixed media.”
“How interesting.” Here we were, having a real conversation. I felt a little proud of myself. “Is it difficult to get the supplies you need here on the island?”
He waved his hand. “Nope. That’s the thing. I’m using local material.”
I tried to be encouraging. “Such as?”
“Well, last night I found three dead jellyfish and a great piece of driftwood. As soon as everything dries out, we’ll see what develops.”
Maggie had hurried over. Probably in response to his expressive hand-wave. He looked at me. “Want to order some dinner?” he asked.
Dear God. No. “Not right now, the club soda is just great. Maybe in a few minutes.”
Jack winked at Maggie, who trotted off. He grinned at me again. “So, you’re a writer? I knew I felt a spark. All those times you’d come in for shrimp specials, I knew you and I had more in common than preferring cocktail sauce over tarter. A fellow artiste, you know?”
I swallowed club soda and nodded. “Oh, yes. Absolutely. So, where do you teach?”
He shrugged and drained the rest of his gin. I wondered why his speech wasn’t slurred. While he was managing to sit relatively upright, I noticed that his left elbow kept slipping off the table. “I’m kind of between positions right now,” he said.
“Oh?” Well, no wonder. “Are you looking for another job?”
“Well, the thing is, most schools want a drug test.”
“The nerve.”
“Yeah, like, who the hell cares what a person does on his own time, right? So, I’m going to wait things out for a bit. I haven’t told Bobby yet, but he’ll let me stay the whole summer, I’m sure. May even work through the winter. I bet this place is something in the off season.”
“I bet.” I had always imagined the whole of Long Beach Island to be something of a ghost town in the off season, but I kept my mouth shut.
“But enough about me. Heard you were getting a divorce.”
“Yes. I am.”
“That sucks. Unless it was your idea, of course.”
“No, it wasn’t my idea, and yes, it does suck. But it’s been really hard on my
daughters, so as much as I hate to cut this short, I should get home. They get a little needy.”
“Of course. Understand perfectly. Let me walk you to your car.” He stood up.
I could see my car from here. Less than two hundred yards away. The path was free of physical obstructions, not too sandy, and in a fairly straight line. How much trouble could he get in? “That would be lovely. Thanks.”
He didn’t manage to get around to pull my chair out, but he did let me go first and didn’t lean on me as we walked. He was frowning, and I assumed it had to do with his concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. We were about halfway to my car when he suddenly stopped, put a hand on the nearest car and bent over. I jumped away from him and he threw up all over where my left foot had just been. I closed my eyes and prayed for rescue. Impossibly, rescue was right behind me.
“Hey, is everybody okay here?”
I opened my eyes at the voice. It was a very nice voice – deep, strong, slightly amused. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a Viking.
I’m sure he wasn’t a real Viking, but if I had been gathering wood on some distant shore a thousand or so years ago and saw this guy row up, I’d have immediately assumed that pillaging would ensue.
He was tall, well over six feet, with what might be considered a receding hairline, or possibly just a high forehead, and red hair. His eyes were icy blue and looked like they spent a lot of time squinting into the arctic sun. He was very tan, wore white jeans and a pale blue shirt, open halfway down his chest, showing a lot of reddish chest hair and impressively rippled muscles.
“Jack and I were having a drink, but Jack had a bit of a head start, and I don’t think he’s feeling very well,” I explained.
Viking looked at Jack. “When did Jack get here, last Sunday?”
I tried not to laugh. “Probably.”
Viking shook his head. “Not to worry, Mona. I’ll get him inside.”
I stared at him. “How do you know me?” I asked. And then it clicked. “Oh, of course. Peter.”
He really was a Viking. He was Peter Gundersen.
Every year when Brian had come down, he rented a boat for all his friends from work and spent a day deep-sea fishing. He always used Peter’s boat. Two years ago, I had foolishly agreed to go with Brian, and spent the entire day watching a bunch of grown men drink like teenagers and lie about their fishing prowess. By the end of the day, Peter and I had formed the kind of friendship that happens between two total strangers who are thrown together during the course of a natural disaster, say, an earthquake, and have only each other to rely on.
Peter grabbed Jack by the shoulder and pushed him back toward the bar. I waited a few minutes next to my own car, and when Peter came out of the bar, I waved at him. He was grinning.
“Your friend Jack lives here. They knew exactly what to do.”
“Thank God somebody did. Poor guy.”
“Poor guy hell. He was soused, and they say he gets that way every night. How the hell do you know him anyway?”
I sighed. “I just know him from The Fish Shack. Bobby’s place? We were supposed to be on a date.”
Peter tilted his head as he looked at me. “So you and Brian did split up?”
I nodded. “Yes. Does the whole island know?”
Peter laughed. He had very white teeth. “Pretty much. It’s a very big small town in the summer. Everybody knows what’s going on, especially with the long-timers, like you. Never liked Brian, by the way.”
“It seems that nobody did.” I started fishing around in my purse for my keys. “Well, thanks for helping out, Peter. I’m sure Jack will appreciate it in the morning.”
“Hey, no problem. Busy Saturday?”
I jerked my head up. “Me? Busy? I don’t think so. Why?”
He shrugged. “I had a cancellation. They paid in advance, and because of the contract, they lost all their money, so I’ve got a free boat this weekend. We could do a little sailing, maybe have dinner out in the bay. What do you think?”
He met the criteria. I knew him. Not as well as I knew Doug, but much better than I had known Jack. He looked sober. And sexy. “You won’t be drinking, will you?”
He looked shocked. “I never touch the stuff on the water. Never.”
“Then I think it sounds great.”
“Okay. Meet me at the marina around three. Slip 43. The weather’s supposed to be perfect.”
“Okay. See you then.”
Another date. I had another date. Jack had proven to be a disaster, but with a guy like Peter, what could go wrong?
The next morning, I had coffee with Scott and Steve. Their kitchen was very 1955. White enamel and chrome cabinets. The table had a red Formica top and red leatherette chairs. Every time I sat down, I expected Donna Reed to serve the coffee. Steve had made oatmeal scones with dried cranberries, and I was trying to take tiny bites instead of shoving the entire thing into my mouth.
I had been telling them about my evening with Jack. They remained silent throughout, except for Scott, who kept sniggering. “And then he threw up.” I reached for a second scone. “I considered that officially to be the end of the date.”
Steve reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “I’m so sorry, Mona. But Jack is a drunk. And a total pothead. Didn’t you know that?”
I stared. “He is? No, I didn’t know that. Why would I know that?”
Scott was brushing imaginary crumbs from the table. “Everybody knows that,” he muttered.
“I didn’t. And you guys couldn’t warn me?”
Steve sighed deeply. “Everybody knows, we thought you did, too.”
“Then why would I go out with him?”
“As an act of kindness?” Scott suggested. “After all, you’re still practicing, right?”
“Maybe I am, but really, guys, you should have at least given me a heads up.” I munched some more scone. “So, what can you tell me about Peter Gundersen?”
Scott lit up. “Very Nordic.”
Steve smirked. “Yes, very.”
“Is he a drunk? A druggie?”
Steve looked thoughtful. “No, not that I’ve heard. He’s very successful with his charter business. Takes the boats down to the Florida Keys every winter, goes after shark or something.”
Scott smiled dreamily. “I love a man with a really long pole.”
I snorted. “You are disgusting. Steve, where did you get this recipe? I may live on these for the rest of my life.” I found my fingers hovering over scone number three, and had to force them back onto my lap.
“Off the Web. I’ll give it to you,” Steve said. “What does Doug think of your, um, branching out?”
I shrugged. “He seems to think he’ll save a bunch of money on wining and dining, and still score big. Which is true. After I came home last night, I felt so depressed I jumped him behind Scoops Away. Got ice cream all over my, well, everything.”
Steve squeezed my hand again. “Well, good luck with Peter.”
I sighed and looked longingly at the remaining scones. “Thanks.”
To: Mona
From: Anthony
Date: July 14
Subject: Playing catch-up
Mona – a few things that keep slipping my mind – Ben keeps asking about you. Particularly about when you’re getting a divorce, and when you’re back from the shore, and if you’ve decided to start dating. Of course, I haven’t said a thing to him about your sexual exploits, but I did tell him the divorce has been fast-tracked. Is something going on here that you’re not telling me? I know he always spent way too much time here to just be fiddling with pipes. Also, Lily wanted three more kittens I said NO. Ben can keep Lily in line, but she ignores me as much as possible. Can you tell her no more kittens? I’d hate to have you come home to a swarm. Love to my girls – Anthony
To: Aunt Lily
From: Mona
Date: July 14
Subject: Kittens
Dear Aunt Lily. The girls
say hello. The weather here is fine. Anthony says you want to get more kittens. Please don’t do that. I’m begging you. I think that the three cats we have now are more than enough. When you decide to get your own place again, of course it won’t matter, but I don’t want any more pets in my house. Please. I mean it. I’ve asked Anthony to keep an eye on things. I know that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, but I’d feel so much better knowing that someone is keeping tabs on things, just in case of an emergency. So please be nice to Anthony if he stops by the house to say hello. He’s doing it as a favor to me. And no more cats. At all. Thank you. Love, Mona
To: Anthony
From: Mona
Date: July 15
Subject: Aunt Lily
Dear Anthony - If you want a tremendous raise, just do the paperwork yourself, but can you please look in on Aunt Lily? I know it’s asking a lot, but I told her you’d be doing it as a favor to me, and asked her to be nice. I also told her no more cats. I was very clear on that point. As for Ben, you’re being silly. Ben, besides from being the best-looking plumber in the world, is also one of the nicest people period. But he has no interest in me other than as an inexhaustible source of work. I’m sure his main concern as to my marital status is whether or not I’ll be able to afford him if I’m my sole source of income. Talk to you soon, Mona
To: Mona
From: Anthony
Date: July 15
Subject: Lily
I plan on buying a small island off Antigua with the raise I just gave myself. I stopped in with perfectly good tuna sandwiches and iced tea to have lunch with Lily, and she hustled me right out of the house to go to a class at the YMCA. Now, I don’t want to alarm you too much, but when she first arrived here back in April, she had no objections to having lunch with me. In fact, a few times it was her own idea. Now she treats me like an IRS investigator. I don’t know if she resents the fact that I am now the designated babysitter, or she’s just becoming paranoid and delusional. Ben says she treats him just fine, but, well, that’s Ben. Who has shown up wearing shorts a few times and I almost had a heart attack. Who still asks for you all the time. I’m telling you, he’s got an eye on you, babycakes. Play your cards right and you’ll be sharing your new Jacuzzi tub with the best legs in New Jersey. In the mean time, have fun with your fishing captain. Love you – Anthony