Closer now, Lizzy could see on his face the kind of deep fatigue that could turn a tan chalky. His eyes, usually the color of a morning sky, were rimmed with red.
“How about a cup of coffee?”
“Sounds great.”
“Want a pastry with that? They’re right fresh,” Nancy said, lifting the glass off the tiered stand with a flourish. “Made them myself.”
“Uh, thank you, ma’am. Sure, why not?”
Lizzy could tell he really didn’t want one but was being polite. What southern gentleman could refuse to taste a woman’s home-baked goods? Nancy smiled smugly and picked out an iced doughnut, set it on a plate, and carried it to Ben, offering a napkin beside it. She stepped back, crossing her arms. Lizzy knew she would roost there and watch him eat the whole thing.
“I’ll get us some coffee,” she said, tugging at Nancy’s arm as she retreated behind the counter. Lizzy pulled two mugs from the shelf and filled them with hot coffee. “I’m going to take my break now, okay?”
“Sure, honey. It’s deader than a church on a Friday night. I’ll be in back making my crab cakes.” Before she left she gave Lizzy a hooded glance warning her that, for all his buying her doughnut, Ben Mitchell was still from the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources and wasn’t one of “them.”
Lizzy carried the coffee to the table by the windows. She slid into a chair opposite Ben. With two fingers, she pushed the heavy white mug toward him.
She watched his long fingers encircle the mug. Ben had delicate hands for a man. His job as a conservation officer kept him outdoors, but his hands, though deeply tanned and chapped, were unscarred and his fingernails clean. Lizzy always noted a man’s hands. Her eyes followed the mug as he lifted it past the insignia of the DNR with its images of a shrimp boat, a deer head, and a fish.
She’d met Ben years earlier when he’d come to McClellanville to make sure the local trawlers were using the newly mandated turtle excluder devices on their nets. Back then she was newly divorced and cast her fiery anger over all shrimpers and the industry collectively. The captains were steaming mad back then, at war with wildlife officials and claiming that TEDs, with their escape openings to prevent sea turtles from drowning in the nets, cost them their catch and would drive them out of business. At that point in her life, any attribute a man had that bore no relation to shrimping was appealing.
Right from the start, she knew Ben was different. Soft-spoken and well-mannered, he seemed more at home alone on his boat or in a library than confronting a dock full of angry, fist-clenching men. When he climbed aboard the Miss Carolina that first time, he’d looked like a kid in his brand-new uniform next to her towering, broad-shouldered father. Bud knew he was an intimidating figure and never hesitated to use that clout. Derogatory remarks from local shrimpers were spat out with chewing tobacco, slurs like “turtle kisser” and “tree hugger.”
She’d learned a lot about the power of a calm head and a respectful tone that morning. Ben had stood his ground with her father, something not many men could do. Years later, her daddy would say Ben Mitchell was as thin and strong as tensile steel. Once her father started using the TEDs in his nets, the other shrimpers along Jeremy Creek followed suit.
Of course, the name Ben Mitchell was mud at their dinner table for years afterward. Whenever it was spoken, it was in heat and accompanied by words that had her mother sputtering, “Your language, Bud! I’ll not have such words at my table.”
In the ensuing years, however, both the TEDs and Ben Mitchell were found to provide a useful service, and though her father would never admit it, Ben had earned a grudging respect in McClellanville. Ben covered the coast from Sullivan’s Island to Winyah Bay, and he spent a lot of time on the surrounding creeks, shallow flats, and docks. It was natural that he and Lizzy would cross paths. Last year when Ben had asked Lizzy out on a date, her first thought was how it would make her daddy mad. After all, no matter how well Ben got along with the locals, he was still DNR. To her surprise and disappointment, all her father mustered when he found out was raised brows and a weary shake of his head. Over the past six months, however, she’d found she liked Ben Mitchell—liked his gentleness, his intelligence, his honesty. A lot more than she’d ever imagined.
“You look tired,” Lizzy said to Ben. He sat leaning heavily on his elbows. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned arms covered with bug bites. “Like you’ve slept in your clothes.”
Ben released a weary chuckle. “As a matter of fact, I did. What a night.”
“What happened?”
“I had to stake out some guys trying to sell shrimp they caught over bait.”
“Hope you got them,” she replied, indignant. “My daddy always told me that he didn’t begrudge a fellah going out and catching his limit to fill his freezer. But he says some folks get greedy and go out every night, fixing to sell it. That kind of bait shrimper is no better than a thief, as far as I’m concerned.”
No professional shrimper liked shrimp baiting, open to anyone who had a boat, a cast net, and a twenty-five-dollar license. But it was supposed to be strictly recreational. A person could catch forty-eight quarts of shrimp—with heads on—per trip for personal use, no more. To sell shrimp caught over bait was a crime, and one that shrimpers took personally.
“Yep, they’re in the wrong, and that makes it my job to catch them. I had a tip about these two guys. I dogged them for forty-eight of the longest hours of my life.” He took a loud sip of his coffee, then chuckled as he put the mug down. “They were something else. It was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, but with the light at the front of their boat, I could see them clear as day casting along their line of poles. So I followed them from the boat landing all the way over to their garage. I could see the coolers sitting there. I had the shrimp in my view the whole time.” He lazily reached over to scratch the bites on his arm.
“So what did you do?”
“I hid in the bushes a ways off and waited all night. Mosquitoes the size of bats near drained the blood from me. It was boring as hell. Finally, around dawn, a truck pulls up with two more guys, all rested and clean-shaven. What I wouldn’t have given for a cup of coffee and a shower at that point! I was dirty, thirsty, hungry, and blood-drained and I wanted to bust them all right then and there, but I waited till money passed hands. Then I stepped out and wrote up tickets.”
Lizzy smiled wickedly. “I’ll bet you surprised them.”
His lips twitched. “Yes, I did.”
There was a quiet moment between them, long enough for her to wonder what it would be like to have the kind of passion that kept you sitting like a human pincushion, prey to hordes of mosquitoes in bushes all night. It was his dedication that she found attractive in Ben.
Ben’s job was steady, but he’d never get rich at it. When she’d asked him about that, he said being able to work outdoors at a job he loved made him the richest man in the world. She guessed it was her lot in life to be attracted to poor men who loved their jobs.
“Let me freshen your coffee.”
He put his hand on her arm to restrain her. “I’m fine. I’ve got a thermos in the truck.”
“You hungry, then? I could make you up some eggs and grits. Or do you want lunch? Nancy is making crab cakes.”
“I’m too tired to eat. Thanks just the same.”
She looked at him, so thin his bones protruded, and thought how he needed to sit down and eat three square meals a day for the next six months. “What’s the matter? You seem kind of down.”
He looked across the room, the angles of his face sharp in the shadow. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said wearily, scratching his neck. “Sometimes I just feel…”
“Feel what?”
“It’s all so…futile,” he said, his hand falling to the table. “I mean, I spend forty-eight hours—all frigging night—chasing down four guys. Not necessarily bad men, just guys doing something bad, trying to make some cash, trying to get by.”
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“You did the right thing. They’re poachers.”
“Sure. But it’s not why I went into this. To confiscate some nets and a few measly shrimp? Write a few tickets? You ought to come with me sometime when I’m flying over the trawlers. I see mud wakes following the boats that crisscross nearly the whole coast.”
“Ben, you know the shrimp live in the muddy bottoms.” Lizzy held back from adding, What do you expect them to do, just quit shrimping? She didn’t ask, because she didn’t want to hear his answer.
“To be honest, in these waters the bottom is mostly mud anyway. But in other places, like the North Atlantic, those huge deep-sea trawlers are ripping up coral and destroying entire ecosystems. Some of those reefs are over four thousand years old. Think about it. It’s in that coral that the fish we eat spawn. It’s in those ancient beds that the fry and juveniles are protected from predators. What happens when it’s destroyed? It’s not going to bounce back. When it’s gone, it’s gone. And so are the fish.” He picked up his coffee mug. “Someday, we’re all going to be mighty hungry.”
Ben sipped, then leaned back against the chair. “That’s what I’d like to stop. Or at least try.” He released a defeated chuckle. “Maybe it won’t make a rat’s ass bit of difference.”
His weariness affected her deeply, because he’d put in the hours that earned him an opinion. She’d lived in this town all of her life. She’d rarely left the county. Generations of Morrisons and Brailsfords had made their living from these waters. She’d spent the first several years of her life aboard a boat and knew the names of many local fish, birds, and plants. But it was Ben who’d helped her appreciate that the landscape that had nurtured and sustained her and her family was fragile and needed tending. He’d challenged her to see that she couldn’t just take, take, take. That she had to give back, too.
“Then why don’t you?” she asked. “You’re young. Unmarried. Free. You can pick up and go anywhere. What’s keeping you here?”
He raised his head. “I’m asking myself the same question.”
His eyes searched hers and she knew that Ben—the man, not the officer—was trawling for her answer. Her mother’s words from that morning sprang to mind—it was Cupid’s arrow, straight to the heart—and Lizzy realized with bone-deep certainty that she did not feel that pang of love for Ben. The realization saddened her.
She reached up to sweep a lock of hair from her face, breaking his gaze. “You have a calling, Ben. A passion. Not everyone has that.”
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Sell yourself short.”
“I—I wasn’t.”
He shrugged. “If you say so. But what I heard was you telling me you don’t have a passion. Am I wrong?”
This arrow struck true. She sat back. “We were talking about your goals.”
“And I’m talking about yours. What is your passion, Lizzy?”
She clamped her lips tightly and glared.
Ben spread open his hands, as though to concede the point. After a pause, he said softly, “You’re smart, you know.”
She looked at her hands, seeing in her mind’s eye the many books he’d given her to read: Matthiessen, Bartram, Carson, Pilkey. She’d held them in these hands, devouring each word. He’d been her tutor, her friend. So when he complimented her, his words fell sweet on her ears.
Lizzy looked at the clock above the cash register. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to work.” She started to rise.
“Lizzy, wait.” He seemed suddenly shy, unable to meet her gaze. “I really stopped by to see you and invite you to dinner. I have to drive over to Fort Johnson to get some paperwork finished, then crash for a while.” He glanced up, squinting. “I could come by later, say five o’clock?”
“Sure. That’d be nice.”
He rose, then leaned slightly over the table to say, “I’d like to talk more about what’s holding me back.”
Her breath held as he straightened; then he added, “You smell real nice. Lavender, right?”
Lizzy nodded with a shaky smile, then watched him walk away, waving once before he closed the door behind him. She stared at the door, hearing his words again, understanding full well their import and wondering if she could learn to love a good friend like that in time.
“Lizzy, got a minute?”
Nancy had emerged from the back room, drying her hands on a towel. It occurred to Lizzy that she’d been waiting for Ben to leave. The restaurant was empty. Lizzy groaned inwardly, expecting another lecture about how she shouldn’t be dating the “pickle guy.”
Nancy slid into Ben’s chair across from Lizzy. She narrowed her eyes and said, “Looks like things are getting tight between you and him.” The way she said him spoke volumes of her disapproval.
“We’re just friends.”
“Uh-huh. What’s that phrase you kids use now? Friends with benefits.”
Lizzy barked out a laugh, surprised Nancy would know it. “Isn’t there some phrase about harassment at work?”
“Come on, girl, I’m just worried about you. You know he’s never going to be accepted by your daddy.”
“You’re making too much out of this, really. Like I said, we’re just friends. End of story.”
Nancy picked a bit of flour from her nail and said cagily, “I thought you and Josh were friendly again.”
Lizzy puffed out a plume of air, thinking, Is my whole life up for public scrutiny? “We are.”
“He’s a good boy. He might’ve got himself into a bit of trouble before, but he was young. It’s to his credit that he cleaned up his act. I’ve seen it for myself down at the Crab Shack. Josh is there sometimes with his friends, and the most I ever seen him drink was a beer or two. He’s never rowdy. Always polite. I’m telling you, the boy has changed.” She nodded her head in affirmation. “The Truesdales are a good family.”
Lizzy fixed her smile and wondered if her mother and Nancy hadn’t plotted out this PR campaign for Josh.
“Take some advice from an old married lady.”
Lizzy sighed. Here came that old chestnut about how men might be the captains of the ship but women were the navigators.
“Even the best marriages have bad patches. All those talk shows have folks airing their dirty laundry in public—and some of it is damn stained, if you know what I mean. I’m not whispering out of house when I tell you there were days Toomer and I didn’t think we’d make it. The difference comes in whether or not you can forgive and move on. No matter if it’s his fault or yours. Because at the root of forgiveness is love. Pure and simple. You either love him or you don’t. And if you do, you make it work.”
Nancy was fiddling with the slim gold band on her ring finger. It was common knowledge that back in the day when Toomer was a shrimper, he’d fooled around with loose women up and down the Florida coast. One day Nancy had had enough, packed up, and left him. When Toomer fell from the rigging and almost died, she’d come back to his house to care for him and never left again. Toomer never went back to shrimping, and instead they’d taken over the restaurant from his parents.
At least Nancy didn’t bring up the notorious exploits of Lizzy’s grandfather, Oz Morrison, with his three mistresses and two wives. And nobody ever talked about the separation between Bud and Carolina.
“It’s our way,” Nancy added, bringing home again the point that there was a code of solidarity in the shrimping community.
Lizzy looked up at the nets that hung from the ceiling, feeling trapped in them. “I’ll try to remember that. Thank you,” she said, beginning to lift herself from her chair.
“Lizzy, honey…that’s not what I meant to talk to you about.”
Lizzy relaxed back into her seat, surprised. “Oh?”
Nancy took a deep breath and heaved a ragged sigh. “Well, Lizzy, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just speak plainly.”
Lizzy’s gaze sharpened, noticing again Nancy fiddling nervously with her ring.
“You know things have been slow. The summer crowd wasn’t what it should have been, and with the local economy…” She shrugged. “We held on as long as we could but, well, I’m afraid we have to close the restaurant.”
Lizzy sucked in her breath. “Close Graham’s? You’ve got to be joking! It’s been here forever.”
“Don’t you think we know that, honey? And don’t you think knowing that made this decision the hardest one we’ve ever made? Toomer is sick about it. We been over and over this, and there really isn’t any decision we can make except to close.”
“But…business might pick up.”
“We can’t afford to keep our doors open. It’s as simple as that.”
“Maybe someone else wants to buy it. To keep it going.”
“If you know someone who does, send them our way.” Her face softened in sadness. “Oh, Lizzy, I know this puts you out of a job, and I’m sorry. You’ve been with us for so long you’re like family to me and Toomer. I always said, if we’d of had a son, I’d of wanted him to marry you. As it is, you’re the daughter we’d like to have had. So it pains us to let you go.”
Feeling shell-shocked, Lizzy looked at her hands clenched on the table.
“Don’t look so down in the mouth. We’ll advertise to sell the place, and just maybe someone will come up and buy it and keep it going. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She wiped an imaginary spot off the table with her towel. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know from me.”
Lizzy was floundering. Her one security—her job—had just slipped out from under her. But it was more. There had been signs all over town for years that the shrimping industry was in trouble. Boats were being docked. A walk down the block showed one house for sale after another. Now it affected her, and she knew fear.
“I never thought I’d see this day.”
“Me neither, honey.”
“Everything is changing,” Lizzy said mournfully.
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