by Sammie Grace
With a shake, I dragged myself back to business. I opened the door to the small cottage and looked around. It was the same as always, warm and welcoming with its shiny hardwood floors, chintz curtains, overstuffed chairs and sofa. The two bedrooms, living room, and kitchen with a table and six chairs reflected Gram’s simple lifestyle perfectly. In the kitchen was a hutch displaying Gram’s collection of locally made pottery.
A lifelong over-packer, it took me a few trips before I hauled everything out of the car and into the guest room. I wasn’t giving up hope that Gram would change her mind and come back early before I totally screwed up her livelihood.
When Gram had called, she was sketchy about her plans. She said she’d be out west and would call when she could. What had me worried was that this whole trip was so out of character for her. Mom was going to have a canary when she found out. I’d left a message on my brother, Charlie’s cell to call me when he had a chance, figuring I’d let him deal with telling Mom. In the meantime, maybe some of the people around the marina could shed some light on Gram’s recent state of mind.
At 72, my grandmother, Betty, was a beautiful lady and sharp as a tack. She was a strong, loving, fun person whom everyone couldn’t help but love. She grew up at the marina and when her parents passed away, she kept it going. She raised her only child, my mother, Eileen, by herself. My grandfather died in a car crash before Mom was born and Gram never remarried. Come to think of it, I can’t remember her ever having a boyfriend.
My stomach started to growl. No wonder, since I only stopped once on my drive up for some much-needed coffee and a potty break, I was famished. I took inventory of the kitchen and fridge and found them well stocked. I threw together a turkey and cheese sandwich with a healthy dose of chips. Gram knew her chip girl was coming and she had loaded up the cupboard with potato chips, tortilla chips, barbeque chips, and sun chips. Chips are definitely my drug of choice. I was in chip heaven. After stuffing my face and unbuttoning my shorts, I laid down on the sofa for a quick twenty-minute nap. Twenty minutes turned into six hours. By the time I woke up, it was 9:00 p.m., so I decided to call it a night and start fresh early in the morning.
The alarm went off at 4:00 a.m., and it took me a few minutes to remember where I was. It all came back in a flash and I knew I had to get moving. Gram always said life at the marina started when the day was in diapers. I threw on some clothes and put my hair up in a ponytail. Dressed and nervous, I went over to the Main Building, which housed the marina store and Gram’s office.
Gram said the two key people who would be helping me run the marina were Mo, who ran the Snack Shack, and Greg, who ran the parts and repair shop. Gram said hiring Greg was the best thing she ever did for the marina. Her parts and repair business had tripled since he arrived. He was the “go to guy” if you had boat or engine problems.
Since the store lights were on, I figured Greg had already opened up for the day. Gram said Greg would be filling in, doing his job and Gram’s, until I got there. I heard a male voice say, “Hi, you must be Meggie.” I looked around, and in the doorway to Gram’s office stood a friendly-looking bald guy, about 45 years old, wearing jeans and a Harbor Marina T-shirt.
I waved. “You’re right. You must be Greg.”
He gave me a big smile, shook my hand, and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Meggie. Your grandmother has told me all about you.”
I groaned. “Ugh, well, I hope she told you that I don’t know anything about running a marina. I’m more than a bit nervous.”
He gave me a big reassuring smile and said, “No need to worry. You’ll do just fine. If you have any questions, just ask me or Mo. Betty left you notes in the office. Everything is on the computer. Also, Betty hired a college student to help out in the store for the summer. Her name is Journey. She dresses a little funky, but she’s a nice girl and smart as a whip. She’s a nutrition major at the University of Rhode Island. She doesn’t come in until 9:00 and works until 6:00. That way, since you start early, you can take a break in the afternoon.”
“That sounds like a great plan.”
He said, “Hey, I hope you don’t mind but I hung a sign in the window. My daughters decided to go into the dog-walking business this summer so they made up a flyer to drum up some business. We live a few blocks up the road.”
“Oh, that’s fine. How old are they?”
He rolled his eyes. “Twelve and fourteen, going on thirty. They’re giving me and my wife a run for our money.”
I laughed and said, “I teach teenage girls; I can just imagine.”
Greg nodded, turned, and started walking toward the back door. Over his shoulder he said, “Well, I’m going over to the repair shop. Don’t forget; if you need anything or have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be back after Journey gets here and I’ll give you a tour around. I can introduce you to the fuel boys and anyone else we run into.”
“Thanks, Greg, I really appreciate that.”
I went into the office and read through Gram’s notes. Thoughts of Gram kept popping up in my head as I looked around the office. I wondered where she went. I wished I could’ve seen her before she left.
The office looked out into the store, so I was able to keep an eye out if someone came in. After about half an hour, the door opened and in walked my old friend Mac. He had on a pair of old gray pants and a black sweatshirt that read “I don’t give a clam.” He sported a Red Sox baseball cap and a big smile on his weathered face.
“Mac, is that you?” I shouted as I ran over to give him a big hug. He hugged me back and then stepped back to take a good look at me.
“Meggie, you’re so cute I could just put you in my pocket.”
“Oh, Mac, you always say that,” I beamed.
“Your grandmother said you’d be here for the summer. I hope you’ll take a couple hours off sometime and go clamming with me.”
I grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and said, “It’s a date.”
When I was little, my favorite thing to do was to go clamming with Mac. His full name is Alex MacTavish, but everyone calls him Mac. Mac and Gram have been friends for years. He’s kept his twenty-foot Boston Whaler at the marina for as long as I can remember. The name of his boat is My Marie after his wife who passed away twelve years ago. Mac has got to be in his late eighties now. Gram told me he was doing great and still went clamming every day, weather permitting. As kids, my brothers and I would play on the docks until they hooked up with some of the local boys and ditched me. The joke was on them though. They’d fish off the dock and just catch a couple of ugly green crabs. I, on the other hand, went clamming with Mac and came back with a bucket full of fresh clams.
Mac took off his cap, scratched his head, and said, “I was really surprised Betty took off. In all the years I’ve known her, I don’t remember her going away in the summer.”
This brought on that ill feeling I kept getting in my stomach whenever I worried about Gram.
“Do you think she’s okay?” I asked.
“She seemed fine. Maybe she just needed an adventure.”
“I hope so. This is turning out to be my adventure, since I don’t really know how to run this place.”
“You’ll do just fine, Meggie. Betty has this place so organized it practically runs itself.”
“I hope you’re right.”
At that point, three guys came walking into the store and Mac introduced them as Big Howard, Medium Howard, and Just Howard. Howard must be a popular New England name. Big Howard towered over everyone in the store. Medium Howard was next in height, and Just Howard was the smallest. I guessed he was Just Howard because he didn’t want to be called Little Howard. Men don’t like that word little associated with them in any way. After studying them a moment, I’d say they were all in their late forties or fifties. Mac said they were recreational fishermen who d
o the occasional charter. Big Howard bought some fishing line, and Just Howard bought some hooks. I wrote up their purchase slips, since they all had accounts, and they left to go fluke fishing. Fluke is summer flounder and they said the fishing had been pretty good. Gram always kept up with these reports because people were always calling the marina asking how the fishing is. I guess I’d better stay on top of what our clients are catching.
Mac said goodbye, too, and went clamming. Over the next several hours, I met a few more marina patrons. Journey walked in around 9:00. I knew at once who she was from Greg’s description. She had multi-colored hair with shades of burgundy, blond, and red all spiked out in different directions. She was very thin with a pixie face and wore an orange shirt, red pants, and black high-top sneakers. She had five piercings on her left ear, three on her right, and a piercing on her left nostril with a small diamond inserted. Greg was right when he said she dressed a little funky. Some people can pull off funky, and Journey was one of them. Despite the outfit, she was a pretty girl.
“Are you Meggie?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you, Journey,” I said, holding out my hand with a smile.
We shook hands and she said, “I don’t know if Betty told you, but this is my second summer working here, so if I can be of any help, let me know.”
“I’m sure I’ll be taking you up on the offer.”
Journey put her backpack behind the counter and said, “Betty is really cool. I hope she has a good time on her trip.”
I couldn’t help myself; I had to ask. “Did my grandmother seem okay to you before she left?”
“Yeah, she seemed fine. She was kind of mysterious about the trip though. I tried to pin her down about where she was going, but she just said out west.”
“That’s what she told me too. I’m a little worried about her.”
“Betty is a tough lady. She has all these fishermen wrapped around her little finger. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
Not wanting my concern to freak people out, I changed the subject and said, “Journey is a pretty name. Unusual.”
“Yeah, well, my parents were hippies. I guess they still are in a lot of ways. My brother’s name is Quest.”
“Wow.”
“At least we never had to worry about someone else in school having the same name as us. There were five Heathers and six Tiffanys in my grade alone.”
I laughed thinking, how true, as I had four Emmas in one of my classes last semester. I said, “I bet that was confusing.”
“It was. Well, I’ll take over out here if you want.”
“That sounds good. Greg is coming over in a little while to introduce me around. I do know a couple of people who have been around a long time, but I haven’t been here in years, so I’m sure there are a lot of new faces.”
“Oh, yeah! Lots of characters, but they’re all nice people,” she said.
Coming from Journey, I thought that was pretty funny.
I went back in the office and skimmed through some paperwork. When Greg showed up a little while later, we proceeded out to the docks. Greg refreshed my memory, pointing out the different sizes and types of boats moored to each dock. There were four docks at Harbor Marina, labeled A, B, C, and D.
A dock had twelve cabin cruisers, thirty- to forty-five-footers. Half of them never leave the dock but are used as summer homes. I met Kathy and Mike who were sitting on the deck of their cabin cruiser, the Dancing Queen.
B Dock had 12 sport-fishing boats, ranging in sizes from thirty-two to forty-five feet. Greg pointed to the right side of the dock and said, “This section is called Divorce Row. All the guys are divorced and half of them live on their boats. Things can get pretty entertaining down here.”
I giggled and said, “I can imagine. Do they live on their boats in the winter, too?”
“Just a few. Betty keeps the electricity running for them and they help her out during the winter shoveling and taking care of other small maintenance jobs that need attention.”
Greg introduced me to a fisherman named Randy on the Blood, Sweat and Beers, tied up on the left side of the dock.
C dock, the smallest, had four small sailboats and four small motor boats such as Mac’s Boston Whaler.
D dock, on the end, was the largest. In front of it was the Snack Shack with some tables outside, and next to that the Fish and Bait store, which sold bait, fresh fish, lobsters, and clams. Beyond that was where the big lobster boats dock. There are four sixty-foot and two forty-foot boats. The lobster boats were usually out every day, today being no exception.
I breathed deeply, taking in the beautiful day and the smell of the fresh salt air. As we walked around the marina, I couldn’t help but laugh at some of the boat names: Breaking Wind, Cod Father, Costa Lotta, and Atsa My Boat were some of my favorites. Boat names usually say a lot about the owners. I can’t wait to meet them.
Greg introduced me to Matt and Brian, who work the fuel dock and tend the fish and bait store. Matt’s a cute kid, tall with blond hair and big blue eyes. He’s Mo’s nephew and, from what Greg said, a good worker. Brian is really tall with long, brown, shaggy, surfer-type hair. Greg said the kid always has his head in the clouds and his iPod in his ears.
When we reached the Snack Shack, Greg and I parted ways, since I told him I already knew Mo, and he had things to do in the repair shop.
Mo was running the Shack the last time I visited, and I remembered her as a warm, funny person. I’d been looking forward to seeing her again. Mo was in her late fifties, a retired Marine Corps cook born and raised in the South. She not only cooks up good food, but juicy marina gossip. If Mo didn’t know, no one knew. She’d dated a few guys around town over the years, but when nothing jelled, she moved on to cyberspace. Gram told me she was dating up a storm on the Internet and having a ball. Some of the guys say she reminds them of a tugboat—strong, powerful, and broad in the beam.
I walked into the Snack Shack and wasn’t surprised that it looked the same, except for the new white curtains and the robin’s-egg blue walls. Mo manned the grill with her back to me. I took a seat at one of the six counter stools and glanced over at a guy a few stools over. He was looking me up and down as if I were on the menu, so I decided to take a little inventory myself. He had very dark, brown-black hair and big, chocolate-brown eyes with eyelashes that most women would die for. A little scar just below the outer edge of his left eye added to his subtle sex appeal. His skin was that great tan-olive color that Latin men have. His tight, black T-shirt accentuated his toned arms and broad shoulders. I didn’t get a chance to check out his bottom half, but if it was anything like the top, WHOA. Good thing I was off men right now because he looked like trouble.
Mo turned around and when she spotted me, her friendly blue eyes went wide and she said, “Hey, girl, welcome back.” Mo looked great. Her blond hair was cut in a short bob that complimented the shape of her round face. She looked like a chubby Doris Day.
I smiled and said, “I’m glad to be here, Mo. How are you?”
She put her hands on her hips, wiggled, and said, “Fit as a fiddle and ready for love.”
The hunk at the counter piped up and asked, “Mo, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Tony Maroni, meet Meggie Quinn, Betty’s granddaughter.”
He gave me a slow, sexy smile that showed off his perfect white teeth. “Meggie, it’s nice to meet you.”
I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I said, “Nice to meet you, too.”
Tony put his coffee cup down, gave us a dazzling smile and said, “Well, ladies, I’ve got to get back to work.” He stood and I got a look at six feet of hunk-o-rama. From head to toe, the view just got better and better. As he walked out the door, he turned around, winked at me, and said, “Meggie, I have visions.”
Mo warned, “Watch out for that one. The name of his boat is The Stallion. What’s that tell yah?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. It would be tough keepin’ that horse in the barn, if you know what I mean. Tony always has a girl on his boat and you never see the same girl twice. He’s a real Casanova. He should put a big sign on his boat, IF THE BOAT IS SWAYIN’, THE CAPTAIN’S PLAYIN.
“Well, he sure is gorgeous. I could see him on a billboard somewhere, possibly modeling Calvin Klein underwear. He’s six feet of solid muscle.”
Mo sighed and said, “Yeah. He could wear one of those things. You know. One of those banana hammocks.”
I laughed and said, “You mean a thong?”
“Yeah, but I like to call them banana hammocks.”
I couldn’t help my curiosity. “Is he a fisherman?”
“No. The only thing he fishes for is bootie. He has an auto body shop in town. The rumor around the marina is that he’s connected. Probably because he grew up on Federal Hill, a.k.a., the Rhode Island residence of the Mafia. I guess that, and the fact that his uncle is Carmine “the Cannoli” Maroni, doesn’t hurt the rumor either. Don’t get me wrong; Tony is a good guy, but nobody you’d want to play hide the salami with.”
“Don’t worry, Mo, Tony really isn’t my type. He’s too beautiful for me. I like guys with a bit more character to their looks. I guess a bit more rugged-looking. I don’t like to date anyone prettier than I am. Besides, I’ve sworn off men right now.”