Whisper Beach

by Shelley Noble

  Suze dropped the napkin, pulled her shirt front out so she could view the front and groaned. “I do need a keeper. It’s just that my mind starts thinking about something else and I forget to pay attention to what I’m doing.”

  “What are you thinking about? And don’t tell me Joe Enthorpe unless you’re planning to wear the rest of your dinner on your head.”

  “No-o-o. Actually I was trying to find a relationship between Nabokov’s Lolita and the Wife of Bath and the misogynist writings of the fourteenth century.”

  “Say what? No wonder you didn’t notice that ketchup. I don’t even know what you’re talking about, though I did read the juicy parts of Lolita.”

  “And I love you anyway because it’s a topic that can really kill a conversation. And flirting? Doesn’t happen.”

  Van pulled her eyes from the spreading ketchup stain. “Yeah, but you could flirt, with a little practice. You used to have the boys falling all over themselves to ask you out.”

  “That was then, and, besides, I think it was because I came from a rich family.”

  “Bull. It was because you were hot. Still are except for the ketchup. You should wear more black. It covers a lot.”

  “But shows chalk.”

  “You’re something else, you know that?”

  Suze made an exaggerated frown. “How well I know it.”

  By the time they finished eating, the memory of that uncomfortable meeting with Joe was fading, and Van felt a lot better. She and Suze ordered dessert and coffee.

  Dorie hadn’t made another appearance, but Van didn’t know whether it was by design or because the restaurant had become crowded.

  “I think we better go,” Suze said, looking around. “They could use our table.” She pushed her chair back, started to stand, and exclaimed, “Oh Lord,” before sitting down again.

  “What?” Van felt panic rising and, along with it, her strawberry cheesecake. She didn’t dare turn around.

  “It’s . . . oh, you know . . .” Suze frowned.

  Van risked a glance behind her. A trio of police officers were headed their way. “Oh Lord. It’s Bud-Whosit.”

  “Albright,” Suze said. “And I think that’s Jerry Corso, isn’t it? I don’t recognize the other one.”

  “Maybe they won’t recognize us.”

  “Or maybe they will,” Suze said. “Put a smile on it.”

  The group slowed as they passed the table.

  Jerry stopped, squinted at Suze, looked at Van. His eyes widened. They went back to Suze. “Suzy? Suzy Turner?”

  “Hey, Jerry.”

  The other two turned their attention to the table. Bud half smiled at Suze then switched his gaze to Van. Van forced a smile to her lips. She’d never liked him. He was a bully in high school.

  Bud’s eyes widened, and a not very nice smile spread across his face. “Well, hell. What are you doing back here?”

  Van kept her smile, though it hurt her teeth. “Clay Daly’s funeral.”

  “You sticking around?”

  “Leaving in the morning.”

  “Huh.” Bud nudged the others away. “I’ll tell Dana I saw you. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

  Van and Suze watched the men walk to the back of the restaurant.

  “Bud certainly has perfected his bully swagger,” Suze said.

  “Is that what it was? I thought he was trying to keep his pants up.”

  Suze started to laugh. Stopped herself. “Dana? Do you think he and Dana are . . . ?”

  “Married? Going out? BFFs?” Van said. “Sounds like it. But I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy, not even on Dana.”

  “Snark. You’re not really leaving tomorrow?”

  “No, but Bud doesn’t need to know that.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Do you want him knowing where you are?”

  “Eeww.” Suze brushed crumbs off her lap. “I wonder if Bud has ever written anything?”

  “Besides a ticket?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I doubt it. Why?”

  “Because I could add him to my work on misogynist literature.”

  “Guess you don’t like him either.”

  “Never did. Still don’t. And I can’t imagine what Dana sees in him.”

  “He’s a guy, isn’t he? Dana was never very particular.”

  “Sorry, Van. I didn’t mean to bring up . . . you know.”

  “Not your fault. But do you see why I didn’t want to come to Whisper Beach? All roads lead to Dana and Joe.”

  “Well, at least it means she and Joe didn’t stay together.”

  “I don’t know what it means. Nor do I care. We’re grown-ups now. Are you ready to go?”

  As they stood up, two waiters collided on their way to the kitchen. Plates, cups, saucers, and glasses slid off their trays, and clattered on the floor.

  Everyone in the restaurant turned to gape.

  “Looks like Dorie could use some good advice about organization,” Suze said.

  “Tell me about it. At least the trays fell away from the two tables that someone placed right in front of the swinging door.”

  Dorie appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Shook her head.

  Van and Suze waved and went to pay their bill.

  Chapter 8

  DORIE STOOD AT THE FRONT WINDOW OF THE CRAB AND watched Van and Suze cross the street to Van’s car. She was a little annoyed that her plan hadn’t worked better. It was a perfect setup; boy meets girl after all these years, instant romance. The two of them had been as useless as a couple of wooden statues. They might as well have been standing in front of a cigar store.

  What was wrong with them? Besides twelve years and God knows what. But whatever it was, Joe was still single. He’d never really gotten over Van. The fact that he was thirty-three and still not married attested to that.

  She didn’t know about Van. She was successful, sophisticated. Hell, she’d gotten so polished, you would never know she was raised the way she was. Maybe she’d gotten too polished for Joe.

  Dorie snorted. Thought she could get away and people wouldn’t find out about her. Did she think that none of them knew how to use the Internet? Really, the girl needed to lighten up, loosen up, and have some fun. And not the kind that she could find at Rehoboth Beach.

  Van needed somebody she could trust, somebody who could love her and had enough good qualities that she could love him back.

  What Dorie needed here was an intervention, but besides kidnapping the two of them and holding them hostage until they saw what they were missing, she didn’t have an idea.

  “Whatcha looking at?”

  Dorie let out a yelp. “Jerry Corso, don’t you sneak up like that on an unsuspecting woman.”

  “Sorry.” Jerry grinned at her.

  “You’re no more sorry than spit. What do you need? We’re a little busier than I thought we’d be today. Got people overworked now we lost the summer staff. I’ll send someone over to take your order.”

  “Nah, I just wanted to say hi. And I just . . . Well, how long are Van and Suzy planning to stay?”

  “I don’t know about Van. She has vacation plans somewheres else. But Suze is planning to stay for a couple of months at least. Needs a quiet place to work. And I hope you didn’t call her Suzy when you saw her.”

  “Why not?”

  Dorie threw her hands open and looked at the ceiling. “She’s a college professor.”

  “So? What should I call her? Prof?”

  “Maybe you should just stay away from her until you can locate your brain. I’d start looking south and work your way up.”

  Jerry blushed. “Man, Dorie, you know how to get to a guy.”

  “If that were only true,” said Dorie, and she wandered back to the kitchen, shaking her head.

  JOE DIDN’T GO back to the marina but drove west. A thousand times in the past, he’d practiced what he would say when he saw Van again. After a while, it became if he ever saw Van again.
And then he’d just stopped thinking about it . . . for the most part.

  But now that it had actually happened, he’d been totally unprepared. Anything he might have said ten years ago, even five years ago, seemed stupid now. They’d both gotten on with their lives; they had nothing in common, and that had been obvious by the way she had reacted to seeing him. He could have been a total stranger for all the warmth she showed.

  Either she hadn’t forgiven him, or she’d forgotten all about him. He didn’t like the idea of the first, but he didn’t like the second choice even more.

  He was still beating himself up over his inept social skills when he pulled onto the two-lane road that led to the farm. He drove past the two metal posts that had once held the sign for Enthorpe Dairy but had held nothing but air for the last decade.

  Maybe it wasn’t too early to have a new sign made up. ENTHORPE VINEYARDS. But he didn’t want to jinx the project. He should get a novice crop this fall, but the vines wouldn’t start producing at full volume for at least another year. And in the meantime, he had plenty to do.

  Well, actually that wasn’t true. He should have plenty to do, but his business plan was in pretty good shape. He would need to start advertising but not for a while. The day-to-day operations would be a different thing. But for now, his father and brothers and the foreman he’d hired could oversee the work. And Joe would be back full-time in a week.

  He stopped the truck in front of the white farmhouse he’d grown up in. These days the windows and doors were kept shut because of the air-conditioning. All was quiet but for the hum of the compressor around the side of the house.

  Joe didn’t miss the heat, but he missed the sounds of the farm—the dogs, the roosters, the lowing of the cows as they were herded in to be milked, the kids playing on the swing set out back. They’d lost a thousand sounds along with the acreage.

  As he walked to the kitchen door, an old bird dog scrambled to his feet and padded over to him, tail kicking up a breeze.

  “Hey, Duffy.” Joe leaned over to scratch the dog behind his ears. As soon as Joe straightened up, the dog returned to his place in the shade and lay down again.

  Joe opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. There were pots on the stove and the kitchen was warm. He heard voices from the other room and realized they were all at dinner.

  He should have come here to eat, and then he wouldn’t have run into Van. But if he hadn’t gone to the Crab, he wouldn’t have run into her and wouldn’t have come here.

  He laughed. He was a mess.

  “Joe, why didn’t you tell us you were coming? I’ll get you a plate.” His mother was already pushing her chair back.

  “Thanks, Mom, but I already ate.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss.

  She smiled up at him. Gave his hand a squeeze.

  “Come out to check on the vines?” His father sat at the other end of the table, still robust even though he’d been retired for the last ten years.

  Joe pulled up a chair and sat at the corner of the table.

  “No, just came to see my family.”

  “River stench finally get to you?” His grandfather squinted down the table at him.

  Joe nodded. “I’m getting pretty tired of it.”

  His mother offered him the breadbasket and he automatically took a warm dinner roll. “Well, you’ll be home next week.”

  His grandfather cackled. “Too bad he gave his house to Renzo and his family.”

  Joe had heard this argument before. “Granddad. We need someone on-site who knows vineyards so you and Dad don’t have to stand out in the broiling sun digging weeds and trimming the vines.”

  “What did we send you to that expensive school for then?”

  For dairy management, Joe thought. But you sold the dairy while I was gone.

  “He just enjoys giving you a hard time,” his mother said. “He’s the first one up every morning going out to look over the grapes. Aren’t you, Dad?”

  “Just making sure Renzo ain’t taking advantage of Joe while he’s gone.”

  “Thanks, Granddad.” This was an act his grandfather loved to put on. Actually, he and Renzo had already become fast friends.

  “He can’t have his old room back,” Matt said. “I just finished painting it.”

  Joe groaned dramatically. “What god-awful color this time?”

  Matt grinned at him. “You can come see for yourself after dinner.”

  “Be warned,” Dave said. “He’s got a lava lamp.”

  “Lava lamps are back in style.” His mother handed Joe the butter and a knife.

  “Hippie nonsense,” Joe Senior said.

  Dave laughed. “Oh, Granddad, you never saw a hippie in your life.”

  “A lot you know.” He cut a look at Joe Junior.

  “No,” cried Matt. “Dad, you were a hippie?”

  “I led a double life,” Joe Junior intoned in a deep radio voice.

  Joe sat back in his chair and ate his roll, glad of the change of subject and the familiar banter. He felt better than he had the whole weekend.

  After dinner, Joe and his father walked out to the vineyards. Joe felt the same twinge of excitement he always felt when he looked over the land, only now it was grapevines instead of dairy cows.

  The rows of vines trailed green and thick along the trellises. The bunches had been thinned, and the grapes looked plump and firm. They would be ready in another four weeks or so.

  “Looks like you might have a pretty good crop this year,” his dad said.

  “I think we will. At least enough to experiment with.”

  It had been a long time to wait for the land to start paying again. But it was a price Joe was willing to pay. Because he would not, could not, let it slip away from the family.

  He and his father stood looking over the nascent fields, not talking. And if not totally in agreement over Joe’s methods of farming, they felt the perfect camaraderie that farming brought to both of them.

  “Van’s back.”

  Joe felt his father look at him, but Joe just looked ahead.

  “Ah, come back for the funeral?”

  “I guess.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “I ran into her at the Crab. I think Dorie manipulated it.”

  His father chuckled. “Sounds like something Dorie would do. How did it go?”

  “Not well.” Joe exhaled slowly. “I was stupid with surprise. She didn’t seem glad to see me. Didn’t get past ‘good to see you,’ and that was it.”

  “Maybe she was surprised, too.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, was it good to see her?”

  At first, Joe didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. A mixture of pleasure and pain, hope and despair. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Finally Joe turned to look at his father. “I don’t know.”

  His father slapped him on the back, his form of a hug. “Well, don’t wait too long to figure it out.”

  They took their time walking back to the house.

  It was dark when Joe finally left the farm. He met a steady stream of day-trippers leaving the shore for the day, but there wasn’t much traffic going in his direction.

  He’d be glad to be back on the farm near the vineyard. He was glad he could help Grandy out, but it was beginning to wear on him. He wanted to be home with the grapes.

  Grandy had actually asked him if he wanted to buy the marina. The same thing was happening to him that happened to the dairy farm. Grandy’s couldn’t compete with the big, exclusive marinas going up along the shore. Eventually he’d sell out. It was a shame, but Joe didn’t want it.

  It wasn’t too late, and Joe considered going to Mike’s for a beer, but he wasn’t really in the mood. When he came to the marina, he pulled in.

  The tide was going out. In a few hours the clam diggers would creep onto the mudflats, looking for their family’s next meal. Yeah, the river wa
s polluted, but nobody had died of river shellfish that he’d heard of. And it helped stretch out budgets that were already stretched close to snapping.

  He went inside, poured himself a glass of coastal cabernet, and took it over to his desk. Lights lined the opposite side of the river. Headlights of cars made a steady stream over the bridge in both directions. It was one of the perks of living at the marina, the constant light show out the big plateglass window.

  Nothing fancy. Just a rectangle of glass. The window air conditioner rattled away behind him. It didn’t do much toward chilling the place, but it kept the worst of the heat away.

  He sat down, dug his reading glasses out of the drawer, and opened The Principles of Vineyard Management.

  It was almost midnight before he stretched, tossed his glasses onto the open book, and went to look out the window.

  Across the water the buildings were dark, and the flow of headlights had trickled to a few. Joe yawned, stretched his arms out again, and watched the shadows of the clam diggers move along the flats beyond the marina.

  Not his job, and if the harbor patrol didn’t care, neither did he. But just as he turned from the window, he saw a sudden flurry of movement out on the flats. Grabbing buckets and shovels and whatever they could carry, the clammers headed silently for the woods. And like shadows, they slipped into the darkness of the tree-covered bank.

  Moments later, two squad cars pulled into the marina parking lot.

  The poachers must have a lookout.

  Car doors slammed. Heavy-duty flashlights were turned on, and arcs of light bounced along the riverbank. Joe wished he’d turned the lights off at the first sign of trouble, but it was too late. And he knew Bud would be out there leading the search. No way to avoid him; he might as well meet him head-on. Joe stepped out onto the porch.

  It was only a few minutes before the officers returned, their flashlights bobbing along the ground in front of them. None of them were too interested in following the culprits through the mud and brush and who could blame them.

  Vinnie Bukowski came to stand at the bottom of the steps. “Man, it stinks out here. We all think Bud has lost his marbles. He’s still out there looking for some poor sod. Shit. Here he comes, and it looks like he’s got one of them. Now we’ll have to take the guy in, and the whole damn cruiser will smell like river mud.”