Dark Beach

by Ash, Lauren

  “Fresh fish, it is,” she told her daughter once they got inside.

  “Fish, yuck.” Kip kicked her legs back and forth in the grocery cart.

  “I know. But they’re good for you. How about some fish crackers? I’ll get you some of those, if you like.”

  “Yes.” Kip put out her hand.

  “I need to buy them first, honey.”

  “Fish, yum.”

  The fish counter was all the way in the back and was small but packed. She reviewed the selection, assessing their shapes and sizes.

  “The sockeye is good.” A male voice rumbled from behind her, and she turned to face it. “But so is the king.” The stranger gave her a warm, inviting grin. “Sorry, let me introduce myself. I’m Kurt.” He put out a hand. “I bring a lot of the fish in to market. Just brought a load in; it’s in the back. I can ask Chop to bring you out one fresh.”

  “Chop?”

  “Chop—the butcher.” Kurt moved behind the counter. At home there, he leaned over, and winked at her.

  Jenny couldn’t help but smile, even if she tried to suppress it. He wasn’t particularly good-looking: tall, sturdy, middle-aged, hair still more brown than grey, with sun-weathered skin, and friendly blue eyes. He was dressed in old jeans and red flannel.

  “Whatever you suggest. I’m making dinner for some guests, so I need to impress.”

  “Sure thing.” Kurt disappeared and came back a few moments later with Chop, a tall Asian fellow.

  “King Salmon for the pretty lady,” Chop said, showing her a big pink fillet.

  “Looks good.” Jenny nodded her approval and Chop wrapped it up in brown paper and tossed it to her over the counter.

  “Whoa.” Jenny caught it on reflex.

  “She caught it.” Kurt slapped Chop on the back and shook his head. “And here I thought she was just a city girl.”

  “How’d you know?” Jenny smiled, and waved the package at them.

  “I know this town.” Kurt chuckled.

  “He does. This guy here—” Chop started.

  “You guys are too much for me,” Jenny interrupted with good humor as she added the fish to her cart and pushed off.

  “Wait, wait…” Kurt caught up. “That’s just Chop. He thinks this place is Pike’s Place, tosses fish to everyone.”

  “I get it. It just surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting to literally ‘catch’ my dinner.”

  “Come out on my boat with me,” Kurt said. “I’ll show you how it’s really done.”

  Jenny stopped in front of the soup aisle. “Are you kidding?”

  “No. Come out some evening. You’re so…” He squinted at her.

  “So what?”

  “So...”

  She blushed, unable to maintain eye contact. “I don’t know you, and I’m married.” She gestured towards Kip.

  Kurt grinned at the child, waved back at her, and then said, “Where’s your husband?”

  She continued over to the vegetables, picking up some potatoes and then some asparagus.

  “Not here.”

  “I can see that.” Kurt followed her; Jenny didn’t know why she let him.

  “He had to leave. This was our vacation, but he had to leave for work. Now, please. I don’t intend on going out with you on your boat. I’ve got my veggies and my king, and now I’m leaving.”

  “If you change your mind, I’m at Kurt’s Tackle in town. Come by anytime. Most of the time I’m fishing, but you can leave me a note, or wait.”

  “No, thank you, Kurt. Goodbye.” She hurried to the checkout.

  “I’ll see you, then,” he called, waving after her.

  Kip waved back at him. Jenny just frowned.

  The young checker overheard and giggled. “I see Kurt has put the number on you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve never seen him do that before.” The girl scanned another item.

  Jenny thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in the girl’s voice. “I don’t believe you. He probably does that to every woman who walks in here.”

  “I wouldn’t say every,” the girl said, scanning the last item. She looked up, directly at Jenny’s eyes, assessing her. “He’s a man’s man, is Kurt. Mostly doesn’t chat with the ladies no more,” the girl said and rang up the groceries.

  “I think you two are in cahoots.” Jenny handed over her money. “You have a good one.”

  “Good night.”

  “Fish?” Kip asked as Jenny buckled her in.

  “Oh, honey. I forgot your fish. We can’t go back in there—tomorrow.”

  Kip frowned.

  “We’re going home now.” For a beach getaway, I’m not getting away anywhere. This place is swarming with locals, she thought.

  * * *

  “No bedbugs. Check.” Ron flopped the mattress back down.

  It was a necessary habit, although he still itched in the night whenever he traveled. A previous run-in with the critters had left him covered in red, scabby welts and had resulted in a middle-of-the-night checkout, with nothing but a “sorry, we didn’t know” bullshit response.

  He pulled open the squeaky drawer of the nightstand and removed a pair of neatly folded jeans and a blue T-shirt, also folded precisely, from his suitcase. They smell like Jenny, he thought—that fabric softener scent he always associated with her before she began to smell faintly of antiseptic and disease, of death even. I shouldn’t have left her, he thought. Shaking his head, he remembered the sea air on the coast, the sunshine. She’ll be fine, he told himself, not really believing it.

  The television was on, blaring in the background. It was little company—some football game he was too distracted to truly focus on.

  He rifled through the suitcase again, discovering he had forgotten his slacks. What do I need? It’s a disaster, after all. Jeans.

  Settling on jeans, he pulled on old pair, along with a heavy black jacket.

  He dialed a number on his cell. “I’m here. On my way.”

  A twenty-minute drive later, he arrived at a security checkpoint of San Diego Military Base. Fluorescent yellow barricades. Marines with M-16’s. Barbed wire. A stern gate officer waiting to check people through. He felt his stomach tighten. There was no line, so Ron pulled up next to the officer.

  “ID, sir.”

  Ron handed over his driver’s license. “I don’t have my pass. I’ve been called down for the emergency.”

  “You need your pass, sir,” the officer said dryly.

  “I’ve been called for the disaster! It’s an emergency. Can you please check or call someone?”

  “Sir, please pull over to the right.”

  Ron parked the white rental car and waited, watching the officer at the gate, who was now on the radio. There was a tap on the window—another marine. “Sir, please step out of the vehicle.”

  A team of men and dogs began to search his car. Ron received a full pat down.

  “Get back in the vehicle now, sir.”

  The gate officer called over to him, “You will have to go the pass and ID office, back down that way on the right. You may turn around, sir.”

  “Fine.” Ron remained calm as he filed paperwork, provided fingerprints, and collected his pass from the office.

  The gate officer ignored him as he drove back in.

  He wound down the window. “Where do I go?”

  “Straight ahead.”

  The base seemed very quiet, considering the report Ron had received—that was, until he got closer to the water. An eddy of people—the odd firefighter, marines in camouflage, and plenty of other random workers—swirled around the docks. He parked and was escorted down to the scene in a white shuttle van. Venturing out into the whirl of workers, he strode toward the dry dock.

  “Excuse me.” He stopped a marine who trotted by, weapon in hand. “Do you know where I can find the mechanical foreman?”

  The marine pointed. “Up there, sir.”

  Ron scanned the throng ahead, noticing a clu
ster of three men in white hard hats and fluorescent orange vests. “Right, thanks.”

  All of the men looked very serious, pointing this way and that. A pronounced Kentucky drawl floated down from above. That’s my man, Ron thought, although they had never met in person.

  “You must be Carl. I’m Ron.” He extended his hand. Ron had pictured him taller for some reason.

  “’Bout time you arrived.” Carl gave his hand a firm shake.

  “How bad is it?” Ron asked. No small talk; there was no time.

  “One dead, two seriously injured, one minor injury. We have a dead sub in the water that needs to get out ASAP. The folks on this job are a bunch of carpenters.” Carl pointed to two lines of men on the primary and secondary hose team, all wearing full battle dress and self-contained breathing apparatuses. Ron knew this type of comment was normal for Carl.

  “What happened?”

  “An explosion in dry dock one, cause unknown. We were refitting a World War I destroyer. All Ah know is somethin’ blew, and when it did, it lit up a pile of five-inch gun shells. The debris then lit most everything else. A young welder down there died instantly. These boats aren’t labeled, not up to OSHA standards. Two men on a scissor lift got badly burned and are in critical condition. Some other workers have minor injuries.” Carl ran his hands over his face. “We managed to shut down all major systems, even with the serious damage, but that meant shutting down the whole utility, which also services the sub. We’re in hot water. This sub has got to go out—some emergency in the gulf. She’s mostly serviced. Ah’ve had them workin’ as quick as they can to clean up the mess, but it’s everywhere. The sub’s in dry dock two. The doors are stuck. They caught fire in the explosion.”

  “Who do you have in?”

  “Multiple crews, machinists, welders, riggers—you name it, we have it.” Carl pointed energetically.

  “Well, just get me down there and I’ll take a look at those doors. I need plans, and a few men.”

  ***

  “Look at that beauty. What a whopper.” John nodded toward the fillet of King Salmon.

  “Do you like a sweet glaze? I’m thinking butter and brown sugar,” Jenny said.

  “We’re easy,” John answered.

  “I’m not easy, but yes, that sounds lovely.” Mrs. Coggington smiled, a little bit too wide, at John. They seemed to be getting on well—a bit too well, Jenny noticed. She glanced at their hands; neither of them wore wedding rings.

  “So, where’s Mr. Coggington?” Jenny couldn’t help herself.

  “Dead. But I was a missus for forty-seven years and I like being a missus now. Anyway, I guess you can call me Molly, since you have invited me to dinner. So very nice of you. I’ve been on microwaved macaroni for weeks now. My fingers ache with the arthritis, you see. It started about ten years ago, and it will not let up. The doctor gave me medication, but it just doesn’t work very well.”

  “I have arthritis, too,” John added, splaying the fingers of his right hand and showing her.

  “It’s quite a bother, especially when the barometer drops.” Molly sympathized. “I can tell when it’s going to rain, which is basically all the time.”

  “This summer has been worse than others. It’s that La Niña business.” John shook his head. “Seems as though it’s permanent. The weather used to be much better.”

  Jenny nodded as she put the fish in the oven. “Should only be about half an hour, I think. Wine?”

  “Oh no, not with my heart medication. Well, maybe just a taste,” said Molly. She took a seat at the dining table, next to John.

  “Just a taste for me as well.” John moved his chair over a little to let Molly in.

  Jenny poured them each a half-glass of Chardonnay and lit a new white candle on the windowsill. It would be just the three of them; Kip had already eaten her usual fare—chicken nuggets—and been put to bed.

  “So tell me a story about Gerry.” Jenny joined them at the table.

  “I didn’t know her. I only saw her in passing, in town,” John said quickly.

  Molly took her cue. “What kind of story do you want? I have many.”

  “Anything. Something interesting. What was she like ... before?”

  “She was quiet, kept to herself most of them time. She liked the beach, and she loved seashells—had quite the collection.”

  “I’ve seen them, throughout the house,” Jenny said. “They’re all so beautiful—all colors, even some shark teeth. I didn’t know those washed up on the shore. I wonder where she got them?”

  “No idea,” said Molly, gripping her wineglass to still the permanent shaking of her hands.

  “They wash up on the shore all the time. You just have to look for them,” said John. He took a sip of wine. “I don’t collect them myself, but many do.”

  “She was quiet,” Molly repeated.

  “Oh, I know you’ve got more than that.” Molly was holding out on her, Jenny knew it. “What’s with the fisherman saying up front?”

  Molly shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come on! There’s got to be something more there.”

  Molly glared at her and raised her eyebrows at John, as if she didn’t want to say in front of him. “I think someone gave that to her. I’m not sure.”

  “I see,” said Jenny, relishing the secret female understanding that passed between them—an understanding that was universal, no matter the age or background, whenever women were in the presence of men. “Did you know her when Ron lived here as a boy?”

  “Yes, I did. But we were not close back then. I knew her from our reading group. We met once a month to discuss the latest book. Gerry didn’t say much in the group either. Most of the woman thought she had a bit of an air about her—the way she carried herself. She was always neat as a pin, not a hair out of place.”

  “She’s in a home now?” John asked.

  “Yes. But, the poor soul, I don’t think she really knows where she is most of the time. Every once in a while I’ll talk to her and she’ll answer as if nothing were wrong, as if the illness had not touched her at all, but that is a rare occasion, that one. Some grow old gracefully, and some don’t. I almost envy her sometimes. She doesn’t know what’s going on. I, on the other hand, feel this...” She put down the wineglass and showed John her cramped, arthritic hand.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad.” John patted Molly’s bony shoulder.

  She looked right at him. “Yes, it’s much better with company, isn’t it?”

  “God, yes,” said Jenny. “Everything is better with company. Come on, you two, dinner is ready.”

  * * *

  They chatted late into the night, mostly about comforting, generic topics, until John thanked Jenny for dinner and excused himself.

  “Before you go, I wanted to ask if I could borrow one of your lock picks? I have a box I need to get into,” Jenny said as she saw him to the door.

  “Sure.” He opened the leather pouch and gestured to a pick. “This one is good for most locks. It shouldn’t be a bother. Just jimmy it until it pops loose. Call me if you need any help.”

  “I think I can handle it. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight. Thanks for the wonderful meal.”

  As soon as she shut the door behind him, Jenny turned straight back to Molly. “Now, come on tell me.” She gestured toward the plaque on the wall. “The fisherman?” She was dying to know. “Let’s get comfortable,” she suggested, helping the elderly lady into the living room and maneuvering her toward the sofa. “Do you need anything? Tea? Coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine. I just took a painkiller. Everything will be rosy in a jiffy. You know, I don’t think I have been up this late in years. I love it, but I’m feeling it.”

  “I’m up late every night. Insomnia,” Jenny explained.

  “Ah yes! I’ve had that occasionally over the years. It comes and goes, like the seasons. You must be in a bother about something.”

  “Many somethings, actually—too many fo
r me to think about. I just lie there with my eyes closed and random thoughts plague me until I pass out from exhaustion. By then I’ve usually tossed for hours.” She shrugged. “I’m used to it by now.”

  “Can’t you take something?”

  Jenny immediately rubbed her belly. “No, I can’t. I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh, congratulations, my dear.” Wrinkles spread across Molly’s face as she smiled.

  “Thank you.” Jenny suddenly felt a rush of pleasure.

  “It’s such a joyous time. I loved those days.” The old lady’s tone grew wistful. “Really, you must let me baby-sit Kip for you. I miss being around little ones. They say it keeps you young. Are you feeling well?” Mrs. Coggington peered down at Jenny’s stomach. “You’re still very thin.”

  “I’m feeling better about it now that the nausea has passed. It’s a bit hard though, taking care of Kip sometimes, especially when I’m not feeling well.”

  “Yes, that part is not so fun.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Leave Kip with me for a day,” Molly offered, patting Jenny’s hand. “Give you a chance to get out and explore the town and the beach a bit.” She went silent for a moment, as if thinking, and then glanced at Jenny from the crinkled corner of her eyes and said conspiratorially, “Now, you want to know about the fisherman? I’m not supposed to say.”

  “You can tell me. That little plaque on the wall, the pictures up in the hex room of a man who’s not her husband—I know something is up. Who is he?”

  “She has pictures?”

  “Just one. A photo of a man on a commercial fishing boat—smiling away. But there are more of her on the same boat; it’s called the Retty.”

  “The Retty.” Molly chuckled. “Gerry must have put that those up afterward. I can’t go all the way up there now, even if I wish I could. My hips are such a bother. Well, she never saw him in that way while her husband was alive, I can tell you. They did talk, though. She’d meet him every so often for lunch in secret, on his boat, but just as friends.”

  Jenny frowned. “You sure?”

  “Oh dear, yes. Gerry was very loyal. She would never have broken her vows in any way. But she loved her fisherman, nonetheless.”