by Laurie Cass
Eddie, who was sitting on the houseboat’s dashboard, turned his head ever so slightly in my direction. He might have been responding to my question, but he also might have been watching the seagulls wheeling over the blue waters of Janay Lake.
It was late on Sunday morning, a beautiful day in early May, and I had yet to decide what to do with myself. Eddie and I had stayed in bed for a decadently long time, him snoring, me reading a lovely long mystery by Charles Todd and wishing for a restaurant that delivered breakfast.
But eventually I’d crawled out from under the covers into a bright blue day, showered, and walked up to the Round Table, where I’d indulged myself with their new offering of sour cream blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon brushed with maple syrup. The food was remarkably tasty, and the only problem was now I didn’t feel like doing anything.
“Vacation mode,” I told Eddie. “That’s the problem with going out to breakfast. It makes me feel as if I’m on vacation. Now I don’t want to do anything except play. Which is tempting, but there are things I should be doing.”
Eddie turned his head and, this time, looked directly at me.
“Not you,” I assured him quickly. “I’d never expect you to do anything. Honest. It’s me who should do something productive with my day. Since I have thumbs and all that.” I waggled said appendages at Eddie.
He stared at me with unblinking eyes. “Mrr!” he said sharply, and returned to his seagull contemplation.
Smiling, I slid into a comfortable slouch on the booth’s bench and peered at the stack of books I’d piled up during the week. Eventually I’d get up and do some laundry. Go for a walk. Go see Kristen. Something. But for now I was content to sit and read.
I was three chapters into All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr when my cell phone, which I’d put on the table, beeped with the incoming text tone. Since I was a happy little reading camper, I wasn’t sure I felt like responding to whoever was on the other end, but since you never knew when an emergency might turn up, I twisted my head around to look at the screen.
Tucker.
I pulled the phone toward me and tapped at the screen to view his text.
Hey, guess what? Been invited by boss to go to his condo on Lake Tahoe!
Multiple emotions flared at once. Pleasure, that Tucker got along so well with his boss that he’d be invited to a vacation home. Annoyance, that I obviously wasn’t part of the invitation. And puzzlement, because while I was sure Lake Tahoe was beautiful, why would you bother traveling so far to a lake when there were plenty in Michigan?
“Sitting on top of one right now,” I said to Eddie while I looked out at the wind riffling the tops of Janay Lake’s waves. And beyond the dunes, the mass of Lake Michigan lay just to the west. Clear water, clear skies, and not a single expressway within fifty miles. Maybe it wasn’t Lake Tahoe, but it was right here, right where my job and my life were.
I tapped out a message: Sounds like fun. When are you going?
I’d returned to my book and was half a dozen pages into the next chapter when Tucker’s next text came in.
Same week in July I was going north. Sorry, but I can’t pass up the opportunity. I’m sure U understand.
Oh, I understood all right.
I started thumbing a message full of fury and bitterness and scorn and hurt. Halfway through, my mother’s voice tapped me on my mental shoulder. Minnie, are you sure you want to do that?
“Absolutely,” I muttered, and kept tapping.
Minnie, she said, drawing out the vowels. How absolutely sure are you?
I cleared the text, tossed the phone to the table, and got up. I needed to move, to do something physical, and to not think for a few minutes.
Two hours later, every window on the houseboat was sparkling clean, inside and out. I stood outside on the front deck, hands on my hips, studying my efforts. “What do you think, Eddie?”
“Mrr,” he said.
“You’re right.” Cheerfully I patted his furry head. “I’m pretty sure they’ve never been so clean.” I went inside and picked up the phone, ready now to do what needed to be done, what couldn’t—or at least shouldn’t—be done via a text message.
I entered his cell number and, when he answered, started talking before he even got in a greeting. “Hey, Tucker. It’s Minnie. I think it’s time we call this relationship quits.”
Chapter 14
Kristen took one look at me across the crowded kitchen and grabbed the closest bottle of wine. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m sure it will be better with a hefty dose of Merlot.”
I plopped myself on a tall stool and eyed the stemmed glass she was filling. “Alcohol does not cure problems.”
Without a word, she whisked away the glass and the wine bottle. “How about a big bowl of chocolate ice cream?”
“Can I have chocolate syrup?” My voice was plaintive.
“And whipped cream—the real stuff, not the kind you use—and chocolate sprinkles and a cherry on top.”
I sighed. “You are the best friend ever.”
“Of course I am.” Kristen nodded to Harvey, her sous-chef, and he went to work on what Kristen had ordered for me. For a couple of years, I’d thought that Harvey was in love with Kristen, but he seemed unfazed by her attachment to Scruffy.
“So, what’s up?” she asked. “Family issues? Are your parents okay?”
I’d already told her about the book fair cancellation, so there wasn’t much use in pretending that was what had drawn me to her restaurant hours ahead of the time I usually showed up on Sundays. “It’s Tucker,” I said, and her face went quiet.
Around us, the kitchen staff kept on doing kitcheny things. Misty, the head chef I’d greeted on my way in, kept slicing big bits of meat into smaller bits. The two seasonal hires, a middle-aged woman and a young man, both of whom I had yet to meet, continued to chop whatever it was they were chopping. Harvey placed a perfectly presented bowl of ice cream and a spoon in front of me and wafted away.
“So . . . ?” Kristen asked.
I picked up my spoon. Not so very long ago, when I was washing windows, I’d been sure I was making the correct decision. So how was it that now I was waffling? I picked up the spoon and shoved a far too big bite of sugary goodness into my mouth.
“Broke up with him,” I said through the ice cream. Speaking with my mouth full was a transgression my mother would never have tolerated, and one I did try to avoid ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, but somehow telling Kristen I’d ended a semi-long-term relationship with my mouth stuffed full of her food made it easier.
She muttered something I didn’t quite catch. “What was that?”
Kristen grinned, showing her teeth, white against the tan she’d accumulated in Key West. “I said it’s about time. You’re far too good for him and he didn’t deserve you. No, don’t go all sympathetic and say your schedule was just as wacky as his and half of the problems were your fault, because I won’t believe any of it.”
A small smile tickled one side of my face. “You won’t?”
“Not a chance. How many times did you make plans with him and then cancel? Zero, I bet, yes? Yes. And how many times did he make plans with you and then cancel? No, don’t start using your fingers and toes to count, because I’m sure you don’t have enough digits.”
“It wasn’t just that,” I said, shoveling in another bite.
“No, it was also because he thought his job was the one that counted. And that attitude was turning into whatever he wanted was what counted, whether or not it had to do with his job.”
I blinked at her. She was right and I’d never seen it. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Because I am the best friend ever.” She thumped herself on the chest.
Once again, she was right. If she’d told me what she really thought about Tucker, I would have gone all defensive and stuck to him just to prove her wrong. It was a part of my personality I didn’t care for, and someday I’d
try harder to do something about it.
“So now you can go out with Ash Wolverson,” Kristen said. “You want me to call him, or will you?”
“Give me a couple of days, okay?” The idea didn’t sound horrible; matter of fact, it sounded quite good, but I knew that jumping out of one relationship and into another wasn’t the best idea. I pushed my bowl toward her a couple of inches. “Want some? I hear it’s the best in town.”
“Do I get my own spoon?” she asked.
“You can have mine,” I said, handing it over, “if you don’t mind sharing.”
She gave me a light elbow in the ribs. “I can share if you can share.”
I nodded and started to feel a little better. I would probably shed a few tears in the night, but between Kristen’s friendship and Eddie’s purrs, I had the feeling that I’d be smiling again soon.
• • •
“Hey, Minnie!”
My right foot had been poised to step onto the dock that led to my houseboat. Rafe’s call, however, startled me enough that I tripped on the small break between concrete sidewalk and wooden dock. I stumbled forward a few steps and saved myself from falling into the drink by grabbing a piling.
“Hey, Stumble Toes, you all right over there? Got a favor to ask you.”
I blew out a breath. There was no good reason for me to be annoyed at him—he probably hadn’t intended to surprise me—but I was still on edge about Tucker and men in general and my irritation level was close to the surface. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, walking back toward his house. When I got close, I asked, “What’s up?”
“Got a question.” He was on his front porch, waving something at me, but in the evening’s dusk, I couldn’t see what it was. “It’s a girl thing.”
“And I’m the only girl you know?” I asked, climbing up the front steps. Last summer they’d been old and weathered. Now they were solid and sturdy and freshly painted a bluish shade of gray.
“Nah.” He grinned. “You’re just the handiest one. Look at these and tell me what to do.” He held out a small rectangular stack of cardboard pieces at me.
I put my hands behind my back. “Nothing doing. No way am I going to help you choose what color to paint your house.”
“Not the whole house,” he said, fanning the samples out into a rainbow of colors. “The outside is easy. It’s the inside that’s hard.”
I squinted at him. “And you think I can help? I haven’t chosen a room color since I was eight and painted my bedroom dark green because I’d just read The Children of Green Knowe and wanted my room to match the cover of the book.”
Rafe looked at the paint samples. “Yeah? How did that turn out? I mean, that’s probably the stupidest reason I ever heard to pick a room color, but dark green might be okay, somewhere.”
My annoyance rushed back. “If you think I’m so stupid, why are you asking me anything? If you want decorating advice, talk to Holly Terpening. She’s all over paint colors.” I stomped down from the porch and was off into the night’s gloom before he could say another word.
• • •
My sleep that night was accompanied by a few tears, but by the time I woke up, I was mostly ashamed at how I’d treated Rafe. He hadn’t deserved to be on the receiving end of my little hissy fit, and I needed to tell him so.
“Would a phone call do?” I asked Eddie as I washed out our cereal bowl.
He was back to sitting on the dashboard, but he turned his head a millimeter when I asked the question.
“To apologize to Rafe,” I explained. “Can I just call? Or better yet, send him a text?”
Eddie heaved a heavy sigh and jumped to the floor. He padded the length of the kitchen, down the stairs, and into the bedroom, where he jumped up onto the bed he’d vacated five minutes before.
“Fine,” I said to the sink. “I’ll go over there at lunch.” Somehow I’d ended up with a cat who held me to the same moral code that my mother did. “Not fair,” I muttered, but then started smiling inside, because maybe it was, in fact, eminently fair.
The thought kept me amused all morning, which was good, because it was a day that needed all the amusement it could get. Recalcitrant computer programs, a water leak in the book return, and not a single response to my frantic calls for a new author to headline the book fair didn’t make for a happy Minnie.
I pushed out the door at lunchtime and sucked in a breath of fresh air. It felt so good that I pulled in two more, and then had to stop myself before I hyperventilated. Refreshed, I headed up the hill to the middle school and to Rafe’s office, where I knew he would be at his desk, eating a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise on white bread.
“When’s the last time you had anything different for lunch?” I flopped into his guest chair. “Kindergarten?”
He gave me an affronted look. “I’ll have you know that just last year I ate a turkey sandwich. Right here at this very desk.”
“Well, that’s good. I wouldn’t want you to get into a rut.”
“I prefer to think of it as a very deep comfort zone.” He took a bite of sandwich so big that it pouched out his right cheek enough to make him look like a squirrel feeding on a windfall of nuts.
For the millionth time, I wondered how Rafe managed to run a middle school so successfully. “Well, I wanted to stop by and apologize for last night.”
“Huh?” He swallowed hugely, then asked, “What are you talking about?”
I really should have known better. Some guys were sensitive to the moods of women, but most were not. Rafe fell deep into that second category. “I was a little cranky about the paint colors. If you really want help, I’ll do what I can.”
He squinted at me. “Cranky? You? How did that happen? Wait, I know. You lost your spot in a book and had to start over again.”
And to think I’d wasted my lunch hour coming over here. I started to stand, but froze in place when I saw his wall calendar.
“What?” he asked, his mouth once again full of sandwich.
“Your calendar.” I sat back down. “It’s wooden boats.”
“Yeah, so? It was a Christmas present. I like woodies. I’m not wacko about them like some people, but they’re pretty cool.”
Wacko. Like some people. Exactly. I looked at the calendar. Looked at him. Looked at the calendar again. “How do you feel,” I asked slowly, “about doing me a favor?”
• • •
A few minutes later, I’d explained what I wanted and Rafe was looking at me with an odd expression on his face. “Can I ask why you want me to do this?”
“Sure,” I said, and sat there, smiling.
He rolled his eyes. “So I can ask, but you’re not going to tell me why you want me to do this tremendous favor for you that will take up so much of my valuable time and pull me away from my many duties as a responsible and supportive school principal.”
“Exactly.” I beamed at him. What I wanted was to figure out was if Neva Chatham had brandished her gun at me because of trespassing, or because she was being protective of her boat. If it was the boat, maybe she was unhinged enough to have killed Henry and tried to kill Adam. “And quit with the whining. It’s a simple phone call and won’t take you more than five minutes.”
He heaved out an Eddie-quality sigh, pulled a tattered phone book from his desk drawer, and flipped though the flimsy pages. After giving a grunt when he found the correct entry, he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Good afternoon,” he said jovially. “Is this Neva Chatham? Hi, Neva, my name is Rafe Niswander. I live in Chilson—what’s that? Yes, Dave’s my cousin.” He squinted at me. “Well, sorry about that. He’s got a pretty good reputation for the plumbing work he does and—” He waited for her to finish. “Well, again, I’m sorry about that. I’ll be sure to mention it next time I see him.”
His eyebrows went up. “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t say for sure when that will be, but—” Again he waited. “Yes, ma’am. I will quote you exactly, you can count on it. Now, th
e reason I called is a friend of mine happened past your house a while back and saw a wooden boat out front. I’m a huge wooden boat fan”—he rolled his eyes at me—“and I was just wondering if your boat was for sale. I’d be—”
Even from halfway across the room, I could hear Neva’s voice coming through the receiver.
“You leave that boat alone! I have a shotgun, young man, and I know how to use it, so keep your distance or I’ll be after you next.”
Rafe hung up the phone and looked at me. “I don’t think she’s interested in selling.” Then his straight face broke up and he started laughing. “Did you hear that? ‘I have a shotgun and I know how to use it.’” He slapped his paper-filled desk with the flat of his hand. “Where’s a pen? I need to write that down. Hey, what’s the matter?”
“I am so sorry,” I said. “She knows who you are, and she can probably figure out where you live.”
“What?” Rafe stared at me, then started laughing again. “You think she’s going to come after me? The woman must be seventy-five years old and might weigh a hundred pounds, dripping wet. What’s she going to do, have a heart attack on me?”
I stood and gave him my Librarian Look. “She is obviously unbalanced. Who knows what she might do? I am very sorry I asked you to call her, and please be careful.”
Rafe snorted. “Right. Okay, I promise to look both ways before crossing the street, although since it’s only the first week of May I really don’t need to look even one way, but if it would make you feel better . . .”
“It would.” I apologized again, got another eye roll, and headed back to the library with Neva’s words ringing in my ears.
• • •
I walked down the hill, thinking about the phone call I’d persuaded Rafe to make and about what Neva had said.
“I’ll be after you next.”
I pulled my cell phone out of my coat pocket and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to push the appropriate buttons. Some people could practically do data entry with their phones while walking, but every time I tried to do that I started feeling as if I were on the teacup ride at Disney World and wishing for an emergency stop button.