Buoy Page 5

  “Hmmm?” they asked distractedly and in unison.

  “Oh, never mind. Anything good happening over there?”

  “I think they’re dancing,” Peter said.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of Jazzercise or that twerking thing,” Sefton added.

  “There’s a big difference between those. Let me see,” I said, put down the items I was toting, and Peter handed me the glasses.

  “Well, what are they doing?” he asked. “Some kind of tribal dancing or what?”

  “Nope, yoga,” I said and handed him the glasses and headed indoors, where, to my great surprise and consternation, I found already seated at the poker table none other than Russ Shears.

  “Hi,” he greeted me in a tone as if we were friends.

  I forced a smile and nodded and briefly studied the room to make sure none of the expensive stuff was missing.

  “Oh, hey, kiddo. Cheeseball? Russ here brought ‘em,” Jack said as he strutted into the salon with a bowl of round orange puffs of what may pass for food on college campuses.

  “No thanks, Jack, I just ate,” I said, trying to be polite while I slid the real food I brought onto the sideboard. Jack relieved me of the coolers in my hand and headed toward the galley, trusting me to be temporarily left alone again with Russ.

  “How are you?” I asked, relying on the default question of folks everywhere who feign politeness and don’t know what else to say.

  “Oh, fine. Hey, I hope you don’t mind me crashing the poker party. Junior invited me.”

  I smiled back and wondered when “Junior” would reappear with a drink for me, and I also wondered when Russ and he had managed to get so chummy. “Oh no, it’s fine. I just didn’t think you had any money. Did you find your wallet?”

  “I wish. Aggie gave me an advance on the work I’m doing for her, and I sold my watch uptown at the jewellery store. The battery was dead anyway.”

  I nodded and hoped Russ would never consider a career in wealth management or financial counselling. Selling a watch for want of a ten-dollar battery seems like folly to me, but then again, I’ve been hanging on to the same Timex since college. Fiscal responsibility is my specialty.

  Jack returned from the galley, handed me my long overdue beverage—which I downed almost immediately and in a most un-ladylike fashion, and he rubbed his hands together anxiously. “Well, I guess we can get started.” He went to the stern door and hollered out. “Hey, you guys, stop ogling those chicks and get in here.”

  Russ’ presence aside, I was happy to see Jack back to his old self, with snappy lines and twinkling eyes. I proceeded to take a seat as far away from Russ as possible. ensuring this fact by counting the number of chairs between us, and I watched Sefton, Seacroft, and Muncie file in the salon. A thudding on the deck and a few footsteps later and Doctor Stephen Richards was also on the scene.

  “Oh, hi, I didn’t know you were back,” I said to the good doctor who couldn’t be considered a year-rounder, though I think he longed to and one day will be. At something close to fifty, he’s still a little young to pack up his practice.

  “Here until after Thanksgiving, barring any emergencies,” he said, placing his contribution to the eats on the sideboard—guac, and if I knew him, low sodium tortilla chips—then taking the chair on my immediate right. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Richards extended a hand to the new face at the game. “Stephen Richards.”

  “Russ Shears. Nice to meet you, Steve,” said the interloper.

  I cleared my throat, hoping to clear away my agitation with the ill-mannered punk. Even I didn’t call the man Steve, and he’d seen me at my worst, sick on my bathroom floor. Besides that, he is definitely a Stephen and not a Steve.

  “Shears? As in our Shears?” Richards’ voice went up as he turned to me to verify and, receiving no confirmation—I can’t give what I don’t have—he searched the other faces at the table.

  “Yeah, grandson,” Junior piped up, shuffling the cards.

  “Oh? I don’t remember him mentioning you,” Richards said aloud what everyone else had been thinking over the past couple days.

  I shifted in my chair and accidentally on purpose kicked him. “Sorry.”

  Russ Shears shrugged nonchalantly. “Guess he forgot.”

  I flitted my eyes and Junior dealt the cards. A few hands in, the conversation got rolling but the ride wasn’t overly smooth.

  “So, what do you do for a living, Steve?” Russ asked.

  “I’m a doctor,” Richards said, sorting the cards in his hand.

  “Oh yeah. Good money in that I bet,” Russ lent us the benefit of his insight and I raised my cards up to hide my pained expression. "Got any kids?” he persisted, and I wondered if he was hunting for a new family.

  “Two boys,” Richards returned.

  “Married?” Russ continued.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Amen!” Peter Muncie exclaimed.

  And before Russ had the chance to ask Doctor Richards additional personal questions – I’m not sure why I find curiosity in others so darned offensive – I changed the subject. “Speaking of women, how’d your date go today, Junior?” I asked, looking over the tops of my cards across the table at Jack.

  “Oh, didn’t ya hear? They’re going steady,” Sefton answered for him.

  “Really? Do tell.” My voice went up with playful intrigue.

  “Now, now, now, let’s just see what happens,” Jack said, and he blushed all the way to his ears.

  “How about you, Peter? You got a number from the funeral, didn’t you?” I winked at him and felt a little awkward when Peter didn’t answer, scowled at his cards instead.

  “Oh, didn’t ya hear? It was a dud,” Sefton seemed happy to volunteer.

  “A dud?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Peter grumbled. “The number she gave me was a fake. 867-5309. How was I supposed to know that was a song?”

  I sucked in through clenched teeth trying not to laugh. I’d used that one in the past myself; I think I’d even told the poor schmuck that my name was Jenny. “So, you like this Lisa person?”

  “She’s-she’s ok.”

  “Well, what’s she like? Where’s she live? Does she have any significantly memorable features?”

  “You mean like a tramp stamp?” Seacroft asked.

  “No, she means, does she have a rack?” Peter Muncie chimed in.

  “I did not mean any of those things. What I meant was…” I glanced to my immediate right for inspiration. “What I meant was, does she have nice hands or nice blue eyes or does she smell good?” I asked and, when I looked back at Jack, he was looking back with raised eyebrows and a knowing look.

  “Look, if you’re good little boys and girls, I’ll bring her around. Dealer takes two cards,” he said, and laid a couple cards face down on the table. “But I expect you all to behave.”

  “So, you have another date with her?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow.” Jack nodded and he tried to act discreet while at the same time beaming like the hottest commodity in town.

  “Tomorrow, huh? Well, I happen to be free,” I said.

  “You’re not coming,” Jack mumbled.

  “Jack, I have no intention of chaperoning your next date with… What’s her name again?”

  “Lisa.”

  “Ok, Jack I have no intention of chaperoning your next date with Lisa. So, where is it going to be?”

  “No sitting and spying either.”

  “Ok, no sitting and spying. Where’s the trust, Jack? Geesh. Far be for me to spy on you and your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not… now she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Maybe just friends with benefits, huh, Jack?” Peter Muncie jabbed at his friend.

  “Huh?”

  “You know.”

  “What benefits?” Sefton was intently curious.

  “Look, now…the only benefits I’m after fall under her drug and dental plan.” Jack played with his cards a bit.

&nb
sp; “Benefits. You know, sexy benefits, sexy time,” Seacroft said and popped a few peanuts into his yap.

  “The horizontal mambo,” Peter Muncie added for clarification.

  Jack Junior’s look of wonder turned to one of concern. Maybe he was doing a mental check of the last time his equipment had been tested for function, or the last time his chassis had been up on the hoist. “All we’re having is coffee.”

  “And maybe a tart?” Sefton cackled.

  “You’re one to talk. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time on the Gee Spot,” Jack Junior griped.

  “The what now?” Doctor Richards perked up and turned to me, his go-to gal for filling in the blanks.

  I nodded then put my hand on his forearm and glanced into his inquisitive eyes. “It’s true. But what you need to know is…” I paused for effect, relishing in the suspense à la Bugsy. “The Gee Spot is a boat in short-term dockage.” I smiled wide though I still felt a little weird every time I used the name of the boat in mixed company.

  “Are we gonna play cards or what?” Jack said.

  “Yeah, come on, guys,” Russ Shears scolded us for no good reason, other than to ingratiate himself with Junior. It soured the mood instantly and the topics of conversation changed to less personal content and more current events like the fall festival in town and, when we got around to discussing the robbery at the bakery, I took note that Russ Shears excused himself to use the head.

  “How about we meet on the Summerwind next poker night, Russ?” Doctor Richards asked once the kid was seated again.

  My eyes were locked on Russ for a response or reply of some kind. There was none.

  “Russ, the doc asked if you want to host the next poker night,” Junior said.

  “Oh, sorry, I must have zoned out. I’ve really been putting in the hours,” he said.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. I tried not to roll my eyes.

  “Sorry, but this isn’t my thing after all, guys. This is fun, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it,” he explained.

  And, like every other statement he’d made over the past two hours, Russ’ words provoked in me a tiny involuntary throat clearing. Either a tick or an allergic reaction to total bullshit. Because the guy who claimed he wasn’t cut out for poker was up a hundred bucks and, try as I did, I couldn’t figure out how he kept consistently winning. And the way he dodged wanting us to play the next game on the Summerwind made me suspect there was something on the boat he didn’t want us to see. The safe from the bakery perhaps? The evening wrapped up shortly after.

  I was in the galley of the Fortune Cookie, drying the highball glasses at the end of the evening, when Stephen Richards joined me, a cocktail plate in each hand.

  “Too late?” he asked, an impish smile on his face.

  “I’ll take ‘em,” I said and ran some water over the plates while Richards leaned against the galley counter and helped himself to a forkful of pie.

  “So, you going to Aggie’s for Thanksgiving?” I asked while I wiped a plate dry.

  “Probably.” He nodded and downed another forkful. “Hey,” he said, put down the fork, placed his hands on my shoulders, and squared me up to him. The motion took me by surprise. “Open up,” he said, though his pretense of seriousness was kyboshed by the smile I saw forming.

  “Why?” I asked and, although I was taken off guard, at the same time I didn’t altogether mind searching into his crystal blue eyes for an answer.

  “Because you’re either coming down with a cold or you really don’t like Russ Shears.”

  I rolled my eyes and resumed my volunteer dishwashing duties. “Am I that obvious?”

  “You’re pretty obvious.” Richards reached around me and dropped his fork into the sink.

  “Well,” I began to say in a voice just above a whisper before Jack sauntered into the room.

  “All set in here? Say, thanks kiddo, for washing the dishes. Nothing like a woman’s touch to spruce things up.”

  I turned and raised my eyebrows at Richards. Jack’s smitten kitten routine was going to take some getting used to. “Anytime, Jack. Well, I’d better be going,” I said and placed the tea towel on its hook in the galley. “Night.”

  “Me too,” Richards said. “Night, Jack.”

  “See ya, kids.” Jack walked us to the stern door and waved us off.

  A chill had settled in our marina over the past few hours and the moonless night yielded a vista of bright stars. The gentle lapping of the current against the side of the boat was interrupted only by a brief, distant screeching of tires uptown.

  “So, what’s the deal with Russ Shears?” Richards asked once we were on the dock.

  “Do you have a sec?” I motioned in the direction of my boat.

  “For you, always.”

  On the walk toward the Alex M., I explained to Doctor Richards how Russ Shears had arrived on the scene with nothing but the clothes on his back and a few spare outfits in his duffel bag. How he’d won over Jack Junior with some saccharine politeness and Ags with his tight-fitting jeans. How he seemed to skimp on the details of his life while he unabashedly asked personal questions of others, and then there was the disappearing act he pulled when Officer Hagen came in for coffee. “Besides that, he called you Steve.”

  Doctor Richards let out a laugh. “Well, that is my name.”

  “You’re more of a Stephen and you know it,” I groused and looked out at the dark night beyond my dock. It was the kind of night where you couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began, and it only compounded my frustration. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think there’s more. Keep talking, sunshine,” he said.

  “Not much more to say.”

  Richards looked out toward the inky sky. “How about this girlfriend of Jack’s?”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, you don’t sound too keen on her and you don’t even know her.”

  “So? What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “And Sefton and the women on the new boat in short-term?”

  “Ok, I’m lost. Where are you going with this, Doctor Richards?”

  He let out a huff. “What I’m getting at is that you’re not good with change and it takes you a while to warm up to new people. Heck, I still remember the withering look you gave me the first time we met.”

  “I did? You do?”

  “Sure. If it hadn’t been for Nat insisting that I look at the boat, I’d have run for the hills.” He snickered, trying to lighten the mood.

  I nodded. Not in agreement so much as in understanding. There’s something quietly authoritative about the doctor that keeps me in line, if only for a moment, and in the absence of the indignant reply I would have given anyone else, the only sound was the creaking of the ropes on the Alex M. “Goodnight, Doctor Richards,” I said and stepped onto my boat.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning, after five crazy emails, three absurd phone calls, and getting the crap scared out of me by a spider the approximate size of a shoe, I was ready for some Aggie time. My last words with Stephen Richards had left me needing to chat with by bestie. And, as I left my boat and bopped down the dock, I looked in the direction of the Just Aboat Perfect, the boat I’d sold to Richards that summer, the 44’ DeFever Aft Cabin Trawler/luxury floating home. The boat I never would have expected to sell to the man I never would have expected to endear himself to me. Our first meeting left me nonplused. While he cut a nice figure tall and broad, the hybrid sportscar and country club get-up he wore did nothing for me. It wasn’t until I saw him in faded jeans and a t-shirt and rolling up in a dual diesel pickup that he got my attention, and I was reasonably happy to see the more down-to-earth version of him.

  As I crossed the threshold into Aggie’s, craving my usual, I called out to her. “Morning, chickee-poo!” The bell above the door that announced my arrival even sounded more cheery than usual.

  “Morning,” came a voice from somewhere in the back of the store.
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  Before I knew it, the owner of the voice was stationed behind the counter. Only thing was, the face wasn’t that of the smack-talking, ride-or-die gal pal I’d come to love over the past two years. It was Russ Shears, or whatever his name was, decked out in one of the navy-blue hoodies Pike gave out. The logo of his shop on the back, his dog in a sou’wester in yellow and white.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, walking in a little farther at a tentative gait. “Is Ags here?”

  “Oh, no, she went out.”

  “Oh.”

  “You want some coffee? She made it just before she left.”

  “Sure,” I said and made my way toward the red stool that all but had my name on it. As I eyed Russ behind the counter, I replayed Doctor Richards’ words in my head. Did I just distrust people? Was I so longing to hang onto the status quo that I excluded anything and anyone that might change it? Was my intuition about Russ Shears really that off? He looked like a normal human being. Was he really that bad?

  I eased onto my stool and, when Russ placed a full mug of coffee in front of me, some of the contents slopped over the side. A streak of brown ran down my ironstone mug and onto the counter. “Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. Ok, so he’s not big on presentation. Then I watched as he slid open the door to the baked goods case. I felt my smile change from bogus to bona fide and assumed that Ags had coached the lad on how to win me over, fritter-style. I pulled off a few napkins from the chrome dispenser—Russ didn’t seem the type to mess with the formalities of a plate—and when I looked back at him, my hand ready to receive my usual, there stood Russ Shears with shards of cinnamon sugar in the corners of his mouth and a half eaten fritter in his hand. The last one in the case. My theory about him was gaining ground again.

  I cleared my throat and hit the reset button. “You, uh, takin’ a break from all that hard work?” I asked, glancing up to see my half-masticated fritter bouncing its way around Russ’ mouth.

  “Something like that.”

  I took a sip of the too-hot coffee and tried not to show that it burned. My tongue felt for the scald on the roof of my mouth. We two were quiet for a moment, save for the sounds of Russ licking the sugar from my fritter off his fingers. “And what is it you do, Russ?”