As Good as It Got (17 page)

She brought herself up to her elbows, squinting and miserable. By five freaking A.M. she had to be dressed and ready to be picked up at the parking lot. Five women, each going out for the day with a different lobster guy.

Her legs made it onto the floor. Her body hoisted itself out As Good As It Got

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of bed, which beckoned,
Come back to me, Ann darling
, the most seductive offer she’d ever had.

Maybe she should call in dead.

But if she didn’t show, they’d send someone to see what was wrong, and her simple need for sleep would turn into another excuse for them to reach inside her with pliers and try to yank out her inner feelings. Or, if Patrick was anything to go by, to plant inner feelings they’d like her to have.

Fine. She’d go.

Fifteen minutes later she’d showered away the worst of the self-disgust. Ten minutes after that she’d dressed in jeans, wool socks, and a few layers under her sweater, since it would be cold out on the water at this hour, and didn’t that entice her even more.

Forget makeup. Forget hairstyle. Forget breakfast. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

The van ride down Shute’s Point on the narrow twisting sand and gravel road was stomach torture, as were the perky driver and chatty passengers. Of course, Ann was the last dropped off, abandoned at the mouth of a side road with cheery waves and enthusiastic “havefuns” that made her want to throw up even more. What was wrong with silence?

What was wrong with having a really good bad mood on?

Ann had never had the slightest problem with either.

She dragged herself through the woods on the rutted fern-and moss-lined road, which after nearly forever widened into a small clearing, home to a battered white shed surrounded by low blackberry plants and higher raspberry plants. She stopped to pick a few berries, whose sweetness helped battle the sour taste even vigorous toothbrushing hadn’t erased.

At the shore, the greenery ended; Ann stepped carefully 146 Isabel

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down three rock steps set into the eroding earth, onto a wide flat ledge. In front of her a small cove, low tide, of course, so the muddy, clammy smell could be at its ripest. At anchor a dozen or so yards out, her home for the morning, the
Tiger
Lily II,
dark green hull separated from white by a neat crim-son stripe.

On board, one man, middle-aged in a ball cap, peering at her through the windshield. She gave a halfhearted wave. He returned a quarter-hearted wave and went back to whatever he’d been doing before he spotted her.

Well. How jolly. Did he expect her to swim out?

At home—her home with Paul—she’d still be asleep. At seven, her alarm would go off, she’d plow efficiently through her routines, barrel to the office—in sheer nylons, a wool suit, and expensive-but-tasteful jewelry. All day long she’d network, negotiate, coddle, manipulate, then rush home again to Paul, to neatness, to order, to luxury . . .

She wanted that back so badly, it hurt even more than her pounding head.

The door to the shed opened and another man, about her age, stepped out, dressed in yellow rubber overalls and black boots, carrying another pair of each, which she guessed were her fashion attire for the day. He stopped when he saw her, glanced at the boat, then strode over to greet her. He was medium height, maybe an inch or two under six feet. Dark short hair, dark blue eyes, handsome actually. Tiny bit of a cleft chin. Very serious expression. As if he wasn’t exactly looking forward to having her on board.

Which meant they had a lot in common right off the bat.

“Ann.”

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“That’s me.”

“I’m Clive.” He held out the coveralls and looked her over critically. “At least you’re dressed.”

She raised an eyebrow. Charmed, she was sure. “You were expecting naked?”

“Some women show up ready for a day at the beach. See if the boots fit.”

Yes, sir.
She snatched the boots, holding back her thanks.

If he wanted lack of manners, he’d found his dream girl.

The boots fit decently, the rubber overalls were beyond special, but they’d cut the wind and protect her from wet, so what the hell. If she was going to play Suzy Fishergirl, she might as well do it up right.

“This way.”

She clumped after Clive of the Silver Tongue, over the flat rocks, then gravel, then mud, to a skiff at the water’s edge and climbed in, hands on the gunwales, keeping her weight low, thankful for her sailing experience with Paul, so she wasn’t a complete dork around boats.

Clive took charge of the oars and pulled the skiff to the
Tiger Lily
with powerful strokes, then skillfully finessed it alongside. “Get in.”

Yes sir!
She clambered over and was met with a very un-inviting whiff of dead fish, which did her stomach no favors whatsoever. Nor was she enchanted by the cloud of mosquitoes, which decided she’d make a perfect breakfast. Did she mention she wished she were home?

“Hi.” She managed a smile at the wind-weathered older man—she guessed he was pushing sixty—standing in the open cabin by the controls of the boat. “I’m Ann.”

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“Arnold. Welcome aboard.” He gestured to a chair set near him, and turned back to wait for Clive to tie up the skiff and cast off the mooring.

She sat, bile rising from the fish smell and the gentle rocking of the boat. Arnold fiddled with his shortwave radio, twisted dials on another contraption, consulted a chart on a clipboard, seeming at ease with the silence. Or at least unwilling to break it. Maybe he’d already forgotten she was here.

Perfect. All she’d have to do was sit still, watch, and try not to puke.

A few shallow-breathing bug-slapping minutes later, Clive was on board and Arnold fired up the engines and pulled
Tiger Lily
out of the cove, radio barking static and gibberish at regular startling intervals. Immediately the blessing of losing mosquitoes to momentum was offset by diesel fumes mixing themselves in with the
eau de dead fish
. In the open waters of the bay, the regular climb and plunge only added to the fun.

Ann launched herself out of the chair and moved astern, seeking open air, which blew by in a steady, blessedly fresh stream. She gulped a few breaths, then a few more. Better.

Barely. The coastline rapidly miniaturized, while the sea-scape expanded around them to emphasize shoals, other vessels, and countless buoys. Arnold decreased his speed to pass another lobster boat; the crews exchanged somber raised-hand greetings while the attending gulls outdid them in enthusiasm.
Tiger Lily
caught the wake of its erstwhile neighbor and wallowed.

Urgh
. Ann flung herself to the side, hung on grimly, eyes closed, breathing carefully and deeply through her nose.

“Seasick?” Clive’s voice, faintly amused.

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“Not generally.”

“Tied one on last night?”

She didn’t move. Screw him. “That’s my business.”

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“Also my business.”

“Not entirely. Did you?”

She began a good glare, then the boat lurched and she hung over the side again, fighting the rebelling noncontents of her stomach. “No,
mein führer
, I didn’t.”

He muttered something she was glad not to catch and strode to the front of the boat, came back and pushed into her field of vision a large blueberry muffin, carefully wrapped in plastic.

“No.” She waved him away when he pressed it on her again. Damn it. She’d left camp to avoid being mothered. “I don’t want it.”

“Eat. We’ve got two hundred traps to haul today. I don’t need you sick while we’re trying to get our jobs done.”

This time the boat held steady long enough for her to deliver her best go-to-hell stare. Breeze lifted the dark hair from his forehead; his blues eyes didn’t so much as glance away. She wanted to scoop up a bucket of herring bait and dump it over his head.

Except, though it pained her to allow this much maturity into her snit, he had a point. Lobstering was dangerous. Paul had a friend in high school who’d been snagged by a line on its way overboard and dragged to the bottom. Clive and Arnold needed to concentrate on their work, not on a hung-over Diva Princess. Ann should have stayed in camp.

“Take the muffin. There’s coffee in the big thermos. Don’t 150 Isabel

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drink it until you’re finished eating. You don’t want that acid on an empty stomach.”

She took the muffin from his large sturdy hands, feeling like a five-year-old told which coloring book to use and which crayons. But fine. She’d eat the damn muffin. And when it became fish food, he’d learn to leave her alone to her death wish.

The muffin turned out to be exceptional, tender, but-tery, stuffed with intensely flavored Maine wild blueberries, better even than the saucer-sized ones she and Paul got from Pallas Bakery, around the corner from their condo in South Boston. Unsure at first, her stomach rose to the challenge, and after a cup of coffee—damn good coffee—she grudgingly admitted, to herself only, that Commander Clive had been right to insist.

Fine. It didn’t mean she had to be nice to him.

Humanity partly restored, she could focus on what was going on around her, which was a lot. Traps hauled in, contents inspected, most creatures discarded back into the waves, sometimes all. Nonlobsters—urchins, crabs, blundering bottom-feeders—got thrown back. Lobsters too small, thrown back. Lobsters too big, thrown back. Most Clive discarded by sight, but those close to legal size he measured with a gauge to make sure the beasts were under the maximum, over the minimum.

She stayed determinedly silent and out of the way, but when Clive cut a notch in the tail of a lobster before he threw it back, curiosity got the better of her sulk.

“Why did you cut that one?”

“Berried female.”

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“Buried?”

“Eggs on her. Berries.”

“So if someone else catches her, she’ll be thrown back again?”

“Yup. Larger males and breeding females are safe.”

“For lifelong uninterrupted nookie.”

He lifted his cap, brushed the wrist of his glove across his forehead, and went back to rebaiting the trap.

Ann rolled her eyes at his back. No sense of humor. Well, okay. Don’t mind her, she’d stay here in her leper colony and watch.

The men worked with skilled precision, no movements wasted, minimal communication. Clive threw legal lobsters into a crate, then rebaited the traps with knit bags stuffed with ripe herring bits, and launched them back overboard.

Bricks in the bottom carried each trap swiftly down to the place Arnold and his fancy imaging equipment chose.

“How long have you been doing this?”

Clive glance over his shoulder. “Learned from my dad as a kid.”

Splash
. The trap sank back into the sea; the engine surged as they moved forward, the sea gulls giggled and complained.

His answer surprised her. His skin wasn’t weathered enough, his hands not rough enough, and something else about him didn’t quite fit the lifelong-fisherman mold, though it was entirely possible she was just being snotty. Wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last. She’d had an expert teacher in Paul, for whom the concept of “enjoying the finer things in life” gradually became more important than whether he actually enjoyed any of the things or not.

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“You’ve been doing this all your life?” She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice, but he sent her a look that told her she hadn’t been entirely successful.

“Not all.”

“What else did you do?”

“Odds and ends.”

“Like . . . ”

He set a line around the pulley and started the winch, winding up the next trap from the bottom.

Okay. Private Property. Trespassers will be prosecuted.

Which made her even more curious, of course. If Pandora had been Pandoro, the infamous box would have stayed closed.

Though mostly because it would soon have been covered by all the other manly junk he piled into his ancient garage.

“How about you, Arnold?”

“Eh?”

“How long have you been lobstering?”

“Learned from Dad.”

“Are you married?” She wondered the same about Clive, but the question felt awkward put to a man her age, now that she was single. “Do you have kids?”

“Ayuh. Two sons. Oldest is in the military, youngest has his own boat now. Got his license a year ago. Used to be able to get a license right away. Now it’s three to one—three fishermen have to give theirs up before the government will issue a new one.” He gestured around him. “Used to be half this many buoys. Now you can walk across the bay on ’em.”

After that veritable explosion of dialogue, she settled back and watched some more, sometimes wandering, sometimes sitting, enjoying how the warm sun made the cool breeze comfortable and vice versa. This was good. She was glad to As Good As It Got

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be here. And it hit her that this was probably the first time those phrases applied in a long, long time.

“Feeling better?” Clive stood in the back of the boat, gloved hands on his hips.

“Almost human.” Wow. Could he in fact be pleasant? She smiled, just to see what he’d do.

What he did was stride to the front of the boat, grab a pair of gloves and thrust them at her. “You can make yourself useful.”

Her smile died. Right. No tolerance of Diva Princesses.

Mrs. Clive would be solid, uncomplaining, dinner always ready at five-thirty, fine with her whether Clive wanted sex or to watch wrestling on TV afterward, just let her do the dishes first . . .

“Help stuff the bait bags.”

“Love to.” She pulled on the gloves and turned to face the drum of stinky herring bits, newly shored-up stomach threatening to rebel again. But Ann Redding never backed down from a challenge. Which attitude earned her a black eye when the challenge was class bully Duffy McPherson, and a scholarship when the challenge was to be the first in her family to get into an Ivy League college. She thrust her gloved hand in among the clouded staring eyes and exposed guts and flesh and bones, and stuffed fistfuls into the bag, vowing that herring would never again grace her table.