As Good as It Got (18 page)

“Here.” She pulled the string fastener shut and shoved the full bag at him. “Just like Mom used to make.”

He nodded his unsmiling approval, then showed her how to hang the bag back between the net funnels the lobsters crawled through to get their sorry asses caught. At the back of the trap was an escape hatch, closed with rings designed 154 Isabel

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to corrode easily in the saltwater. If the trap got lost at the bottom of the sea, animals would eventually have a way out.

She could use one of those. A lot of people could. How about Clive? Arnold? Did they feel trapped in this work, in this life, or set free? She didn’t dare ask.

As the morning wore on, Ann found herself caught in the men’s rhythm, able to enjoy the air, grin at the noisy persistent sea gulls following the boat with high hopes of herring.

Off in the distance, Camp Kinsonu had become a quaint cluster of shingled dollhouses, while around them the sea was live and vast and vivid.

Way earlier than she usually ate lunch, Clive passed around thick ham and Swiss sandwiches. Ann managed half of one, took her cue from Clive and Arnold by eating quickly, drinking more coffee, and going back to work. No extended expense-account lunch break here. Two hundred traps, hauled, emptied, rebaited, reset. The catch of legal-sized lobsters swelled in the crate, claws banded to keep them from nipping fingers or each other.

By the time the last trap splashed back into the sea and they were heading for the pound, Ann was exhausted, elated, face freshened by the wind, hair stiff with salt spray, nose sunburned, stinking of fish and rubber.

She pulled off the guts-splattered gloves and moved her chair out into the open area near the stern, put her feet up on the side and turned her face to the warm sun, closed her eyes, making herself think about where they’d been, not where they were going. At the pound, they delivered their catch, took on more bait, and were on their way, long day over at mid-afternoon.

Too soon the boat slowed, reentered the quiet cove, men As Good As It Got

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coming home after a hard day’s work. Arnold back to his wife, Clive back to . . . who knew?

Her mood downshifted with the motor. Back to the van, back to camp, back to crowded dinners, back to the shared cabin, closed in, watched . . . a zoo animal once more.

And back to whatever had happened—or not—last night with Patrick.

“We tire you out?”

She turned to Clive and found him watching her, hands resting on the mop he’d been using to scrub the deck. Unexpectedly, she didn’t have the heart to be snotty to him. Even if he was asking hoping he’d kicked her white-collar princess ass to the moon.

“This was a really great day.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he expected the other shoe to fall.

Not that she could blame him. Being earnestly grateful wasn’t exactly her strong point. But she
was
earnestly grateful. And she wanted him to know it. Even if he was a fascist.

“I haven’t had many great days recently, so this was . . . ”

Her mind spun frantically.
Oh God, she was going to say that
word, someone help.
“ . . . special.”

Ew.

“Seriously, thank you.” She glanced back to include Arnold.

“Both.”

Clive stood watching her until she wanted to jump up and shriek in his face to break the tension. “You hungry?”

She blinked. “Am I
hungry
?”

“I’ve got food up at the house. Fresh coffee. Save you having to go back to camp yet.”

She stood slowly, needing more power. “What makes you think I don’t want to go back?”

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He shrugged. “Do you?”

She bunched up her mouth, then relented. “No, not really.”

“I’ll call Betsy and let her know. Drop you back at camp later.”

“I haven’t said I’d come yet.”

“Well?”

She didn’t know what bewildered her more, his sudden invitation or her panic over a very simple decision.

Arnold chuckled. “He’s harmless. You go on up. Best cook on the point. I’ve gained five pounds since he’s been on board with those muffins of his.”

She didn’t hide her amazement. “
You
made those muffins?”

“Should I call Betsy or not?”

Ann waited, enjoying his embarrassment. A muffin-baking sailor who’d barely tolerated her all day suddenly wanted her up to his house? Not that she’d been a disciple of Miss Manners either on this trip.

Okay, she’d go. She was too curious not to. A good excuse to put off being another slide under the Camp Kinsonu mi-croscope.

Clive’s house was a small neat colonial farther west on Shute’s Point, past a stretch of blueberry barrens, off a long narrow road through the woods. The interior confirmed that there was indeed a Mrs. Clive, though no visible signs of little Clives. But this was not a bachelor pad—at least not a straight guy’s bachelor pad.

If he turned out to be gay, she was going to introduce him to Patrick and see what happened.

The walls had been painted a warm straw yellow, colorful without being intrusive. Against them, arrangements of As Good As It Got

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dried flowers, curly willow snaking out in all directions; a

“Bless this Home” framed circular needlepoint; a hanging figure of Christ on the cross. Elsewhere, coordinated pillows and furniture, and on the fireplace mantel, candles, more dried flowers, and a bunch of those prissy porcelain figurines she detested more than they probably deserved.

The clincher? Wedding pictures, on the end table next to the couch, one of either his parents or hers, and one of the blushing bride herself, a plain stocky woman on whom the delicate veil and poufy Cinderella gown looked utterly wrong.

The overall domestic effect? Cozy Nest, though somehow Cozy Nest self-conscious and untouched. But cozier and nestier than her and Paul’s place, which had been decorated Chilly Expensive Chic.

The comparison felt uneasy, but Ann wasn’t going to take that feeling out and examine it for all the group therapy in the world.

“Shower?” Clive reemerged from a hallway holding out a towel, which she took gratefully, even as she felt odd planning to get naked in a strange man’s house. Which proved her brief run as a wild single woman in her teens and early twenties was way too far behind her.

“I’d love a shower, thanks.”

“I’m betting I don’t need to offer you a drink.”

She winced comically, surprised at his sudden switch into Mr. Hospitality. “No drink for me. I’ve sworn off. Nothing until . . . oh, let’s say . . . tomorrow morning, right after breakfast.”

As soon as the joke exited her mouth, she realized he could very well report her back to Queen Bee Betsy for consuming 158 Isabel

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alcohol and planning to do so again. Patrick could get into trouble as her supplier . . .

God, it was all too annoying.

“Clive.” She followed him into what was obviously the master bedroom, a king-size-bed-dominated room decorated rather ookily in ruffly peach and beige and light green.

“We’re not allowed alcohol at Camp Kinsonu.”

“I know.” He turned at the bathroom door and gestured her in.

“So . . . ” She stopped opposite him, clutching her towel, feeling like a complete grade school dork. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t—”

“Tattle?” He grinned, and a surprise dimple appeared in his cheek. How did she miss that all day long? Hadn’t he smiled? “How you choose to deal with your pain is your business.”

“Thank you.” She hugged the towel to her chest. “I’m . . .

not used to other people’s rules.”

“Believe it or not, I guessed that.”

“Hey, I stuffed your bait bags, what more do you want?”

This time he actually chuckled, which made her feel like she’d won some competition. “Have a good shower. If you need anything, holler.”

“Okay.” She stepped into the bathroom, but peeked around the door frame so she could watch him stride out. He moved on land the same way he did on the boat, calmly, confidently, but as if everything he did needed to be accomplished in the minimum amount of time. Yet something was different here.

He seemed nicer, yes, more relaxed, maybe, but something else. She couldn’t place it yet.

The shower was heavenly, though the bathroom was fright-As Good As It Got

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eningly spotless and as ordered as the living room and bedroom, to the point where her filth seemed an affront and she peered anxiously in the tub for stray hairs after she stepped out. What would Mrs. Clive think of her trespassing? Most likely Clive was calling her right now:
Honey, brought home
another wacko from the camp. Where should we bury this one?

Refreshed and defished, she dressed again, dropping the layer closest to her skin so she wouldn’t have to put sweaty clothes on a clean body. Back through the dust-free living room, she found the kitchen, cheerful in a brighter yellow with red accents throughout—a bowl of wooden apples; a red teapot displayed on a shelf; a red, yellow, and white decorative plate perfectly centered on the wall behind the table.

Again, all the right ingredients for “cozy” but . . . not quite.

Clive had showered and changed, jeans and a white long-sleeve knit shirt that looked thick and soft. Without his rubber coveralls, she was able to enjoy the view of a very nice body. Compact, powerful, she could only imagine the shape his muscles must be in.

As soon as she had the thought, she wished her brain could spit it out like something rotten. What was wrong with her?

Paul had been dead only six months, and she’d kissed one man last night and was ogling another today? This was not how a recently widowed woman should be acting. Hell, this wasn’t how she usually acted. She’d been dazzled by Paul, dazzled by his talent, his charm, his professional hunger, and most of all by his interest in her. Once they were a couple, when she was all of twenty-four years old, she stopped looking, always felt a little odd when her girlfriends drooled over men not their husbands, thinking maybe she was undersexed. Paul’s death seemed to change that. Or was it just another part of 160 Isabel

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the temporary insanity of grief? She needed a guidebook to get through this.

Clive put a big glass of water in front of her and she gulped it gratefully, alcohol, wind, and caffeine having robbed her of liquids.

“When I was young, my favorite meal on a hung over stomach was breakfast.”

“You’re not young anymore?”

He smirked. “I don’t drink anymore.”

“At all?” She sounded horrified.
Geez, Ann. Let him not
drink if he wants to.

“Not much.” He opened the refrigerator, peered inside and started taking out items: a small plastic container, a carton of eggs, a package of bacon, half an onion. “But I don’t drink as an activity, as a way to spend an evening. There lies the path to self-destruction, weight gain, and dead brain cells.”

“Gotcha.” And bingo, she knew what was different. He was more articulate, more sophisticated. Out on the boat he’d been Mr. Monosyllable. What made the transition happen? Being off the job? Being away from Arnold? Being

. . . alone with her?

Stop, stop, stop, and while you’re at it, stop.

“Back in my drinking days, my favorite hangover cure was BEPO.”

“Beepo? Is it some kind of drug?”

“Bacon, eggs, potatoes, onions. Tastes better made over a campfire, but we’ll make do.” He put an omelet pan on the stove, added a slab of butter to start melting, sliced leftover quartered potatoes and tossed them in to brown.

Her response was automatic. “I’m not really hungry.”

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He sliced the onion, stirred the potatoes. “You need to stop starving yourself.”

Surprise delayed her reaction, but hello, how are ya, here it came, the all-too-familiar simmer of temper, this time tinged with disappointment. “Gee, I thought I was away from camp. Or are you allowed to boss me around too?”

“I’m making an observation. You’re skeletal.”

Compared to your bovine wife
? “I’ve been through some rough times.”

“No excuse not to take care of yourself.”

“For God’s sake.” She clutched her temples. “Can I not have
one
conversation where someone doesn’t point out how I need to change? Anything else you’d like? Boobs too small?

Bags under the eyes annoying? Plastic surgery is so good nowadays, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”

He stayed calm, chopping bacon. “You done?”

“No, I’m not done. What the hell makes you and everyone else think that losing someone makes me public property?”

“People want to help.”

“I’m
so
sorry, of course, you’re right. Criticizing me is for my own good. Making me feel I’m even more of a failure at grief than I was as a wife is for my own good. No, even better,

‘helping’ makes
you
feel good, which is what really matters.”

He turned and met her eyes with that hard stare she wanted to scratch off his face. “Done now?”

“Completely.”

Apparently there was a clock in the kitchen, because its ticking was suddenly very obvious. No doubt it was red. No doubt he and his anal-compulsive neat-freak wife had picked it out together. Bacon sizzled, the smell making her stomach 162 Isabel

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react as if it had been on a hunger strike only until it got this exact meal.

Her anger started to dissolve into fatigue and hopelessness. And then the unthinkable.

She dropped her eyes.

Ann Redding never backed down. Well, with Paul she never had to; he withdrew rather than fight. But she could stare any coworker under the table, had a reputation as a bar-racuda. This man’s blues had defeated her.

Worse? It meant she knew he was right. She was too thin.

She needed to eat more.

Crap.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“What was that?”

“I’m sorry.” Louder than the first time.

“Didn’t catch it, what?”