Better Off Without Him (17 page)

I finished the rest of my coffee and we sat there in silence for a few minutes. Finally I said, “You’re a good Dad, to spend your day off driving your kids to see somebody who probably doesn’t like you very much.”

He shrugged. “Isn’t that what it’s all about? Having kids? You spend lots of time doing things you don’t want to. The best thing about David going off to college is that now I can spend Saturdays doing want I want instead of driving all over the state in search of a travel soccer game.”

I stood up and stretched. “Thank God my girls are only interested in spectator sports. And shopping.” I watched him unfold and hoist his bag over his shoulder. “Seriously, you all can hang here for a little longer. I’m just writing and the girls are still asleep. Nobody would mind.”

He flashed me a smile that could have guided fog-bound ships to shore. “Thanks, but no. We need to get going. But thank you. And I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

I followed him out, simply because the view from the rear was outstanding. He threw his bag into the truck, pulled out a towel, peeled off his shirt and shrugged out of his shorts, revealing red swim trunks underneath. I watched with my heart in my throat, wildly hoping for one outrageous moment that he would in fact be naked beneath the denim. He wasn’t. He walked up towards the beach as I slumped against the side of his truck for support.

As he disappeared over the rise of sand, Anne Wilson came running out of her house and grabbed me by both arms.

“Who was that?” she asked in a hushed whisper.

I sighed. “Ben. My plumber.”

She turned to stare where he had vanished. “Will he be coming back?”

“Sure. This is his truck.”

“No, I mean, is your plumbing fixed? Or should I drop something down my toilet so I can call him myself?”

I patted her gently and drew her inside, explaining on the way. Poor woman, she was so disappointed.

Doug thought it was funny that I had decided to expand my dating pool. It was, of course, Miranda’s idea. I don’t know in what little notebook she had written down her plan, but there seemed to be an established course of events somewhere. After my fifth date with Doug, I had reached some sort of benchmark. I’m assuming she didn’t know about all the times we had sex and therefore didn’t factor that in. Anyway, Miranda announced that it was time to practice with somebody new, and she had the ideal candidate in mind. It was her idea that I talk to Bobby Kuschke, the fish guy.

There’s no table service at Bobby’s, only a long line of people waiting for the freshest, hottest fried fish platters anywhere. Ideally, you take your order directly to one of the outdoor picnic tables, splash on lots of malt vinegar, and eat everything while it’s still hot enough to burn your fingers. My daughters don’t like the noise and crowds, so my dinners are usually packed in Styrofoam and plastic and whisked home.

The Friday before MarshaMarsha was due to come down, Bobby pulled me out of line to the back of the shop. He’s a red-faced, sweaty guy, but maybe that’s because he’s cooking in a one hundred degree kitchen ten hours a day.

“So, Mona, I heard about you and your old man. Tough.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“And I hear you’re doing a little dating around, trying to get back on track?”

I wanted to ask where he’d heard that, then decided I really didn’t want to know. I couldn’t believe that Miranda had actually approached him about fixing me up. I preferred to think there was just a little birdie flitting around who told him. “Yes, I am dating a little. But only with men I already know.”

Bobby nodded approvingly. “Smart. Don’t want any whacko strangers when you’re just pulling out of the box. So how about Jack?”

I thought hard, then gave up. “Jack who?”

“My brother. You know Jack. He spends five, six weeks down here, helping out. He’s a teacher the rest of the year. An art teacher, but he’s not no fancy boy, just ‘cause he’s into painting and all that shit. He’s a little out there, you know? And he can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but a good guy. He’ll be here next week. What d’ya think?”

An out there pain in the ass good guy who’s not a fancy boy. What a referral. But I did know Jack. He seemed smart and funny. He also had beautifully shaped hands, thick straight hair and a very attractive smile. He always wore sunglasses and always gave me extra-crispy fries.

“Here,” I said, scribbling my phone number down on a napkin. “Have Jack call me. We’ll see.

Jack called Monday night after Brian had come by to pick up the girls. More precisely, he called as Doug and I were enjoying what we romance writers like to call a post-coital languor. I had to get off the bed, because Doug kept doing things with his tongue that made it hard for me to concentrate, but Jack and I agreed to meet for drinks that Wednesday at seven. As I hung up the phone, Doug flashed me one of his naughty grins.

“Cheating on me?”

“It’s a drink. I won’t be screwing him. In fact, I’ll probably come home and screw you.”

“This could work out well for me. Other men can wine and dine you, and I’ll get you in the sack.”

“I didn’t think it would be possible to cheapen this relationship any further, but I believe you’ve found a way.”

“It’s a gift.”

Jack and I had arranged to meet at a great little place on the bay where, if you were lucky enough, you could sail your boat up to the dock and walk up to your table. I drove, of course. Jack, apparently, flew.

He was just were he said he’d be – at the bar. He may have been there for days, because when I approached him, he had to squint at me for several seconds before recognizing me. He grinned broadly, began to slide off the bar stool, and slipped down to a heap at my feet.

Not an auspicious beginning.

But I was willing to assume the best, so I helped him to his feet, directed him to a small table overlooking the bay, and even held his chair for him while he cautiously sat himself down. I sat across from him, face carefully arranged, and said hello. He squinted again. Then looked out over the water.

“If we sit here, I may get seasick,” he said slowly.

“Seasick? But we’re not on a boat.”

He nodded at this piece of information. “That may be true, but I feel like I’m on a boat. Can we sit on the other side?”

This proved to be an exhausting exercise, because aside from navigating through several closely grouped tables, we also had to avoid getting run over by anxious waitresses carrying trays laden with food and drink. When we finally got to another table, safely away from the sight and sound of water, he squinted again, looking equally distressed.

“We’re not near the water,” I pointed out.

“I know. That’s not the problem. We’re too near the parking lot.”

The spot between my eyes started to burn. “What’s wrong with the parking lot? Do you get carsick too?”

“The fumes,” he explained. “I don’t like the fumes.”

“Do you want to go and get a table inside?” I asked.

There may have been a little something in my voice, because he looked suddenly hearty and eager to please. “No, not at all. This is fine. Drink?”

He waved his hand frantically in the air until a waitress hurried over. She was smiling at him like he was an old friend. Which, as it turned out, he was.

“Maggie, honey, how are you?”

“Oh, Jack.” She giggled. “I heard you were back.”

“Just this week, honey. Give me my usual, and whatever the lady wants.”

The lady wanted to get the hell out of Dodge, but I asked for a club soda. “I’m driving,” I said to Maggie, by way of explanation. Then I turned back to Jack.

“So, I guess you’re a regular here?”

“I live here.”

I laughed. “Really?”

“Yep. Really. In the spare room over the kitchen.”

I stopped laughing. “You live over the bar?”

“Yep. Have for years. Could stay with Bobby, of course, but he doesn’t like me smoking pot with his kids around, so it’s just easier to stay here. Maggie there? She’s the owners’ daughter. She, well, kind of looks after me when I’m here.”

“Does she now?”

Maggie returned with my club soda in what looked like a giant water goblet. Jack had something in the same sized glass. Clear, on the rocks. I stared as he took a long gulp.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Gin.”

“And what?”

He frowned. “And ice.”

“A classic,” I said.

He grinned broadly. “I find the simple things work out best for me. I don’t like a lot of stuff, you know? Stuff crushes the creative mind.”

I saw the straw and grasped at it. “Yes, Bobby says you’re an artist. Do you paint? Sculpt?”

“Right now, I’m working in what I like to call mixed media.”

“How interesting.” Here we were, having a real conversation. I felt a little proud of myself. “Is it difficult to get the supplies you need here on the island?”

He waved his hand. “Nope. That’s the thing. I’m using local material.”

I tried to be encouraging. “Such as?”

“Well, last night I found three dead jellyfish and a great piece of driftwood. As soon as everything dries out, we’ll see what develops.”

Maggie had hurried over. Probably in response to his expressive hand-wave. He looked at me. “Want to order some dinner?” he asked.

Dear God. No. “Not right now, the club soda is just great. Maybe in a few minutes.”

Jack winked at Maggie, who trotted off. He grinned at me again. “So, you’re a writer? I knew I felt a spark. All those times you’d come in for shrimp specials, I knew you and I had more in common than preferring cocktail sauce over tarter. A fellow artiste, you know?”

I swallowed club soda and nodded. “Oh, yes. Absolutely. So, where do you teach?”

He shrugged and drained the rest of his gin. I wondered why his speech wasn’t slurred. While he was managing to sit relatively upright, I noticed that his left elbow kept slipping off the table. “I’m kind of between positions right now,” he said.

“Oh?” Well, no wonder. “Are you looking for another job?”

“Well, the thing is, most schools want a drug test.”

“The nerve.”

“Yeah, like, who the hell cares what a person does on his own time, right? So, I’m going to wait things out for a bit. I haven’t told Bobby yet, but he’ll let me stay the whole summer, I’m sure. May even work through the winter. I bet this place is something in the off season.”

“I bet.” I had always imagined the whole of Long Beach Island to be something of a ghost town in the off season, but I kept my mouth shut.

“But enough about me. Heard you were getting a divorce.”

“Yes. I am.”

“That sucks. Unless it was your idea, of course.”

“No, it wasn’t my idea, and yes, it does suck. But it’s been really hard on my daughters, so as much as I hate to cut this short, I should get home. They get a little needy.”

“Of course. Understand perfectly. Let me walk you to your car.” He stood up.

I could see my car from here. Less than two hundred yards away. The path was free of physical obstructions, not too sandy, and in a fairly straight line. How much trouble could he get in? “That would be lovely. Thanks.”

He didn’t manage to get around to pull my chair out, but he did let me go first and didn’t lean on me as we walked. He was frowning, and I assumed it had to do with his concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. We were about halfway to my car when he suddenly stopped, put a hand on the nearest car and bent over. I jumped away from him and he threw up all over where my left foot had just been. I closed my eyes and prayed for rescue. Impossibly, rescue was right behind me.

“Hey, is everybody okay here?”

I opened my eyes at the voice. It was a very nice voice – deep, strong, slightly amused. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a Viking.

I’m sure he wasn’t a real Viking, but if I had been gathering wood on some distant shore a thousand or so years ago and saw this guy row up, I’d have immediately assumed that pillaging would ensue.

He was tall, well over six feet, with what might be considered a receding hairline, or possibly just a high forehead, and red hair. His eyes were icy blue and looked like they spent a lot of time squinting into the arctic sun. He was very tan, wore white jeans and a pale blue shirt, open halfway down his chest, showing a lot of reddish chest hair and impressively rippled muscles.

“Jack and I were having a drink, but Jack had a bit of a head start, and I don’t think he’s feeling very well,” I explained.

Viking looked at Jack. “When did Jack get here, last Sunday?”

I tried not to laugh. “Probably.”

Viking shook his head. “Not to worry, Mona. I’ll get him inside.”

I stared at him. “How do you know me?” I asked. And then it clicked. “Oh, of course. Peter.”

He really was a Viking. He was Peter Gundersen.

Every year when Brian had come down, he rented a boat for all his friends from work and spent a day deep-sea fishing. He always used Peter’s boat. Two years ago, I had foolishly agreed to go with Brian, and spent the entire day watching a bunch of grown men drink like teenagers and lie about their fishing prowess. By the end of the day, Peter and I had formed the kind of friendship that happens between two total strangers who are thrown together during the course of a natural disaster, say, an earthquake, and have only each other to rely on.

Peter grabbed Jack by the shoulder and pushed him back toward the bar. I waited a few minutes next to my own car, and when Peter came out of the bar, I waved at him. He was grinning.

“Your friend Jack lives here. They knew exactly what to do.”

“Thank God somebody did. Poor guy.”

“Poor guy hell. He was soused, and they say he gets that way every night. How the hell do you know him anyway?”

I sighed. “I just know him from The Fish Shack. Bobby’s place? We were supposed to be on a date.”

Peter tilted his head as he looked at me. “So you and Brian did split up?”

I nodded. “Yes. Does the whole island know?”