Must Love Otters (18 page)

“Miss Betty went upstairs to check on you after the incident with Roger. You sort of disappeared, so she got worried. When you didn’t answer your door, she let herself in to make sure you weren’t locked out again or that you hadn’t fallen, you know, with the sore ankle,” he says, gesturing at my leg. “When we couldn’t find you, we counted the boats. Sure enough, we were one short.”

“A broken one. I lost an oar within just a few minutes.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t get the oar locks in right.”

“I’m not Popeye.”

“Clearly. Or we wouldn’t be out here right now.” He finishes preparing his tea and sits next to me on the couch-bench thing. His hands dwarf the coffee cup. “Why’d you leave?”

“Do you have to ask?”

“You looked amazing tonight. We could’ve had a nice dinner, a few laughs. I could’ve explained everything you never wanted to know about hockey—”

“Hockey? Really?”

“You didn’t notice—my beard’s gone.”

“And that has to do with hockey?”

“Remember? Playoff beard. My team lost. I shaved.”

“I thought you shaved because Miss Betty threatened to tell your boss.”

Ryan chuckles and shakes his head, eyes diverted. “Yeah, there’s that.”

“Is hockey what happened to your nose?”

“You really don’t like my nose, do you.”

“I never said that.”

“No, but you haven’t missed an opportunity to flip me shit about it.”

“It’s … unique.”

“If by unique, you mean broken and improperly set between periods three different times, then yeah. I’m unique.”

“Your teeth are lovely, though.”

“These were expensive.” He flashes a cheesy grin. “They’d better look good.”

A moment without conversation settles between us, but it isn’t quiet. The wind screeches like depraved harpies trying to shred the windows. “So you bailed on dinner because of some guy who doesn’t deserve the air he breathes.”

“That’s not a very nice way to talk about paying guests, Concierge Ryan.”

“I’ve been at this for a while. I see these guys all the time. Saw ’em when I was playing hockey. Give a man a little power, a little money, and he thinks he can have any honey who smiles pretty at him.”

“And I happened to be a honey who smiled pretty.”

“What do you expect with a guy like Roger?”

“Is that even his real name?”

“Yeah. And he really does own those grocery stores.”

“He seemed nice, though. I guess I should’ve known better.”

“Why would you?”

“Because why would a guy who looks like that be interested in me?”

“Uh-oh, are we heading into one of those I’m-not-pretty-enough conversations?” He looks at me sideways.

“You should talk with that nose of yours.”

“See? Again with the nose. I’ll have you know I earned this.” He points at his nose. It’s not
that
bad. In fact, without the Grizzly Adams-ish beard … those green eyes are something kind of crazy.

“It’s not that I’m not pretty enough—I do fine with what I’ve got. But he’s successful and rich and he’s just not the type I usually attract. Did you see his wife?”

“Plastic. All of it.”

“And you would know that how?”

“Hollie, I’ve played professional athletics. Been in and around the hockey world since I was a young, hormonal, pimply-faced man-child with no idea what to do with the attention the girls and women were throwing at me. I’ve seen my share of plastic babes.”

“So you’re a manwhore?”

“Nah, not me. All I’m saying is that I’ve seen my share of guys like Roger Dodger.”

“Still … he would’ve been fun.”

“Really?”

“Did you see his abs?”

Ryan laughs under his breath at me. “No, I did not see his abs.”

“I haven’t seen abs like that outside of a magazine or movie screen.”

“Really? Working at 911, don’t you have your share of firemen and cops?”

“Hardly.”

“And Keith the paramedic has no abs, I take it.”

“If abs could be built with Cheetos and cheap takeout, then he’d be Mr. Olympus …”

“You’re hanging out with the wrong crowd, then, Hollie Porter.”

“Which is why I will never drunk dial your resort ever again,” I laugh. “You clearly know way too much about my life.”

“Hey, I’m just a willing listener, doing what I can to make my guests happy,” he says, his smile warm and wide. “It’s not my fault loose were your lips.”

“Thanks, Yoda.”

“The Force is strong with you, young Padawan.”

“Oh my God, you sound like Keith.”

“Noooo, not Keith! Wait—wait—where’s my stethoscope?” He pats his chest.

I reach behind me and grab the small, rather ugly throw pillow and threaten to smack him with it. Instead, I stop midswing and look at the pillow’s circa-1975 cat face. “This is the ugliest pillow I’ve ever seen.”

“Don’t be mean. That is a classic.”

I swallow the rest of my tea in one long pull. The undissolved honey in the bottom is sweet on my teeth.

“You warming up yet?” he asks.

Actually, I am. The shivers aren’t gone, but the chattering of my teeth has subsided and I don’t feel like I’m going to crack like an icicle against a fence post. “I think I might need more tea.” Ryan nods and reaches for my cup. “Wait—you have a potty on board, right? I don’t have to hang my ass off the boat or anything?”

“In the closet across from the shower stall, a Porta Pottie, just for the lady.”

As Ryan moves the few feet to the kitchenette, the boat rocks with a little extra force. I grab the arm of the couch. “We’re not going to tip over, are we?”

“Nah. The wind’s coming at us from the side. Anchor’s down. We’re going to get rocked around a little bit.” When he returns with my refilled tea, he lobs a banana onto my lap. “I’m guessing you’re hungry.”

“Yeah, the granola bars in the emergency kit—”

“You didn’t eat those, did you?”

“Uhhhh, yeah …” Ryan grins. Again. “What? Are they rotten?”

“No. You’re not dead or throwing up yet, so looks like you’re fine. I just don’t know how long they’ve been in there.”

“Nice. Real nice. Not only do you torture your guests, you try to poison them.”

“
What
are you even talking about? How have we tortured you?” He’s laughing hard enough now that he has to put his own cup down. “God, you are something else. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, Porter.”

“What, you mean, crazy?”

“Spirited. Feisty. Authentic.”

“Those are euphemisms for crazy, obnoxious, likely unstable.”

“Your words, not mine.” He nestles my mug into a cup holder on the ledge behind us so I can open the banana. In a few bites, it’s gone. Damn, I am hungry. “Let me see that ankle.”

“It’s feeling better. The little dip in the water helped, I think. Froze the shit out of it.”

“You went into the water?”

“Dude, you missed it!” I straighten out my leg onto his. “I went into the water with
orcas
.”

“No way.” He gingerly pulls the roomy wool sock off my foot. I’m so glad Tabby painted my toenails earlier. At least that part of the beauty regimen remains.

“They came around—Daddy Orca popped up first—effing
huge
—and when I was standing to get a better look at Mommy and Baby, he came up behind the boat and scared the shit out of me. I fell into the water.”

“And they didn’t show any aggression?”

“No! It was amazing. I swear to God … probably the scariest and awesomest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“‘Awesomest’ isn’t a word.”

“It is when you’re talking about swimming with wild orcas.”

He presents his balled hand for a fist bump. “Then you win the Awesomest Award for the day. And I think the cold water helped. The swelling’s down, but the bruising is really, really pretty. Quite a masterpiece.”

“I’ve been known to show real talent in the arts,” I smile. When he wraps two very large hands around the sore ankle, the heat radiating from him to me is … delicious. And unnerving. And exquisite. And freaky.

And …

Remarkable.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t think he does, either. Maybe I should move. But I don’t want to. His hands are big and surprisingly soft and very, very warm. Like having a hot water bottle or heating pad wrapped around it.

“This is really weird, but I don’t know what else to say because that feels amazing.”

“Why is it weird? It’s just one friend helping another friend so hypothermia doesn’t take over.”

I smile because I think we both know that threat has passed. The internal temperature of the boat’s cabin is plenty toasty, so much so that I’m sure that the slight sheen on Ryan’s forehead hints that he’s overheating. But he doesn’t complain—he’s keeping it warm, for me.

Now this is a first.

“Friends. I like that. I can go with that.”

“Friends do nice things for each other, Hollie Porter. And saving your ass from whatever is lurking in those woods, I’d say, makes us friends.”

I nod. “Yeah … thank you. For finding me. I’m sorry I caused trouble. Again.”

“Like I said, I do what I can to keep my guests happy.”

For a singular moment, electricity sparks between us, like a Fourth of July sparkler that has been left in the rain and only ignites for a second. There exists the hint of fire, the suggestion that the sparkler will burn if enough heat is applied, but then it’s gone.

I sit up straight and, though I don’t want to, I pull my ankle from his grasp. “So, uh, where are we sleeping?”

“You can sleep in the forward cabin. I’ve got more blankets in the cupboard.” He offers a hand so I don’t have to use the still-dripping crutches. Because the curtain was drawn, the front sleeping compartment is chilly.

“Where are you going to sleep?” I say, eyeing the cushiony, V-shaped space. The forward “cabin” is a swath of carpet, flanked by the pretend-shower on the left and the closet holding the Porta Pottie on the right. Two small steps, and then a low ceiling and wall-to-wall mattress, the fabric green and blue plaid, though I’m not sure if it’s retro on purpose or if it’s just that old.

Looking at the built-in couch behind me, I know there’s no way Ryan’s monster body is going to fit there. “You’re way too big for that. I’ll sleep out here—you take the forward cabin. It’s warmer out here anyway, and you know, hypothermia …”

“This folds out. Into a bed.”

“Still. You’re a Sasquatch. That can’t be comfortable.”

“I’ll have you know I bathe more often than Sasquatch.” His eyes sparkle when he smiles. I hate myself for noticing that.

“That remains to be seen.”

He relents and shows me how the wall heater works. I knock into him when yet another aggressive gust bullies into the boat. He steadies me, his hand lingering on my low back as he adjusts the dial to low-warm. “This will heat the cabin enough without turning it into a sweat lodge.”

He unfolds the built-in’s hide-a-bed. I was right. It barely qualifies as a twin. He was willing to sleep on this, and let me have all that space up front? Awww. That’s almost … sweet.

Keith never would’ve done that. No, he and his Yorkies would’ve staked their claim the second we climbed aboard.

And here I go again, comparing. This is a terrible game.

Ryan throws on a set of sheets, layers the blankets, fluffs a pillow in a fresh case. It’s obvious he’s spent time cleaning rooms and making beds. Maybe he started as a housemaid before he was a concierge. I giggle to myself, the idea of Ryan in a little black French-maid outfit.

“What’s funny?”

“Did they teach you to make beds in the NHL?”

“That, my orca-loving friend, is a story for another day.” He pulls the blankets back. “In you go.”

“Wait. I really need a toothbrush.”

“Lucky for you, I have one of those.” He opens a kitchen drawer and inside is a bevy of Revelation Cove toiletries. So glad we won’t run out of shower caps! Phew!

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a tube of toothpaste,” I say.

“Once you’re settled, just click off this lamp. The boat’s rocking should subside soon enough. These storms don’t go on forever.” He ducks in behind the curtain, now just his head poking out.

“Thanks, Ryan … for everything.”

“Don’t mention it. Get some sleep.”

I brush, longer than necessary with the rough, fold-out toothbrush, so grateful that the tiny kitchenette sink has running
warm
water. Upon crawling under the heaped blankets, my sore ankle resting atop the heavy pile, I snuggle in, the steady rocking of the boat under me a sedative. It is then that I realize how bloody exhausted I am, but not before noticing, through the space between curtain and wall, that Ryan, his shirt off, has muscles in place I didn’t know muscles existed.

I should feel naughty—lecherous, even—for looking. But I don’t. And I keep looking until he clicks off the small wall lamp and his Adonis form is swallowed by the dark.

Bacon.

The world’s best alarm clock.

If the whole pig were on this boat with us, his life would be forfeit under the tines of my fork.

“Morning, Hollie Porter,” Ryan says, his shadow blocking out the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the cabin’s many windows, a steaming coffee cup in his hand. “Hungry?”

I can’t even think of a snappy comeback. Too early. But he offers coffee. I mumble unintelligibly and throw my face into the creamy, sugary cup. The tired is still heavy in my bones.

“What time is it?”

“Nine thirty. Figured we’d have some food and then head back.”

“Do we have to?”

“Have to what?”

“Head back.”

“Uh, that’s the reason I’m out here, yes? To save your scrawny ass from being kibble for predatory mammals?”

“It’s just that … when I talked to you on the phone, you promised there’s all kinds of wildlife here. I want to see some.”

“Orcas aren’t enough for you?”

“I saw raccoons again too. They came to check me out right before the storm hit. But I want to see otters.”

“Otters … right. You did tell me that.” He turns the bacon and scrambles a bowl of eggs. “I might know just the spot. Food first. Oh, and there are clothes—Miss Betty grabbed jeans and a few shirts from your room. I hope that’s okay.”

“Thanks. As much as I appreciate these gorgeous duds,” I say, gesturing to my ensemble, “pink isn’t really my color.”

“But they kept you warm, yeah?”

“Definitely warm.”

Concierge Ryan plates food and squeezes past the end of my bed to exit onto the boat’s outer deck. The storm now a memory, a table is set with orange juice, glasses, and fresh flowers. How did I sleep through this?

Blissfully. Best sleep ever. Near-death experiences will do that to a girl.

Feet over the side, I can put more pressure on the ankle today. This is excellent news. Still hurts, but I can tolerate the toes touching the floor as long as it’s a skip-hop. Like a one-legged seagull. Named Peg.

I tuck into the closet bathroom and splash cold water on my face, shocked at the icy smack against my cheeks. Canada, your water—it’s so numbing! A quick glance in the mirror does not do the self-esteem any favors, so I tidy what can be tidied and reenter the main cabin to see that Ryan has already unmade and stashed my sleeping quarters.

“You were done sleeping, right? Just makes it easier to move around.” He reaches for the crutches, the formerly pert bows now dirty and wilted.

“No crutches. I can move around. Just slower than usual.”

“I have some hiking boots that might fit you. We can cinch them tight. That’ll help with stability. The biggest issue with this kind of injury is not reinjuring it.”

I follow my nose onto the deck and am accosted by the grand beauty of this place. It looks a million ways different in the sunlight, the blue tarp of sky cloudless and proud, as if the storm was just what she needed to wash away the muck. Calling these trees green is a shameful understatement, and the water is so clear, rocks, fish, and starfish—purple starfish!—are visible along the bottom.

My mouth must be agape.

“The starfish! They’re purple!”

“Something else, eh? Now you know why I live up here.”

“I couldn’t see all this last night. Too dark and scary.”

“Well, good thing you were on the boat. Something else came down onto the beach. Those footprints are way bigger than a raccoon’s,” he says, pointing toward the narrow strip of sand.

“Holy shit, what could it have been?”

“A bear. Maybe a cougar. I’d have to look closer. And their poops look different, so if they’ve left that behind—”

“Mmm. Poop. Let’s eat,” I tease.

“Obviously you didn’t grow up with brothers.”

“Nope, just me and my dad. You have brothers?”

“Two. And a poor tortured sister. We talked about all the bodily functions at mealtime.”

I think about my dad, telling me about hospital stuff. Strange things found in orifices, oozings and scrapings and secretions. I’ve heard it all, from him, from Keith, from work. If I wanted to really up the ante here, I could take Ryan’s poop comment and raise him a compound fracture and avulsed fingernail.

But I won’t. Because there is bacon at stake.

Ryan pulls out a chair for me. I don’t wait for him to sit before thrusting a strip into my mouth. “Where’d you grow up?”

“Lansing, Michigan.”

“How did you end up on our beautiful Wet Coast?”

“Circuitously. My last NHL team was the Canucks, and I fell in love with Vancouver. Couldn’t see myself leaving this place.”

“I hear that. Portland’s great.”

“Yeah, some of my college buddies ended up playing for the Winterhawks for a few seasons. I visited when I could. Great beer in Portland.”

I laugh with a mouthful of bacon and eggs. “We’re also known for our roses and impeccable hospitality.”

“Beer helps with hospitality,” he says, topping up my coffee. “What about you? Where’d you grow up?”

“Same city all my life. Same house, really, until my dad met my stepmother. After high school, I moved into the dorms and then in with some friends in a shitty apartment in southeast. My dad sold our awesome house to buy a boat.”

“He likes boats?”

“He knows nothing about boats. They sank it.”

He chokes on his OJ. “No, they didn’t.”

“They did. My stepmother was a total nutbar. The two of them together were a disaster waiting to happen. That first winter, the boat sank to the bottom of the Columbia River.”

“That’s terrible.”

“And hilarious. Serves ’em right. Dad smartened up and left her. They’re still friends—she comes around to use my dad’s house for her primal-scream therapy Thursdays and to visit her terrible goat. House is on the outskirts, so there’s lots of room and lots of grass.”

“Sounds … fascinating.”

“Fascinating is the cosmos or learning how killer whales don’t freeze to death in these waters,” I say. “Aurora and her demon goat are not fascinating. They should be euthanized, for the good of the planet.” I slather blackberry jam on the toast. The second it hits my tongue, fireworks explode in my brain. “Oh my God, this is Miss Betty’s jam, isn’t it.”

“The very one.”

“Shit’s orgasmic. She should sell this.”

“Wow. That’s a little weird, associating jam with sex, but I’ll go with it.”

“What, no belly nachos for you, Concierge Ryan? Don’t you have any weird food fantasies involving this fantastic jam?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Uhhh, whipped cream and chocolate sauce, maybe. Not jam. A little too close to home for me.”

“Yeah, I suppose picturing sweet Miss Betty when you’re about to get naughty with your best girl doesn’t exactly fill the mind with lusty, erotic thoughts.”

“Stop. Please.”

“Damn good jam, though. For serious.”

“Speaking of nachos, have you heard from Stethoscope Man since you’ve been here?”

“He texted. Got his massive TV out of the apartment. I’m hoping he hasn’t let the Yorkies pee on my bed while I’m gone.”

“Is that a concern?”

“I dunno … he was a little shell-shocked when I told him to leave. He thought I was just sad. Which I was. But this is definitely more than that …” I can’t take another bite unless I hide it in my cheeks, so I change tactics. “Tell me more about you.”

“What’s there to know?”

“You keep harping on me about learning hockey. Tell me how you know so much about it.”

“Lansing—all of Michigan, really—is one giant hockey town. I started playing when I was little. My dad had all of us on skates the second we learned to walk. I got a scholarship to play at Michigan State University and was drafted my sophomore year by the Philadelphia Flyers. I played six seasons in the NHL, for the Flyers, St. Louis Blues, and finally the Canucks, as well as for all their farm teams. That’s called the minor leagues, the lesser teams that feed the big teams.”

“Farm teams. So they have nothing to do with carrots and potatoes, then.” He laughs. I point to his T-shirt. “That team is …?”

“Detroit Red Wings. My favorite.”

“You ever play for them?”

“Nope. I wanted to, you know, Detroit being in Michigan, hometown team, all that. Never quite worked out.”

“Why’d you stop playing?”

“As Roger Dodger so kindly explained, I took a bad hit into the boards and destroyed my knee. After surgery, I didn’t want to keep jumping from farm team to farm team, so I used the money I’d saved and the inheritance from my dad to start a new life.”

“Your dad … died?”

“When I was sixteen. Massive heart attack. He smoked for years but quit when he had his first heart attack at thirty. It finally caught up with him, though, in 1998. Worst year of my life.”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’d do if my dad died.”

“My mom was a rock. She kept us all in hockey and our activities. Worked her ass off to make sure we had what we needed and that life would carry on. We all made it through college. My sister’s still in Lansing with her husband and two kids. She’s a baby nurse, works in the intensive care with newborns. She’s amazing.”

“My dad’s a nurse!”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah! He works with old people now, but he’s done tons of different specialties.”

“That’s cool. He and my sister would have lots to talk about,” Ryan smiles.

“Sorry. I interrupted. Continue …”

“Oh, I, uh … ”

“Your other siblings?”

“Right. Yeah, my brother Brody played minor league hockey for a while but then decided to go to law school instead, especially after he saw me getting bounced all over the place.”

“Do you miss ’em? Being so far away and all?”

“We get together on big holidays. Sometimes they come here, sometimes I go there. Plus my other brother, Tanner, he’s a charter pilot. Works with me here at the Cove. You’ll meet him when it’s time for you to fly home—oh, and I gotta stop by his place and water the plants. He and his wife are trying to get pregnant, so they’re dealing with fertility docs in Seattle.”

“And what about you? No kids? No Mrs. Concierge Ryan?”

He doesn’t answer verbally but instead shakes his head, sipping from his orange juice like he wants to crawl into the glass. Sensitive subject, clearly.

Before the glass is pulled from his lips, a very large seagull lands on our table. I flinch away from the surprise guest, knocking over my juice. Ryan plucks one of two remaining bacon slices from the plate and holds it out for the white and gray bird.

“Is bacon bad for seagulls?”

“They eat dead stuff. I don’t think a little bacon is going to stop his heart.”

“I have a terrible confession,” I say, watching as the bird swallows the bacon in one long, jerky gulp. “One time some friends and I soaked a bag of Wonder Bread with vodka and got the seagulls at the beach drunk.”

“You are a terrible person.”

I smile at him. “I really am.” I think about confessing to Mangala and the codeine. Nah.

“You ever try it with the Yorkies?”

“No! I didn’t! But, God, that’s brilliant. Except then I’d have to clean up their puke.”

“Gross.”

“You should’ve seen what they did after they ate the belly nachos. Yorkshire terriers plus guacamole equals no bueno.” He laughs at me, and it’s loud, echoing off the rock wall that vanishes into the water.

With nothing left to offer the shithawk, Ryan shoos him away before his hovering feathered friends take notice of our generosity. “Let’s clean up. I want to show you something.”

He is surprisingly efficient in the kitchen, something I’m very much not used to. As soon as I was old enough to not catch my ponytails on fire, I did all the cooking and cleaning, thanks to my dad’s inconsistent hours. Which is why I hate cooking now. A person can only be expected to get creative with pork-and-beans and hot dogs for so long before the interest in culinary creativity dies a painful, cholesterol-laden death.

Ryan won’t let me help—says I’m “still a Revelation Cove guest, despite my bad choices in midnight watercraft activities”—and I take the few unoccupied moments to pee and brush my teeth again. God, I love having clean teeth. And I must admit, not having access to my makeup bag is sort of nice.

“You get what you get,” I say to my reflection in the small, warped mirror. A final check to make sure there are no green onions smooshed in between teeth, and I’m ready to tackle whatever new adventures this day will bring.

Because lately, every day has been adventure day.

“I have more tape,” Ryan says, unrolling a first-aid kit. “We should keep that wrapped. And then try these boots on. What size shoe are you?”

I can’t lie. He’ll know. “Ten. Depends on the shoe.”

“How does someone your size have such big feet?”

I point at my nose. “Really, Snuffleupagus?”

He snorts at me. “These are nine in men’s. We can stuff extra socks in the toe.”

Because I have—had—only one shoe on last night when I decided to go boating, and that shoe is now likely in the bottom of this very clear, very cold waterway, I don’t have a lot of room to argue. Even if the boots are hideous and mannish and might have athlete’s foot hiding in the leather crevices.

Ryan’s expert hands, again warm and soft from the recent dishwashing, quickly tape up the ankle for maximum stability. He slides on another wool sock from what must be the world’s biggest stash of wool socks and shoves its mate into the boot’s toe, followed by my foot. “Try standing.” I do. It works.

“Thank you. That feels … good. More stable.” The pain twinges when I bend my toes to take a step, but it’s manageable.

“Excellent. Now let’s go find us some otters.”

As I’ve proven my lack of marine skills, I stay out of the way, chastising myself for watching his biceps and triceps ripple against the short-sleeve T-shirt as he hoists the anchor. He’s already tied my oar-free rowboat onto the ledge on the back, so once he’s in front of the main wheel, we’re off.

I missed so much last night. Certainly the prestorm night sky was an awe-inspiring tapestry all its own, but today, with the sun so bright and the water so clear and glistening, it’s … wow. The island where I washed ashore is huge, much bigger than I expected, but an island it is. The southernmost end is a sheer rock face, robust fir trees growing out of cracks in its side, their trunks curved at perfect angles so their branches can reach skyward for luscious sunlight. Nature doesn’t stop for anything, not even granite.