The Pickle Boat House (2 page)

“Joe, you might want to slow down through here,” Vanessa said to the truck driver. “This is the stretch where they nail you for speeding.”

“The last thing I need is a ticket, Ms. Hardy,” said Joe, slowing down. “Thanks. I’d get fired for sure. Zero-tolerance policy, you know?”

“Call me Van. Seriously, this is the perfect spot for a cop to hide. My granddad swore the highway people designed it that way—had it ‘on good information.’ I can remember sitting in the front seat between Dad and Granddad, bouncing along with the ruts in the road. The hum of the engine would lull me to sleep, and then,
bang,
I’d jolt awake to the sound of Granddad cussing out a cop for trapping speeders from the perfect spot.” Van smiled. The old man had hated an uneven playing field. She loved that about him.

Van mentally acknowledged each street as the truck lumbered through town to the bungalows sitting along the boardwalk. Good utilitarian names like Mill Swamp Avenue and Polling Place Road bespoke the long history of the place.

“That George Washington, he got around, didn’t he?” The driver chuckled as they passed one of several historic markers. “This is a nice area. I’ve been trying to buy a house down here, but they’re sold and off the market almost before I can get a bid in.”

“Really?” said Van. “I think you need a new real estate agent. It shouldn’t be that hard to get something down here.”

“Maybe, but it’s happened to me enough times, I’d all but given up. Finally, I got wind of a house on Third Street that was going on the market. I called the owners directly, and we’re going to settle next week. It was a fair deal all the way around. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Well, neighbor, I’m on Third Street. Whose house—”

Joe frowned. “You smell something burning?” He checked his rearview mirror. “Not us.”

Van sniffed deeply several times and shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t smell anything, but then, I’m just getting over a cold. Can you still smell it? Maybe we should pull over.”

“Yeah, it’s getting stronger, but I don’t think it’s us. Maybe someone’s burning trash.”

As they turned down Third Street, Joe suddenly slammed on his brakes. “Son of a bitch! That’s
my
house!” he wailed. Ahead of them smoldered the burned-out hull of a house, with a fire truck and a pumper parked in front, blocking most of the roadway.

“Oh, my God, only one house? What about mine?” Van craned her neck to see past the emergency equipment. “If they let us through …”

A fireman stepped out toward the truck and hailed them to stop. Before he could say anything Van jumped out of the truck, with Joe pelting out the other side.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“She went up so fast, we couldn’t do much except watch her burn. Pickle boat house is fine, though, Miz Hardy. That’s the first thing John asked about when we heard the address. We’re just watching for flare-ups now.”

Joe stood frozen, watching his dreams turn to soot and cold ashes.

“Faulty wiring?” Van asked the firefighter. “The house has been empty.”

“No ma’am. The speed it went up—never seen anything like it. Somebody packed gasoline-soaked rags around the back section of the house. Arson,” he said, shaking his head. “Need you folks to move along now. Gotta keep the road clear.”

“Sure. Come on, Joe,” said Van, pulling the shell-shocked driver back toward the truck. “It’s a good thing you hadn’t settled yet. This isn’t your problem now.”

“Such a beautiful house,” Joe lamented, his eyes brimming with tears. “It’s like somebody just doesn’t want me to have a house. Who could hate me that bad?”

“No, it wasn’t anything you did. Just bad luck—some kook that likes to watch things burn … You know, you could buy the lot and build a new house.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head sadly as a single tear broke free and rounded his cheek. “Let the kook have it. It’s bad luck now.”

Van nodded. “Arson. This could be
everyone’s
problem.”

Joe drove a stone’s throw farther down the street and pulled into a tiny driveway. Between two larger, more modern houses sat a small, well-kept bungalow, its empty rooms beckoning for a beating heart as it looked out across the bay. It hadn’t changed much since her great grandmother stood on the widow’s walk, waiting for the fishing fleet to return to shore. Humble in looks, it was a solid house that had endured every hurricane and nor’easter that nature threw its way over the years. A roofed porch, supported by green carved pillars and white bannisters, crossed the front of the long, narrow white house. A kitchen and parlor below and two bedrooms at the top of the stairs made a comfortable space for someone who wanted to be alone.

Van looked forward to hiding away in her own quiet little space. It certainly wouldn’t take her and Joe long to move her in. She had taken very few things from the house when she walked out on Richard. She wanted a clean break. A separation would do them both good, but in reality she was thinking just for herself. She didn’t care anymore what he wanted. She had to save herself, and if she felt the same way after she put herself back together, divorce was inevitable.

She and Richard had met at college. He liked her long brown hair, and she loved his sense of humor. But, it was a much deeper connection than that. It was love at first sight—the kind that came out of nowhere and had total control once it seized you in its velvet grip. They had a beautiful first life together, and Van was the happiest person in the world.

But life’s beauty was fleeting, and when her and Richard’s 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident it evaporated utterly. From the very first, Van realized that she and Richard would grieve differently. He suffered in seclusion and compensated without her, whereas she reached out everywhere. She bought books about loss, grief, and near-death experiences, and the Catholic-faith TV channel became her constant companion. She prayed to God just to get down the hall to the bathroom and back, spent lunchtimes in prayer at the local church—anything to get her from one minute to the next. That first Christmas without him—no tree, no presents; just standing in the surf reciting the rosary. It was unimaginably hard on both of them.

She couldn’t fathom why a romantic love so right, so seemingly destined, could turn out so wrong. Van would have given her life for Richard, but she found out that the sentiment didn’t run both ways. He cheated on her. Van could have forgiven him had he confessed and admitted to a mistake, a lapse in judgment, but that never happened. Instead, it became a question of admitting when caught, and with never a reason why or an apology that meant anything. She didn’t even know how long they lasted or how many there were.

Neither could be blamed for what happened. Their relationship was consumed in the fires of their grief. The simple fact that they both had survived to walk away from each other said something.

Why did beautiful marriages crumble, 24-year-old sons die, terrible things happen? Van had concluded that like so much of life, the answer to “why” was simply “because”—no more, no less. It just was, and if she could accept that, then maybe she could go on. If not, she would spend the rest of her life in hell, trying to rationalize something that could never make sense. In the end, she was learning to control the pain—or, more accurately, learning not to let
it
control
her
. The less it controlled her, the less she would keep living and reliving, steeping herself in, the loss. It was always there, though, like a hibernating viper waiting to rear its poisonous head.

Time could heal, but it could also, and quite unexpectedly, rip open a still-raw wound. A world that didn’t pause to reflect on a life, or bow its head in even momentary remembrance, was a painful place to inhabit. Van needed that pause to remember, and closure to heal. Perhaps she could find it in the pickle boat house.

CHAPTER THREE
NOT A LEG TO STAND ON

On the corner of Bayside and Seventh Streets stood a short row of little stores hiding from the sun beneath striped green awnings. Betty’s Bakery, on the end, had been around for years. Fancy cupcakes with curlicue icing and sprinkles still drew the locals. Many a serious discussion in town was had, and many a business deal sealed, over a cup of Betty’s best, or sweet tea and a blueberry muffin. And, of course, no May wedding was complete without a cake with Betty’s strawberry cream filling and fancy petit four favors.

Van maneuvered around a group of cyclists as they propped their bikes up against Betty’s and took their helmets off. Their sleek aerodynamic shirts and padded chamois shorts screamed “Passionate cyclist!” Not of Nevis, this bunch was merely passing through. A Pavlovian bell on the back of the door elicited a smile from Van as she entered. Some good things never changed.

“Morning, Betty. Baking blueberry muffins and wheat bread this morning? Smells so-o-o good! I could put on five pounds just breathing.”

A plump little woman with graying hair gathered back into a bun, Betty pulled herself up from behind the pastry case. Curly tendrils and a tender smile softened her many wrinkles. Like all the bakers before her, she was known simply as “Betty.” Everyone in town was on a first-name basis, connected either through growing up together or through the friend of a second cousin on their mother’s side. And every one of them loved Betty.

“Morning, Van. If it’s Sunday, it must be muffin day, huh? The usual’s in the bag there, on the house.” I didn’t burn as many today.” She flashed the teasing eyes of a feisty woman.

“I see another peloton, off on one of their secret missions. Ever wonder where they’re from, where they’re going?”

“No, that’s all kind of lost on me. Maybe I’m just getting too old. Cars are quicker and a whole lot safer.”

“Yeah—unless you’re on a bike. I’d rather get my thrills in a spinning class at the Y. They are good for business, though,” Van said, absentmindedly watching them through the storefront window. She turned back to Betty and, with a smile, picked up her bag and headed out toward the boardwalk, dodging the knot of cyclists coming through the door. The rich smell of blueberries began to melt away her self-control, and she finally popped a warm piece into her mouth. Nobody made muffins like Betty.

It was one of those beautiful, indelibly clear blue late-summer days. Calm water undulated in gentle, sparkling waves of shimmer. Van walked down the boardwalk toward her favorite bench. She spent a lot of time there, for it gave her a chance to clear the emotional clutter and contemplate details on the various projects she was involved in. Lately, there was more clutter than details. She had to clean house emotionally or face endless hours recreating the wheel. Van had always considered herself to be strong, nonconformist, and thoroughly independent. Everything she needed, she could draw from within. Those qualities had always supported and sustained her—until now. Now she was having a hard time being strong, and when she faltered there would be no one there to catch her. Introversion had effectively isolated her from friends and social ties.

She shooed away the gull perched on the backrest, and sat down, giving the muffin her full attention. Eating on the boardwalk was something she usually avoided, and not just because it was prohibited—the fishy-smelling wrack and flotsam along the rocky shore could turn any but the most cast-iron stomach against the very thought of food. Warm blueberries had a certain masking quality, though. She tossed the leftovers out into the water and watched as the ever-observant geese scrambled and fought over the goodness.

Nothing helped better with that inner clutter than the healing effects of the sun.
Mmm,
she could stay like this forever, she decided as she stretched out her legs. Little black dots moved lazily across the inside of her fiery eyelids until preempted by daydreams of a previous life. She was back on the bay with her grandfather, John, the boat dipping in rhythm with the swells, as a giggly girl poked a long-poled net at a jellyfish.

But other important people, such as her son, often inhabited her daydreams. Boyish laughter reverberated through the stillness in her, and she turned her mind’s eye onto a little boy as he unwrapped his arms from around his grandfather’s neck and slid down his strong old back to the safety of the top porch step. The little boy turned and gave her a big, goofy smile, his gray eyes sparkling. Van smiled back but suddenly felt herself pulled back to the now sounds of the boardwalk. It was becoming more crowded, less lonely perhaps, as the morning got going and the locals began to stir.

Van couldn’t concentrate anymore amid the growing distractions, so she gathered up her things and headed for home. A local fisherman stood leaning his shoulder against the boardwalk railing as his practiced hands baited a hook. He nodded as she passed. “Morning, Miss Van. Catching your rays early, I see. No Lulu today?”

“Spence, happy Sunday. Nah, left Lulu at home.” Van tried to keep her eyes off the wriggling lugworm trying to escape the grimy fingers holding the hook. The little worm didn’t have a chance against the experienced fingers of the fisherman. “Couldn’t take the happy dance this morning. I’ll make it up to her later.”

Van walked over to the old man and peered into his catch bucket. “Are they biting this morning?”

“Nope, not a good day, Miss Van. ’Bout ready to call it a day. Not like the good old days when they were biting as soon as your bait hit the water. Can’t expect nothing to last forever, I guess.” Spence stooped down and addressed the Bay retriever that lay snoozing at his feet. “Well, Chessie, it just isn’t much of a morning without little Lulu, is it?” The dog momentarily opened his eyes and thumped the boards with his tail before resuming his snooze.

Van smiled to herself as the old man baby-talked his constant companion. She scratched Chessie behind the ears and slowly pushed herself away from the railing. “I’ll tell her you missed her,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away.

Most of the locals walked the boardwalk at some point during the week. She could set her watch by the older, retired residents who came every day—in the early morning or after sunset in the hot months, just after noon in the cold ones. Often they came hand in hand or arm in arm with their mate. On her good days, they brought a smile to Van’s lips; on bad days, a tinge of envy and regret into her broken heart.