The Rattled Bones(33)

“I thought you weren’t supposed to fish another person’s line?”

“You aren’t.” I stack his three traps on my deck and hide his blue-and-white buoys under a tarp so no one will see my treachery.

We head to the co-op to offload at the wharf. I introduce Sam to Hoopah, who shakes his hand. “Glad to meet you,” Sam says.

Hoopah eyes him. “Not from these parts, are ya?” Hoopah’s “parts” is distinctly missing an R and sounds like “pahts.” Dad used to joke that a hard R was as endangered as some of the fisheries in this part of the country.

“Southern Arizona,” Sam tells him. Most of our tourists come from Massachusetts, New Jersey, and New York. Arizona is exotic in comparison.

“Ya far from home.”

“Farthest I’ve ever been,” Sam says. I almost expect him to tell Hoopah about the dusty book that started his journey to Maine.

“Rill!” I recognize Reed’s voice, and I cringe.

I’m aware of how exhausted I look after staying up too late to study Malaga’s past and how sleep didn’t come easily after learning of the island’s fate. The stress of my dream can’t be helping my overall look of wellness. And I don’t want Reed to sense my rage at his grandfather’s bullshit antics. We never talk about our hauls; it’s a pact we made when we started dating. Lobstering is competitive enough without having to keep score against your boyfriend.

Reed comes to me with his long strides, his smile that pushes everything else off his face. He plucks at one of the black elastic straps of my orange overalls as he approaches, gives me a kiss on the cheek. My hand drops to find his, like always.

I link my fingers through his and whisper, “Hey, good-lookin’.”

“Get a room!” a deep voice calls from over near the huge container of bait. Stanley Wyatt is a likely suspect. The bait shack is where the retired fishermen sit and smoke and gossip.

“And a condom!” another fisherman calls. Probably Holm Stegner, Stanley’s sidekick.

All the men crack right up, most stroking their thick beards while they laugh.

I turn to Sam with an apology in my eyes. “The wharf’s a little . . . rough.”

Sam shoots me an it-doesn’t-bother-me look, and I realize I know Sam’s expressions—only a few, but still. “It’s all good.”

Reed nods toward Sam but asks me, “Who’s this?”

“Ah.” I throw a short wave between the two of them. “Sam, Reed. Reed, Sam.”

Sam extends his hand. “Sam Taylor, Rilla Brae’s resident sternman.”

“Reed Benner, Rilla Brae’s resident boyfriend.” Reed drops my hand, shakes Sam’s.

Sam throws me a look that says Benner?

I nod. “Sam’s in town for the summer.”

Reed looks him up and down. “Summer jerk, huh?” Except he says “summah jerk.”

“Summah not,” Hoopah answers automatically from where he weighs my catch behind Sam.

Sam looks between Reed and Hoopah. “I’m lost.”

“Don’t listen to them,” I say. “It’s a local thing.”

Reed moves closer to him, too close to Sam’s face. He waves his hand in the general direction of the village. “Summah people flood this place every year.” His “year” sounds like “yee-ah.” He’s laying his accent on thick. “Summah jerks.”

“And summah not,” I say.

A smile pops across Sam’s face. “Summah jerks and summah not. Ha! That’s good stuff.” His smile broadens.

Hoopah slaps Sam on the back, like he’s just passed some brotherhood test. He pulls Sam over to his station, starts schooling him on the mechanized belt that hauls each catch to the lobster pound.

“Can’t get fresher seafood than that,” Hoopah’s saying as Reed invites me to the side.

“What happened to your wrist?” Reed grabs at the space above my bandage.

“Burned it on the engine.”

Reed leans in but doesn’t drop his voice. “Jesus, Rilla. Was it because of him?” He nods in Sam’s direction. “Does he even know what he’s doing out there?” Fishing the deep is the last place people from away are welcome.

“He’s fine.”

I can tell Reed doesn’t like my answer, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he tucks a stray curl behind my ear and I tilt my face to his tender touch.

“Just ask her to marry you already!” Jimmy McKnight taunts from across the wharf. I know it’s him because he’s lapping up a round of high fives from the equally ridiculous men surrounding him.

“Did Hattie stop by last night?”

“She did.”

“Things cool between you two?”

“Totally.”

“Good. She’s seemed miserable lately without you.”

I wait for him to acknowledge my misery, my loss, but he only asks if I can go to the quarry with him tonight. Ugh, that quarry.

“I can’t. We’re having company for dinner. I’m actually running really late. Long day on the water.” I thumb toward Sam. “Training . . . you know.”

“After dinner? Come by then.”

“I’m beat. I really need sleep.”