The Rattled Bones(34)

He takes my hand, rubs the skin along my knuckles, conjures up his best puppy-dog face. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes. How about tomorrow?”

“Okay. Tomorrow.” He kisses me on the forehead, which gets a construction-site whistle from the Wharf of Immaturity.

I turn toward my boat, but Reed pulls at my good wrist. He’s looking at Sam as he asks, “Who’s your company?”

“What?”

“For supper. Who’s coming over?”

“Garden Club ladies.” I don’t know why I lie to Reed now. I never used to lie to Reed, and the guilt it brings makes me never want to do it again. I’ve been lying too much. Small ones, but they still feel wrong. Like me trying to protect myself—or hiding the way my mind is slipping—is hurting others.

“Have fun.” Reed kisses me good-bye with a little too much pressure. The cackling calls rise from the peanut gallery as soon as his lips reach mine. Still, I like it. His lips, his taste. It’s familiar and safe at a time when I need familiar and safe. A not-so-small part of me wants to cancel plans with Sam and Gram and be with Reed instead. I want to be the girl who can go to the quarry, watch the bonfire flames shoot long, spitting embers into the sky, laugh with my friends because laughter is good. But Gram won’t allow me to fish with Sam again until I bring him home to meet her, and fishing has to come first.

I pull away, with effort. “See you tomorrow.”

“Counting the minutes.”

After we make our way out of the harbor, I toss open the doors to Benner’s traps and drag them onto a nearby shore. I throw a scoop of dead herring into a plastic bag and leave it inside the top trap to rot in the sun. I cut his buoys from their rope, plant their shafts into the soil so that they stand upright, like soldiers.

“A warning?” Sam asks when I return to the boat.

“Just telling him to back off. He’ll know what it means.” Every lobsterman knows what it means.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


When we dock at Fairtide Cottage, we hose down the deck and our rubber overalls. I unlatch the small cooler from the boat and hoist it onto the dock. “Supper,” I tell Sam, and he nods. When my feet touch the grass of Fairtide’s lawn, the weight of the cooler changes as Sam grabs the other side, shares my load. I toss him a look of thanks.

“This is home?” he asks as we walk up the rise of the back lawn.

“The only one I’ve ever known.”

“So it’s you and your grandmother and your parents?”

I keep my eyes fixed on the steps before me, how my legs adjust to moving against solid earth. I choose my words carefully to protect my privacy. “Just my gram and my dad. No mother.”

“Dads and grandmothers are great,” Sam says. I’m grateful that he doesn’t ask why my mother’s not around, or where she is. I like the way he knows her story isn’t my story. Or it never used to be, though now I’m not so sure.

Gram stands on the porch with her hands on her hips, the only mother I’ve ever really known. She looks expectant and satisfied all at once.

“I can’t imagine a better place to live,” I tell him.

“I’m a little jealous, if I’m being honest.” Sam takes the whole cooler from me then, balances it across his hips.

I’m curious about his jealousy, if I’m being honest.

“Good catch?” Gram asks when we join her on the porch.

“Great for a first day.” Gram knows exactly what that means and gives me a short nod. I don’t tell her about Old Man Benner’s trespass. Instead, I make introductions. “Sam, this is my grandmother, Eleanor Murphy. Gram, this is Sam.”

“Sam Taylor,” he says, nodding.

She waves Sam through the doors and into the kitchen as if they were old friends and introductions are a bother. “The suppah sides are all prepared and the water’s waiting. Just set them in there, Sam, and I’ll do the rest.”

“Smells delicious in here.” Sam’s chest expands with his deep breath. “I might never want to leave.” It’s possible Sam will ask Gram to marry him because the air really is thick with culinary temptations.

“We should go wash up and change.”

Sam tugs at the side of his dirty T-shirt. “Good idea, but I’m seriously underprepared.”

I point toward the bathroom door behind the kitchen. “There’s soap, and you can grab a fresh hand towel from under the sink. I’ll find you a shirt.”

“Perfect, thanks.”

I head to my room and strip off my work clothes. I pull on an identical uniform of a T-shirt and leggings, the clean version. I go to the upstairs bathroom to splash fresh water on my face and scrub the salt from my hands and forearms. My stomach rumbles with a deep hunger now that it senses Gram’s cooking is near. I grab an ancient, oversize black Ramones concert shirt from my drawer and hand it to Sam when I reach the base of the stairs.

He pinches the shoulders of the shirt between his thumbs and forefingers, lets the fabric hang. “Respect.”

My dad would have liked Sam.

I join Gram in the kitchen as Sam changes. I pour milk for Sam, set out Gram’s mug and mine and take a quick inventory of the table. I add a large open bowl for the broken shells, lobster crackers for all of us, and pour the melted butter into three individual warmers. I can’t help but wonder if Gram felt the same strangeness as she set out three plates tonight, but I don’t ask. Instead, I run my hand along the length of her back as I pass her at the stove, letting her know I’m here, that I am close and I’m not going anywhere. Maybe the gesture is more for me than her.