The Rattled Bones(68)

“You’re joking, right?”

“There isn’t a lobster boat captain alive who would joke about ghost traps.”

We deliver our haul to the co-op, and it’s decent. Four hundred and six pounds. “I’m gonna go grab a check for this.” I wave the sales slip at Sam. “Mind waiting on the boat?”

“I’ll hose her down.”

I nod and head toward the office.

Hoopah’s smile welcomes me inside. “Good ta see ya.”

“It’s good to be seen.”

“Whatcha got there?”

“Today’s slip. Just need to get paid out today.”

His brow creases. “That’s not like ya. Don’t want the check sent to ya account?”

“Not for this haul.”

He nods toward my slip, and I hand it to him. He studies the value. “Ayuh. A good day, Rilla.” Hoopah flips the checkbook open to a new page and uses a calculator to multiply my catch weight by today’s price per pound.

“Make it out to Sam Taylor.”

Hoopah nods. “If that’s what ya want.” He writes out a check and signs his name. He tears it off, hands it to me. “You’d make any father proud, Rilla.”

I fold the check, slip it in my coveralls. “You haven’t heard any chatter on the docks, have you?”

“Nothing but chattah.”

“Two of my strings were cut today.”

He narrows his eyes. “That so?”

I nod. “I know you likely won’t hear anything, but just in case.”

He scratches at nonexistent facial hair on his chin. “I’ve got my suspect.”

“Me too.”

“Ya watch ya’self now.”

“Always.”

He nods. “Ayuh.”

On my way back to the wharf, I see Reed and his grandfather stacking new traps onto his grandfather’s boat. They’re shining green and don’t carry a lick of clinging seaweed. I stare at Reed, know he sees me. And I don’t mistake how he doesn’t wave, doesn’t even raise his head in a nod. I hate the way my suspicion flares for Reed being partly responsible for my six traps being lost to the sea.

I go to my boat, where I slip Sam his pay.

“What’s this?” He unfolds the check. “Good God, that’s a lot of money. Why are you giving me so much money?”

I turn over the engine. “That’s a paycheck, Sam Taylor.”

“That’s a ridiculously big paycheck.”

“You got lucky. The next time might not be the same.”

“How do you mean?”

I throw the Rilla Brae into gear and leave Reed and his grandfather and the docks behind. My angry suspicions won’t leave me. “My dad always paid me on the seventh day of work. The full price of the seventh-day haul. On a good seventh day, you make more. On a bad seventh day, not so much.”

“This is too much.”

“It won’t feel like it next time when you get half of that.” I putter through the No Wake Zone and head toward Malaga. “Besides, that’s the way it’s done on this boat, and you’re on this boat. A lot of other captains will average out the week’s catch and give the sternman a fixed percent. But my dad was different.”

Sam slips the check into his jeans pocket. “Rule number one: Captain’s always right, right?”

“There’s a lot I’ve been wrong about. But I’m hoping today I’ll get something right.” I tell him about my dream and the flower and my hunch.

My body is electric with hope as Sam and I scour the island for the Flame Freesia. My dream had to mean something, the girl transporting the very plant that Gram’s mother held so dear. It connects my family to the island in a small way. Connects my family to the girl, even if it was just a dream.

Though it feels too much like bees carrying their stories. This flower, carrying a story.

We grid the surface of the island with our footsteps, no different from how Sam grids his dig sites. We walk normally at first, our excitement not wanting us to be slow about the search. When our hunt turns up nothing, we get down on our hands and knees, scour again.

“I don’t know how this can be.” I’m exhausted. Deflated. I sit with my knees pulled against my chest. “I really thought we’d find it.”

“Finding the echoes people leave behind isn’t always easy.”

“But I was so sure. Really sure.”

“My professor tells us not to expect anything from the earth so we’ll be that much more rewarded by what we do find. She says hyped digs can be the most disappointing.”

“Like today.”

“But there’s always tomorrow,” Sam says.

Tomorrows always arrive lighter.

*

When we get back to Fairtide, I’m not ready to go inside or give up. I’m frustrated by the cut traps and our inability to find the flower I was sure would be on the island. My chest is too tight to pull a deep breath into my lungs. I need a swim.

“Would you mind bringing up the cooler? I’ll be in. I just need five.”

“Sure thing.” Sam lifts the cooler onto his shoulder and starts across Fairtide’s green. I wave to Gram to tell her everything is all right. I kick off my rubber boots and stand at the dock’s edge. It’s strange how I miss the girl; how I was so certain I’d find her today, or a clue from her at least. But my optimism was stupid, because the flower could never survive on the island without someone to care for its roots the way Gram does. Sadness rises with the feeling of failing the girl, and my family.