The Winters(6)

“The thing is, there’s a party going on at my place and I really need to sleep. So I’m staying out here tonight.”

He looked out at the clapboard office at the end of the pier.

“I mean, does it lock? Is there even a blanket?”

“Yes, and a pretty good pillow,” I said. “So it’s not a big deal. And what a view!” My arm swept across the dark beach.

“It’s better than the one I have.”

“So no need to feel sorry for me, Mr. Winter. Besides, I have an early morning, what with this last-minute demanding client who wants his boat to be ready to go first thing.”

“Wow. What an asshole.”

“He’s a senator or something,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But only a state senator.”

He laughed a little too loud.

“Mr. Winter, keep it down,” I whispered, craning around for witnesses.

“Please, call me Max,” he said. “Nothing else.”

“Max.”

He tilted his head, his focus on a point between my eyes, just above my brow. It felt intimate, this look, like a prelude to something, not quite a kiss, but something that overwhelmed me even unexpressed.

“Well, good night, then,” I said.

“Yes, of course, good night. But I’m going to wait right here to make sure you reach the office safely. I’ll leave when you flick the light on and off. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“And I will see you again in roughly nine hours.” He checked his watch. “Actually eight. Even better.”

I nodded by way of saying good night again and turned to leave.

Making my way down to the end of the pier, I was aware of his eyes on me. I willed myself not to turn around to check whether he maintained his vigil, worried he’d mistake it for coyness, an invitation. It was only when I unlocked the office, flicked the light switch on and off, then collapsed on the cot that I fully exhaled, kicking my legs a couple times like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Of course I didn’t sleep. There was, in fact, no blanket, and the pillow was the orthopedic cushion from the office chair, but I didn’t care. I welcomed the adrenaline rush that accompanied these brand-new feelings. Maybe Laureen was right. Maybe I was, indeed, a dark surprise.





FOUR


I stirred awake with the sun, stretched, and tied my hair into a knotted fist on top of my head, securing it with an elastic band. Then I smoothed down the wrinkles of my uniform shirt and turned on the computer. Before the screen came fully alive, I spotted Laureen making her way down the pier two hours earlier than her usual start time, and an hour earlier than mine. The way she stomped—the entire office bobbing with her steps—meant I had screwed something up. Panicked, I scanned the office. I had started the coffee. The day’s schedule was scribbled on the whiteboard. I had prepped Max’s boat the day before. I just had to bring it around to the pier. At the last second, I plucked the cushion off the cot and tossed it onto the chair. Laureen’s angry knock reminded me I had forgotten to unlock the door. When I opened it, she blew past me, her perfume chokingly strong, her eyes darting around the office. She plopped herself down in front of the computer.

“Total shit show,” she muttered. “The fucking Singularis sunk near Eleven Mile off Barbuda. Bunch of shivering Brits waiting for a charter back to St. Barts. Fucking one’s the Queen’s cousin or something.”

She found the number she was looking for and immediately laid into whoever answered the call, presumably the pilot. “Bruce, you fucking moron. How many times have I said don’t go off route? . . . I don’t care if he’s next in fucking line to the fucking throne. Is he gonna pay for this? No! . . . Well, you’ll have to wait. Janie will call when the charter gets there. I’ll see you in St. Barts. . . . ’Cause I gotta meet the Prefect, that’s why . . . Yeah, it’s that bad. I was told to bring luggage. And a lawyer. You might wanna do the same, asshole.” She slammed the phone down.

“It’s a lot of oil, apparently,” she said, rubbing her face with her hands. Her pilot didn’t know about the shoals, and now her biggest yacht was polluting a rare bird reserve upon which the United Nations had just put a protective stamp.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, thinking of the birds. She’d be fine. Her insurance would pay for what God couldn’t replace.

“Right,” she said, slapping the desk and standing. “Let’s go.”

Cold resistance filled my veins. “But the marina. We’ve got clients. They’ll be coming by soon.”

“Piss on the clients. I need you to help me pack.”

Quickly I glossed over the client problem with bigger ones that might arise were I to abandon the post, though I was careful to leave out Max’s reservation. The fuel ship arrived today. Two wedding parties were checking into the club. And of course someone had to sign out the watersports equipment, a side business Laureen had regretted as soon as she launched it because it took up too much of my time.

“Right. Bloody hell. I just want to pull out all my hair by the roots.”

After Laureen reluctantly agreed I should stay, I trotted behind her to her car as she breathlessly rattled off all the other tasks I’d have to handle if she was kept away for more than a week (maybe two!). As she listed them I nodded and nodded, seemingly making a bargain with myself to say yes to everything she asked for in exchange for a blessed week (maybe two!) of her absence, a most excellent trade-off.