Beware the Mermaids

by Carrie Talick

  “Did I ever tell you what my airy-fairy hot-yoga teacher said?”

  “You have a hot-yoga teacher?”

  “For a hot minute. Anyway, she said, ‘If you’re sad, you’re living in the past. If you’re anxious, you’re living in the future.’ ”

  “You trying to tell me to live in the present?”

  “I know it sounds like a load of horseshit, but that old woman is ninety-two and can still do the splits.”

  “Appalling mental image. But I get your point,” Nancy said.

  Ruthie went down into the salon to get her purse—and Otis, who had been asleep on the chart table bench since they arrived back at the slip, exhausted from sliding all over the cockpit while trying to stay alive. Ruthie handed her bag up to Nancy, who grabbed it. On the way up the ladder, Ruthie had a sharp intake of breath.

  “Aaahhh!” she said.

  “What is it?” Nancy asked.

  Ruthie winced and handed Otis over to Nancy. “When I took that fall against the bench, I tweaked my back a little. Or maybe a lot.”

  “It takes a while to get your footing, sailor,” Nancy said as she gently took a sleepy Otis into her arms. Ruthie hoisted herself up onto the cockpit and stood upright. “Ice should help.”

  “As long as it comes in a glass of bourbon,” Ruthie retorted.

  “Or that. Get some rest.”

  Ruthie and Otis successfully got off the boat. Nancy waved at them as they walked down the dock toward their car.

  Ruthie saluted and called out, “See you tomorrow, ‘O Captain, my Captain’!” as she walked gingerly up the dock.

  Nancy hopped off the boat and grabbed the pink citation slip tacked to her light post. It was a violation of liveaboard policy. Cats were not allowed pursuant to marina code section 1481.ca.rb. The citation further threatened, If you do not get rid of the animal, you will be forced to leave the Marina by Monday at 9am. It was signed by dock master Chuck Roverson.

  “What the––” Nancy murmured. She leaned against the light post, looked out over the marina, and thought for a second. She was fairly sure Brad had had a conversation with the dock master about the pet policy when she rented the slip. At that point, the cat was allowed. Had something changed? She’d visit Chuck Roverson first thing in the morning.

  Her first few days as a liveaboard in King Harbor had been less than stellar. The welcome wagon hadn’t exactly been wheeled out to herald her arrival. In fact, when she’d tried to greet a fellow liveaboard with a friendly wave, all she’d gotten in return was a glare and a grumble. When she had knocked to say hello and introduce herself to another liveaboard and rumored author, Jed Dawson, she got a loud and clear, “Shoo, woman!” That unwelcome greeting sent her back to her own cockpit to sulk. Perhaps he was working on his new crime novel and was annoyed at her intrusion. She had read somewhere that novel writers could get territorial about their alone time.

  Then, on another evening, on the way back from the marina bathhouse, she’d seen another liveaboard, the old salt Tom Horn. Tom was better known around the marina as Captain Horny. He was usually a cheerful fellow, but he had unmistakably scowled at her as she passed, despite her commenting on what a lovely evening it was turning out to be.

  It felt like she was being shunned. And it stung.

  She shuffled to the salon down below, slightly despondent over not making any new friends in her boat neighborhood. She lit a sandalwood candle, poured the last of the wine, and relaxed next to Suzanne, who was fast asleep in Otis’s old dog bed. She checked her phone and found she had two missed calls, one from Stella, the other an unknown number. Two messages, too. When she tapped the button, she heard her daughter’s impatient tone.

  “Hi, Mom. Okay, so you’re in. Charlotte has agreed to come stay on the boat with you next weekend, as long as I agreed to up her data plan so she could watch Hulu and TikTok videos on her phone while she’s there. Any chance you’re getting Wi-Fi? I’ll be dropping her off next Friday after school. I’m also packing a bunch of snacks for her because I have no idea how boat kitchens work. Do you even have a kitchen? Or is it like glorified camping? Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? Okay, call me, gotta go.”

  Nancy shook her head. She already had Wi-Fi, and of course she could cook an entire meal in her galley—certainly Charlotte’s favorite, pesto pasta with green peas and Parmesan. Instead of calling her back, Nancy decided to take the passive route and let her daughter stew with her unanswered questions for a while. After all, throughout this whole endeavor, Stella hadn’t said a single encouraging word or even visited her mom’s new floating abode. Instead, Nancy felt a dismissive intolerance from her daughter, as if she couldn’t wait for this ridiculous charade to end so that things could go back to normal. But Nancy had to remind herself that Stella didn’t fully know the truth about her father’s disgusting indiscretions with that harpy Claire Sanford on Bucephalus. To Stella, Nancy’s move must have seemed inexplicable, even crazy. Like someone in the early stages of dementia. So, Nancy let her annoyance at her daughter ease. Plus, she was genuinely excited to have her granddaughter come and stay with her. She’d call her in the morning. She tapped the next message, and a familiar voice came on the line.

  “Hi, Nancy, this is Rita at the King Harbor Yacht Club. Listen, I was working tonight, and I think I overheard something. Something you should know.”

  As Nancy listened, her eyes grew dark as she looked over the marina toward her ex-boat Bucephalus.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TURNABOUT IS FAIR PLAY

  Although compact, the galley on the boat was surprisingly well equipped. It had an oven, a stovetop, a blender, a coffeemaker, and everything else she needed to make a batch of her legendary blueberry muffins topped with brown sugar crumble. But the muffins she was currently baking were no ordinary breakfast pastry; no, these muffins had a higher purpose. These were bribery muffins. She tossed the toasty muffins in a basket, fixed her hair, and with shaky optimism, headed toward the office of Chuck Roverson, dock master.

  Her next-door boat neighbor, Peter Ellis, was standing barefoot on his boat drinking coffee. Ellis was short and squat, his round belly stretching his Old Guys Rule T-shirt to capacity, orange hair sticking out from under his baseball cap. He gave her a gap-toothed smiled as Nancy stepped on to her deck.

  “What, pray tell, is that heavenly smell?” His eyes grew wide as he sniffed in the direction of her muffins, like a hound dog getting a whiff of a runaway fox.

  “Blueberry muffins. You want one?”

  Peter, still dazed by the scent, nodded with a goofy grin.

  Nancy walked over and handed him two oversized, still warm muffins with a smile.

  “Mmmmm.” Peter took a big bite. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a woman live aboard here, Mrs. Hadley.”

  “Call me Nancy.”

  “Okay.” He paused. “Nancy it is. I think you might wear down some of the old salts if you keep baking things like these miraculous concoctions.”

  “I’m getting the feeling I’m not exactly welcome here. Is that the case?” Nancy asked tentatively.

  “Oh, it’s not personal. Some of the more cantankerous old turkeys rankle at the thought of a woman here among them. Means they might have to actually make themselves presentable, shave occasionally, and not fart with wild abandon.”

  Nancy laughed quietly. But then she thought about how her presence could disrupt the last bastion of the male hangout. This had been their version of a boy’s tree fort. In any given marina, ninety-nine percent of liveaboards were men. The women that did reside on boats were usually the better half of a couple, and the ladies usually couldn’t wait to get back on land. It was an extremely rare situation for an unaccompanied woman to choose to live on a boat of her own volition.

  “Am I seen as the enemy here at the He-Man Woman Sailor Haters’ Club?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It’s more like when a woman moves into your bachelor pad. At first, it’s jarring. The fluffy bathr
oom rugs. The flowered curtains. The locker room smell replaced by pumpkin spice candles. But then, we secretly begin to love it all. The same will happen with you here. I told you, I loved your addition of the palm at the end of the dock. Feels welcoming.”

  “The dock master disagrees.” She held up her pink citation and then added, “So, I’m not the enemy, but I’m not one of you yet either.”

  “I think the general consensus is you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Is there an over/under on how long I’ll stay before I go scuttling back to land?”

  Peter Ellis looked down at the dock, embarrassed. “Three months.”

  “I see.” Nancy had a thought. “Hey, do any of you guys play poker?” she asked.

  Peter Ellis looked at her and cocked his head. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em? I like your style. There used to be a weekly game hosted by an ex–Navy Seabee, but when Bob ‘Bucko’ Neighbors moved to Naples, Florida, it sort of petered out.”

  “Why don’t you talk to some of the other guys, see if they’d be interested,” Nancy said. “Tell them I’ll make homemade pastrami sliders and I have a gallon of Pusser’s rum, the preferred rum of the English Royal Navy.”

  “That oughta reel ’em in.” Peter smiled and tipped his hat.

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  “Where you off to with the rest of your blueberry stash?”

  “Paying a visit to the dock master. Seems I’ve gone outside the ever-so-stringent rules. Three citations in the last three days. Hopefully I can corrupt him with muffins.”

  “Your muffins are strong game,” Pete said as he took another big bite out of his. “Strange, though. Roverson is usually on our side. Let me know how it works out.”

  “Will do. See you later, Pete.”

  Nancy smiled at Pete and knew for a certainty there was a reason Chuck Roverson was not on her side. And that reason’s name was Roger. Rita had told her she had overhead a conversation between him and Chuck—something about a payoff to get her cited and kicked out of the marina. Deductive logic and a close reading of the marina bylaws had led Nancy to believe that the citation over Suzanne was a bluff. One that couldn’t be enforced, but there was only one way to be sure.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TO THE VICTOR GO THE MUFFINS

  Normally a jovial sort, and someone completely enamored with the technology of his smartphone, Chuck Roverson had begun to hate the device. Mostly because he was being harassed every four hours with texts or voice mail messages threatening to cut off the protruding parts of his body. One message even threatened to put his penis on a stick, roast it over a grill, and feed it to a shepherd–pit bull mix named Lucy. He needed a payment of three thousand dollars to his bookie by next Thursday. Roger Hadley would pay Chuck only after his wife was out of the marina, which had required him to issue the third citation about the cat last night. He’d done all he could do.

  So, he popped a beer and poured it into his coffee cup to calm his nerves. He looked out his office window and saw Nancy Hadley walking up to his office with a basket.

  Nancy knocked on the glass door as Chuck busied himself by bringing up some random spreadsheet on his computer screen. He heard the knock and looked up.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hadley,” Chuck said. The scent of blueberry-infused baked goods wafted his way.

  “Call me Nancy,” she said. “And good morning. I brought these muffins to you as a, shall we say, goodwill gesture. I can’t help but think I’ve crossed some invisible marina boundary of etiquette, and I was hoping we could talk and get back on the right track.”

  Chuck stiffened his upper lip and looked down at the basket, trying to stop his mouth from watering. He gently lifted a muffin and tried to remain outwardly stern, although his resolve was weakening with every whiff.

  “Well, Nancy, truth is, these rules are in place for your safety. And if you can’t seem to abide by them, then we are going to have a problem. You just might have to go.” Chuck took a big bite. Brown sugar crumbs tumbled down the front of his shirt. The muffins were buttery and soft. Best muffins ever. It was hard to look tough in that moment.

  “Right. About that. I was unaware of the rules on carpet, but it’s already removed. And the palm tree is safely back on my boat, not offending either man nor beast. But the last one, the one about pets …”

  “Tough one. But we can’t make an exception.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to make an exception,” Nancy said meekly. And then she bowed her head.

  Chuck, sensing victory and a payment that would quell the menacing calls, took a huge bite of the delicious muffin, letting its flavors wash over his tongue.

  “Only thing is,” Nancy began, after pulling papers out of her bag, “I have a copy of the marina’s bylaws as of three weeks ago, and they clearly state that pets are allowed for liveaboards. And then, another funny thing. I checked the contract I signed for the slip last week, and I believe you initialed the portion where it says I have a pet that is expressly allowed by, well, you. If memory serves, you even said Suzanne was a nice name for a cat.”

  Chuck spit out his muffin in panic. Since when did people come prepared to muffin meetings? The vision of his roasting penis being fed to a crazed junkyard dog caused a nervous shudder.

  “The bylaws were, uh, changed recently!” Chuck sputtered.

  “I see.” Nancy leveled her gaze at Chuck, unflinching.

  The heat began to rise up his neck, and he could feel a thin sheen of sweat overtaking his entire face. “As you know, we have the right to change the bylaws at any time—” Chuck started.

  “The operative word being we,” Nancy interrupted. “Chuck—can I call you Chuck?” Nancy yanked the muffin basket back just out of Chuck’s reach and frowned at him. “Turns out you alone cannot arbitrarily change the bylaws. They have to be voted on by the entire board. And this morning, with the help of your lovely assistant Ashley, I made a few phone calls, and none of the other voting members seems to recall voting to revoke the pet policy. So, Suzanne the Cat and I are staying exactly where we are.”

  Chuck sat there dumbfounded, struggling to find a plausible argument that didn’t make him come off as a lying slimeball. Nothing bubbled up. Chuck slumped in his chair, defeated. “Okay, you can keep the cat, but I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  Nancy’s glare softened. She put the muffin basket back within his reach and asked, “This wasn’t about the cat, was it? This was about me. What is going on, Chuck?”

  Chuck put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He let out a deep, fear-laced sigh, and his resolve, once solid and strong, folded like a cheap lawn chair. “I owe money to some people, and your husband just wanted you to come home. Seemed like a win-win. No harm, no foul.”

  Nancy nodded, like a detective who had finally gotten his perp to crack. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, it sounds like my husband’s warped idea to get me back home has forced you into an unfavorable position. You’ll never get me out with the marina bylaws, because I’ve read them three times now, and I am well aware of how to stay within the rules. But I don’t like holding grudges. I think it causes cancer. So, I tell you what. I’ll make you a batch of those blueberry muffins every Monday.”

  “Sure,” he said with a whimper. For all the devious behavior he had committed against her, Nancy Hadley stood there comforting him. Women. Their capacity for forgiveness and kindness was an eternal spring. But even her amazing muffins couldn’t solve Chuck’s other problem. The one that required money, of which he had only the fifteen hundred Roger had fronted him and a losing lottery ticket in his pocket. He looked grim at the prospect of a visit from the thugs. He moaned.

  Nancy bent down and put a hand on Chuck’s shoulder. “How much money do you owe them?” Nancy asked, which brought him out of his stupor.

  “Three thousand dollars by Thursday and I only have half,” he said glumly.

  Nancy stood up and glanced out over the
marina before resting her gaze once more on poor disheveled Chuck Roverson.

  She put a hand on her hip and said, “You like poker?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE GAME IS ON

  When Nancy walked back to Gypsea from the dock master’s office, she made a mental note to call the boat painter today. She looked over at her shabby little vessel with its sun-bleached sides and chipped blue paint and knew that her little boat needed a makeover. As she got closer, she noticed a large figure leaning over the dock toward the bow of her boat where Suzanne was sitting. The hefty man reached out to the cat, and a sudden fear rose in Nancy that he might harm her or wrench her off the boat and throw her into the water. She instinctively started toward the giant man and yelled, “Stop!”

  The menacing figure, who was clad in a ratty camouflage overcoat, was startled and turned toward her. Despite his size, he had a gentle face under a white beard, now contorted with a frightened expression. His turn caught him off-balance and he nearly fell off the dock. He used the side of the boat to steady himself.

  “Oh, no, it’s not what you think,” the man said with a high, thin voice.

  “Don’t harm her!” Nancy moved closer to him, but not too close. Where was her Taser when she needed it?

  “Sardines,” the man said innocently, and held up two small recently dead fish.

  Nancy hesitated, unsure of what to believe. This was the same man that had scowled and grumbled at her three days earlier by the bathhouse. His appearance wasn’t doing him any favors. The heavily faded camouflage jacket revealed no shirt underneath, and he wore a pair of huge black combat boots. His appearance was only slightly disarmed by his navy shorts that had little cartoon whales on them. He easily stood six foot five, making the sardines look like tiny minnows in his enormous hands. His wiry white hair swayed in the wind, and Nancy thought this was what Hemingway must have looked after spending a decade drunk in Havana.