Beware the Mermaids

by Carrie Talick

  A memory deep inside Nancy’s brain struggled to the surface. Bayside Development. Why did that sound familiar? She racked her brain but came up with nothing. She made a mental note to research it later.

  Shep interrupted them. “Sorry to be so rude, but it is time for me to bid adieu. It’s almost time for Jeopardy!, and I haven’t missed a show since the late eighties.”

  He nodded to Nancy and Ellis.

  Nancy patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Shep. I appreciate your taking the time to tell me yourself.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Shep said, and shuffled down the dock toward his nightly ritual of watching the trivia show via satellite TV on his Catalina 30.

  That left Peter and Nancy on the dock. She changed the topic and asked, “So, you going to see Ruthie?”

  Peter looked surprised by the question. “No, actually. I haven’t seen her. She’s been busy, she says.”

  “Oh. I thought when I talked to her earlier that—never mind. My mistake.”

  “Tell her to call me?” Peter said earnestly with a hangdog expression, like a heartbroken cowboy in a country song. He headed back toward his boat.

  “Will do.” Nancy hopped on the Gypsea, her mind already working on the puzzle of what seemed so familiar about Bayside Development. She got out her computer and tapped a few keys. She looked up any public documents and news stories about the Bayside Urban Renovation Project at the Redondo Pier. The BURP, the nickname given to the project by its detractors, had been aggressively fought against by a small group of feisty locals keen on keeping their beach town authentic and slightly grungy. They were hell-bent on stopping the bulldozers from taking down Old Tony’s and would do anything in their power to stop the bulldozers from backfilling King Harbor too. But while they were very vocal, they were not well funded.

  The fate of King Harbor and the pier was going to be decided by one person—the newly appointed commissioner—someone who hadn’t even been publicly identified yet. That vote was just two weeks away.

  Nancy continued her investigation and opened the sparse website of Bayside Development. There wasn’t much information about the company itself, beyond its being headquartered in Hermosa Beach. They knew how to hide their venture capitalists. The website had a line that cheerfully read, The most upscale beach living under the sun! Bayside Urban Renovation Project in Redondo Beach coming soon!

  Nancy frowned. In the lower right-hand corner of the page was a cartoon drawing. A barracuda, presumably the logo of Bayside Development. A bright, silvery barracuda wearing sunglasses and smiling. One of his sharp teeth even had a glint on it. Only problem was, Nancy had seen that barracuda before.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and pondered what this meant. Then she checked her watch and realized she still had to go to her house and get Roger a fresh change of clothes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  RUTHLESSNESS HAS A NAME

  As soon as Nancy hit the doors to the hospital, she nearly ran into Dr. McGowan, who was shuffling through papers on a clipboard. Nancy, armed with fresh clothes for Roger, sent them flying all over the reception area.

  “Oh dear, I’m sorry,” the doctor said as he retrieved a pair of errant socks. Dr. McGowan was young, tall, and lanky with light brown hair. He wore silver rimmed glasses that sat on the edge of his long, slender nose. His shy nature was complemented by a faint Irish accent, which instantly likened him to a young Liam Neeson. Nancy looked at his name tag and remembered it from Roger’s chart.

  “Oh, you’re Dr. McGowan. I’m Nancy Hadley, Roger’s wife. I just wanted to say thank-you for looking after my husband. He had quite a scare there.”

  Dr. McGowan looked momentarily confused. “You’re Mrs. Hadley?”

  “Yes.” Nancy nodded and reached out to shake his hand.

  He shook her hand politely but offered nothing else.

  “So, is there anything I need to know before I take him home? I don’t want to stress his heart further.”

  “I’m sorry, what do you mean?” Dr. McGowan looked even further confused.

  “Well, I mean, his heart. Given its weakened state due to the heart attack, I just want to know what limitations he has until he heals. Cut out red meat, salt, no coffee, no overexertion. I can take notes. Also, I’m curious to know if he will eventually need surgery.”

  “We’re talking about Roger Hadley, right?”

  “Uh, yes, room two thirteen? Tall guy. Silver hair. Big mouth,” Nancy added. She expected the doctor to remember the heart attack patient he had visited a mere twelve hours ago.

  “Forgive me for my confusion, Mrs. Hadley.” Dr. McGowan stared as he shook his head, as if coming out of a trance.

  “I’m sure you have a lot of patients; it’s understandable.”

  “No, that’s not it.” Dr. McGowan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Before I disclose patient information, do you mind if I see some identification?”

  Nancy, processing the request, squinted at the doctor as she reached for her wallet.

  * * *

  Stella was standing outside her father’s hospital room, taking a conference call, when Nancy marched up. She reached Stella, hands on hips, and stared at her for a good long minute while Stella muttered to the person on the other end of the phone.

  Stella covered the receiver with her hand and said, “I’m on a call, Mom. What is it?”

  “Did you bring your father to the hospital when he had his heart attack?”

  “No, he texted me when he was here. I think an ambulance brought him. He was alone,” Stella said with a hint of snide sarcasm.

  “Wrong.” Nancy turned on her heel, left Stella in the hallway, stomped into Roger’s room, and ripped off his blanket.

  “Hey, honey, I— ”

  “Gas. You had a bad case of gas,” Nancy growled.

  Roger started to stammer. “Uh, well, the doctor said he, uh, didn’t know for sure, and I, er, just found out this morning.”

  “Nope. Try again, Rog.” Nancy glared at him. “Dr. McGowan ascertained and reported to you sometime last evening, before I even got here, that you did not, in fact, have a myocardial infarction but rather a bad case of deep-bowel gas. Your heart was never in danger. Your farts backed up. Probably because you’re so full of shit.”

  “I would think you would be pleased that I am not keeling over from a major coronary!”

  “You lied. You’re a liar. L-I-A-R.” She spelled it out for emphasis.

  Roger shifted his weight uncomfortably in his bed, evidently trying to shake off the insult.

  “And to think you almost had me. I almost fell for your line of shit again. And I would have had I not run into Dr. McGowan.”

  “Isn’t that an invasion of my privacy? I should sue him!”

  “Not if I’m your wife, it’s not. But that’s the problem, isn’t it, Roger?”

  At that point Stella came back in after hearing the raised voices. She said in whispered tones appropriate for a hospital wing, “Hey, hey, what’s going on? The nurses are threatening to dose you if you don’t bring the noise down. I thought you guys were back together?”

  “I would sooner step into a pit of starved alligators than move back in with your narcissistic, lying cheat of a father.”

  “Mom! Easy!”

  “Oh, stop it. It’s no secret you’ll always take his side,” Nancy said to Stella. Then she turned to Roger. “How could you be such a snake?” She searched his expression but found only defiance.

  She could see his eyes moving rapidly back and forth, trying to come up with something that might redeem him. But no words came.

  “You know, it makes sense that it was gas. A huge pent-up fart can only come from a giant asshole.”

  “Mom!” Stella moaned.

  “You can’t talk to me that way!” Roger bellowed.

  “Oh, shove it, you old goat. I can talk to you any way I please. You’re not in a weakened state; you’re not ill. In fact, you’re sharper and more
ruthless than ever.” Nancy shook her head. She looked at Stella, who seemed stunned by this turn of events. “Are you going to tell your daughter who brought you here?”

  “I thought an ambulance …” Stella muttered, apparently in shock at the strength of her mother’s voice.

  “No. Oh no. Your father was allegedly brought to the hospital by his wife, a Mrs. Hadley. Only the Mrs. Hadley Dr. McGowan remembers had short red hair and a slight New Jersey accent. He didn’t check her ID, but I can guess who it might have been.”

  “Oh shit,” Roger muttered.

  “Who? What are you talking about, Mom? You’re not making any sense!”

  “I’m the only one making sense.” Nancy went over to the table next to Roger’s bed. It held a cup of ice chips, tissues, leftover banana pudding, and Roger’s cell phone. She snatched the phone from the table just before he could lunge for it. She opened his last text and there she found what she was looking for. A text from Claire Sanford.

  Nancy read it aloud. “Let me know when the coast is clear, tiger. I’ll come pick you up. Let’s make margaritas and mess up the sheets tonight. Smiley face. And the eggplant emoji.” Nancy tossed the phone onto Roger and shook her head in disgust. “Jesus Christ, what a classless tramp. I want a divorce.”

  Roger crossed his arms and said, “Nope.”

  Nancy, mystified, turned to him. “You can’t just say ‘nope’ like I’m some indentured servant. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I have rights to exactly half of everything you have.”

  “Who?” Stella, obviously reeling, interrupted. “Who is a classless tramp?”

  “We’ll see how many rights you have when you can’t cover the cost of a decent divorce attorney,” Roger chided.

  “Roger, not only am I not coming home ever, but I’m going to kick your ass in that Newport to Ensenada race. I will take that money and hire the best goddamn divorce attorney in town.” Nancy started for the door. “Yours!”

  Roger smiled at her sharply, like a shark, and said, “You want to know how likely I think it is that you can win my race? I’ll bet on it.”

  Nancy stopped in her tracks. She saw a pinhole of a possible way out. She turned around, put her hands on her hips, and faced Roger. “What are the terms of the bet?”

  Roger sat up and rubbed his hands together as if sharpening his tools. He cocked his head as if trying to read Nancy’s mind. “If you beat me, I’ll grant you the divorce you so desperately want, which, I’m sure you are well aware, will entitle you to half of everything we have.”

  “I’ll get that anyway. I want Bucephalus.”

  His mouth fell agape. “Never!”

  “I’m not going to win anyway, right, Roger? If you’re so sure, then why not put your boat on the line?”

  Roger closed his mouth and sat still as a statue, his brow crimped and his eyes calculating. “Fine,” he growled, “Bucephalus.”

  Nancy stood with her chin out and gave a simple nod of acceptance. There was no way he was going to make this easy on her. She waited for the other half of the bet.

  His smile got sharper. “But if I win? I get you back. You will sell that crappy little heap that floats, and you will come back under my roof where you belong. Ruthie, Lois, and Judy are not allowed in the house. You’ll smile nice, go to my luncheons, do exactly as I say, and you’ll iron my golf pants with glee. And you’ll never ever pull a stunt like this again.” Roger rested his hands in his lap and waited for her reply.

  Stella stood with her mouth agape.

  Nancy peered at him, knowing some devious plot was brewing inside his twisted mind. Obviously, this was about his psychotic need to control, but there was something else. He needed her. But why? Nancy knew Roger couldn’t resist a bet. She had no choice but to bet on herself. She thought about the high stakes and the shortcomings of her situation: a heavy boat, a novice crew, an unfamiliar route. Her chances were as a good as an old gray mare winning the Kentucky Derby.

  “What’s your angle, you conniving old goat?”

  “No angle. Just trying to put things back in their rightful order. You’re not fit to be in charge.”

  They were at a standoff.

  Roger saw her contemplating and interjected, “Or we can keep doing this dance, Nancy. A long, protracted divorce that will surely bankrupt you. Eventually I will get what I want, either way.” Roger looked so smug, so satisfied sitting there after faking a heart attack.

  Nancy’s shoulders tightened at the sound of his certainty, his sheer cockiness. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She bent down to his level and said, “You’re on, putz.”

  Nancy turned on her heel, tossed the bag of fresh clothes in the medical waste bin, and began to stalk out of the hospital room.

  Roger’s eyes grew dark, like a malevolent king betrayed by his peasant queen. His face turned red and he bellowed, “I will crush you!”

  Nancy poked her head back into the room. “Better watch that blood pressure, Rog.” She pointed to the machine that had started to loudly beep. “Claire’s making margaritas.”

  Nancy disappeared down the hospital corridor.

  Roger threw his cup of ice chips across the room and roared like a trapped lion.

  * * *

  “Never tell me the odds,” Ruthie said, after Nancy had told her about the bet on the Border Dash and the sad shape of their boat and crew.

  All the girls, plus Lois’s husband Chris, had gathered for an emergency code red barbecue on the boat to discuss the upcoming race and the relative outcomes. Chris was attending to his teriyaki Kobe beef skewers on the small charcoal grill on the back of the boat. Ruthie, Lois, and Judy sat on the starboard side of Gypsea with their legs hanging over. The tasty smell of grilling meat wafted through the air, making Otis’s mouth water, the evidence dripping onto the gleaming deck.

  “It makes me nervous,” Judy added. Ruthie and Lois silently scowled at Judy, who then quickly added, “But buying soap makes me nervous, so don’t let me be your guide.”

  Ruthie sighed as she summed up the situation: “So, you have to earn your freedom. Like an indentured servant.”

  “You make it sound so glamourous,” Nancy retorted.

  “It’s just that we’re not exactly spring chickens,” Lois said, as she rubbed her thighs nervously.

  “Aw, come on. We’ll need a little sisu, that’s all,” Nancy implored.

  Lois acknowledged the word and explained to Ruthie and Judy. “Sisu. Means a combination of strength, know-how, and guts in Finnish—the Finnish equivalent of a can of whoop-ass.”

  Judy adjusted her glasses and nodded. “Finns did win the war against the Russians. And they were on skis.”

  “Hell’s bells,” Ruthie added. “Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Nancy said.

  They all cheerfully toasted.

  Chris piped up. “Chow’s on.”

  Each of them got up to go in the direction of dinner while Nancy stayed behind and wished on the first night’s star for a miracle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  SHE MAY BE SMALL, BUT SHE BE FIERCE

  Nancy sat on the stern of Gypsea and considered her odds of winning the Border Dash, and it made her nervous. The 125-nautical mile race began in Newport Harbor and ended in Ensenada, Mexico. It was the premier regatta on the West Coast. It had a storied and colorful history that started with Humphrey Bogart, who had instigated the first race in 1948 when he sailed against his buddies Errol Flynn and Spencer Tracy.

  Every year, die-hard sailors from across the globe came out to prove their skills. The race included a broad range of sailboats and yachts each with their own rating and class. Besides attracting hard-core racers, the Border Dash had a long history of encouraging recreational sailors to enter and compete.

  Nancy had received a favorable race rating from the International Racing Conference (IRC), basically like getting a handicap in golf, which placed Gypsea in the same race clas
s as Bucephalus. She and Roger would be racing head-to-head. It was going to be a tall task to beat Roger, as her boat was heavier and more squat than the sleek Bucephalus. She pondered this disadvantage while filling out her race registration. Loyal to the end and helpful as always, Suzanne was comfortably sprawled on half her paperwork.

  The purse in the Border Dash for their class was a cool fifty thousand dollars. That was serious money for most people but would be a drop in the bucket in a nasty divorce, where she could never outgun Roger. Plus, she figured she would burn through fifty thousand in less than a year if Roger welched on the bet. On the surface, that was why she had to win this race. But the real reason was much more personal.

  At the ever-ripening age of fifty-seven years old, roughly two months prior, Nancy had found herself quietly diminished, fading, and unfulfilled. Sure, she could blame part of that on Roger, but she was painfully aware of her own culpability in her life’s result too. After all, she’d grown up in the mid to late 1970s, just a few years after formerly well-behaved housewives took to the streets of American cities demanding equal rights. Women shed their coy, meek personas and fearlessly protested in the streets, brazen and braless, swinging pink baseball bats at the heads of the patriarchy. If ever there was a time to break away from the doldrums of prim and proper womanhood, 1970 was the time to do it.

  Nancy was too young to march but marveled at the courage of her older female compatriots. She couldn’t wait to fight for women’s rights when she got to college. Of course, that was before Grace died, before she met Roger. When her time did come and there was a rally on her college campus, Nancy’s views had dramatically changed. She was finally in a situation that let her feel safe again, with a husband and a baby on the way. Roger took turns bitching about the protests, but Nancy privately rooted for the women in their struggle while she crocheted little pink hats for her baby girl to come. She wasn’t part of the movement, but it saddened her when it came apart all the same.