The Pickle Boat House

by Louise Gorday

  Van laughed. “I’ll take that under advisement. Richard and I had a beautiful first life together.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got a little too friendly with his executive assistant and started hitting the bottle pretty hard. I just couldn’t trust him anymore.”

  “What a jerk. Like I said, take him to the curb and punt from there.”

  “I’m trying to move past it all. It was a difficult time for both of us.”

  “Not to change the subject, but nature calls. May I use your bathroom?”

  Van pointed her down the hall as she put the dishes in the sink.

  “What did you do to your bathroom, girl?” Jean yelled. “This is an oasis! I just love a tub with claw feet!”

  Van could hear her giggling. She walked down the hall to the bathroom to find Jean on her knees, draped over the side of the tub.

  “What are you doing on the floor?” Housecleaning hadn’t been a top priority on Van’s to-do list for quite a while, and she was relieved that she had cleaned yesterday. She got down on the floor and ran her hand lovingly along the edge of the tub.

  “It’s from my other grandparents’ house. After they died, the house was sold and eventually burned down. To say good-bye, I drove past the yard one last time. Low and behold, the only thing left sitting in the middle of the yard was this old cast-iron tub. As a youngster, I had the hardest time hitching my leg up over the side to get in. My dad used to tell me how he would soap up the sides when he was little to see how fast he could swirl around the bottom. It’s a heavy sucker. The owners were glad to get rid of it, and I felt like I saved an old friend. When I moved to Nevis, I brought it with me. I didn’t want to change much in this house—too many fond memories of visiting my other grandparents here in the summer. But I love to take baths, so this is my one splurge. When I get bored or upset I come in here. I love to just soak and think. I’ve even eaten dinner in here. But, only when I’m really tired,” she added with a laugh.

  “Do you work?”

  “Historian at the Smithsonian. I’m on a leave of absence. Teleconferences every so often, and a lot of planning documents to produce before I go back.

  “You’re impressive,” Jean said, and they both found it funny. “No, I really am impressed,” Jean said. She sat down flat on the floor and gave Van a smile. “I can see I’m really going to like living next door to you. Better get used to me.”

  “Oh, I already have.” Van got to her feet. “Would you like a little red wine with that floor? I hear a good Chablis goes with any bathroom decor.”

  “Where did you learn the fine art of drinking?”

  “College. Pays to go to a highbrow party school like Carolina. If you wanted to chug beer, you went to State.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  YANKEE DIMES AND WOODEN NICKELS

  Van pulled out her music player and shuffled through her playlists until she got to the one called “Feeling a little Hamlet today.” Even though it was a bad choice, she had to go there. The quiet strains of “Year of the Cat” began to fill her ears as she pushed open the screen door and headed for the boardwalk. It was one of her son’s favorite songs. In fact, they all were his favorites, and they made her cry. Often she didn’t make it to the end, but she had to go there—to validate him, to prove that once upon a time he really did exist. It was a reality check involving compulsion more than comfort.

  Several songs into the playlist, Van sighed and pulled the buds from her ears, the pain of loss trumping over the warmth of memories. She sat down on her favorite boardwalk bench, stretched out, and closed her eyes to regroup and let the water wash the pain away. The swish of the water on the shore, and the water birds squabbling as they jockeyed for space on each piling, carried her to a calmer place. Footsteps on the boardwalk mellowed to a muted rhythm, and the conversations of passersby faded to patchy, muffled whisperings. She let her mind wander, sifting through all her mental detritus.

  As had happened many times before, she was drawn toward the warmth of the shining sun, and there she found him. His baby voice, filled with quiet awe, whispered in her ear, and she felt his tiny arm crooked around her neck. “I want to fly, but not like a plane—like a bird,” he whispered. He remained earthbound as the vision changed, and she saw him moving with grace, power, and speed as he took the ball toward the goal, the goalie crouching in anticipation. Without looking up, in a singularly unselfish act, he passed the ball to his wingman, who sailed it past the goalie and into the net. As the players high-fived at midfield, the roar of the crowd echoed and gradually changed to the sound of the surf. She mentally saw him there, too, catching a wave and barreling toward the shore. As he wiped out he laughed, then ran back into the water to catch another wave.

  Tears spilled down the sides of Van’s face, emptying out bottled-up emotions. She felt her chest tighten. The daydream shifted again as she heard a familiar voice yelling at her. “Hey, doodlebug, how ’bout a Yankee dime?” her grandfather called to the little girl as she came running across the lawn of the pickle boat house, laughing as she came. When she reached him he swept her up and swung her around in a circle before setting her on her feet again. Leaning down, he planted a kiss on her smiling upturned face. In spite of the tears, Van began to smile. It was a short-lived smile, though, as the sound of ringing in her pocket jarred her back to reality. Flustered, she pulled her cell phone out.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello? Regency Plaza?”

  “No, I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” the voice said.

  Van opened her eyes and sighed as she put her cell phone away. She lived for daydreams like the one that had just been so abruptly interrupted. Disappointment turned to irritation, and she reddened as she saw a nearby man on the boardwalk blatantly ogling her.

  “Careful—you’re drooling,” she muttered, turning away from his unwelcome stare. She hated when men gave her the once-over, although she had to admit, it had never been a frequent problem. She had never been one of those swish-and-sway types. Closing her eyes, she retreated back into her daydreams.

  And the ringing began again. “What?” she shouted into the phone, and the voice on the other end began to laugh.

  “Don’t call me again,” Van snarled as a flash of cold fear shot up her spine. “I have caller ID. I’ll report you.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up,” said the voice. It chuckled devilishly again. “Say something else.”

  “What do you want?” Van yelled at the phone. She rolled into a sitting position, drawing the attention of others nearby, including Boardwalk Man.

  She immediately transferred her ire to him. “Piss off. Go find someone else to stare at!”

  But by this time, Boardwalk Man was almost doubled over with laughter, and Van could feel the heat from her anger rising in her face and igniting her eyes. As he began walking toward her like some kind of psycho stalker, her anger evaporated, and she dropped her hands into her lap and closed her mouth. Instinct was rapidly pushing her from fight to flight, but she was still incapable of moving.

  “Am I ringing your phone? Are you five-five-five, four-five-one-seven?” The man heaved with laughter and continued to look directly at Van. “Don’t you think that’s funny?”

  When Van continued to give no response his demeanor suddenly changed and the laughter froze on his lips. “I’m … so … I think we … your wrong number. I’m terribly sorry,” he said.

  She checked the phone in her hand, looked at him and back at the phone again. “This is you?” The improbability made her smile. “I do want you to know that I am on the ‘do not call’ list and that you can be fined a lot of money if you call me again,” she said, half laughing.

  “No, no, I promise, no more calls,” the man said, holding his hands out in surrender. “I’m really sorry, but the look on your face was priceless.” He gave a final awkward wave and walked off the boardwalk toward the parking lot. There was a last m
uffled laugh, and he was gone.

  A little unnerved, Van took a deep breath to slow her pounding heart as a final shiver ran down her spine. Boardwalk Man was attractive, yet the adrenaline still coursing through her screamed a silent warning. She took another deep breath and tried to relax and stretch her long, slim legs out in front of her. A check of her watch assured her that she had about half an hour before she must head back to the house, her desk piled high with uncompleted work reports. She tried to pull herself back into her comfort zone, but her concentration was shot.

  “Could I interest you in an ice cream?” said a familiar voice. Van jumped, startled. It was Boardwalk Man, standing in front of her with two ice-cream cones. “My feeble attempt at an apology for bothering you and making you mad?”

  “That would be a really sweet gesture if you weren’t standing in front of a ‘No Eating on Boardwalk’ sign.” She tried not to laugh, but the corners of her mouth started to escape her control. If she didn’t take a cone, he was going to be in trouble pretty quickly. As she looked at him closely, she saw something in his eyes that called to her in a primal way. Unmistakable attraction trumped any flight reflex she might have had.

  “I can see you’re enjoying this,” he said, a little smile beginning to touch his eyes. “How about over on the street—can we go over there?” he said, gesturing with one of the cones he was holding.

  “Maybe, though my mother told me never to accept sweets from strangers.” Embarrassing him was like shooting fish in a barrel, and she was enjoying it. Boardwalk Man was actually pretty cute when he got embarrassed. She decided to let him dangle and twist for a while.

  “Well, since you’re already talking to a stranger, you must not listen to everything your mom taught you. Which way is it going to be: ice cream cone with a stranger, or the bench by yourself?”

  “How could I be that cruel with you standing there and ice cream dribbling down your arm? But, I guess you already figured that, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m feeling very irresistible right now,” he deadpanned. His eyes darkened as if he sensed her warming to him. “Can you take this before my fingers start sticking together?”

  Van took the cone and quickly ran her tongue around the bottom of the ice cream to catch the drips. Not only was it chocolate, it was good chocolate.

  “I’m sure your mother will give you a pass,” he said.

  “My mother is dead,” she said coldly.

  He froze in his tracks, and Van could almost see the wheels turning in his head. “I’m so sorry. That was so thoughtless of me. I really seem to be batting zero today—at least with you, anyway.”

  “It’s okay,” Van murmured. “It’s been a while. Sorry I snapped at you. You just caught me off guard. She comes up so rarely in conversation anymore. I’m sure I would have gotten an etiquette lesson if I had left you to fend for yourself with two ice-cream cones.”

  They made their way over to one of the benches that lined a little grassy playing field. Van could feel his eyes on her, and she was beginning to like the way it felt. It was refreshing. There was a definite undercurrent of attraction between them as they sat in the sunshine, trying to keep ahead of the dripping cones. Her mother was probably doing barrel rolls in her grave.

  “I would hope you’re reading my T-shirt,” Van said.

  Boardwalk Man laughed as his eyes moved back up to her face. “Of course. So you’re left-handed and the only one in your right brain?”

  “Absolutely. It runs in my family. Everybody’s a leftie. You have a problem with that?”

  “No, I guess not. Everyone should be passionate about something.”

  “So … where are you from?”

  He stopped in mid lick and chuckled. “Wow, you’re direct. Is it that obvious that I’m not from around here?” He turned and smiled, and Van knew that she hadn’t insulted him. It was a soft smile that made his eyes sparkle.

  “You bought ice cream for someone you don’t even know, and you’re calling me direct? Pot or kettle? I think it’s called the beauty of living in a small town. Everybody knows everybody. Of course, that applies to your personal business as well, but the trade-off is worth it. So unless you’re the prodigal son returned, I figure you’re either just passing through or a new resident. Most people are trying to escape from, not to, Nevis. Nicely dressed—you don’t look like you’re escaping from anything.”

  He continued to look at Van for a moment, then let his gaze drift out across the field. He turned back to her and put out his hand. “Ryan Thomas. It’s nice to meet you.” He followed the outstretched hand with a smile that could calm the most skittish heart. It was hard to imagine someone with so dazzling a smile being unaware of its effect, especially on the opposite sex. “I was born and raised in Delaware; now I live in New York. I’m passing through, doing a little business, taking a holiday of sorts—getting the lay of the land, you might say.”

  “Do you work in New York?”

  “I work in acquisitions with a firm there. Why? Do I scream ‘New York’ that loud?”

  “Something like that. What do you acquisite?”

  “I don’t think that’s the queen’s English, but to answer your question, I acquire certain commodities for Hector Young and Associates, depending on what the specific needs are at any given time.” He smirked. “I can see your eyes glazing over with eager interest. How about you?”

  “I wasn’t born here, but like most residents, I can trace my family back here to the founding fathers. Only the young people move away from Nevis, and if they do, they generally come back when they return to their senses. Guess you could say I’ve done that, too. I’m back here permanently now after years of quick trips on weekends.”

  “Do you work in Nevis?”

  “No, D.C. I’m a historian at the Smithsonian; only right now I’m on a leave of absence—a working vacation of sorts. But that’s okay; it’s giving me time to exorcise my demons.”

  He tilted his head sideways and looked at her with soft, inquisitive eyes. “You have a few to exorcise?”

  “Yeah, doesn’t everybody?”

  “Probably, if they’re totally honest about it—which most of us aren’t.”

  She hadn’t expected that. It had been ever so long since she had someone understand what she was feeling, let alone pay attention to what she was saying. Van squeezed her eyes shut so he couldn’t read her emotions. The silence that had felt at first like camaraderie now felt awkward. She got to her feet, and Ryan quickly followed. It felt like being back in high school on her first date.

  Van forced herself to look up into Ryan’s face. “Thank you for the ice cream. Consider us even—all forgiven.”

  He looked relieved. “Good. I didn’t want to leave with that on my conscience.”

  “Could I leave you with one thought?”

  “Sure.” He hesitated, as if bracing himself for bad news.

  “Next time you decide to pick up a girl by plying her with ice cream, order it in a cup.”

  “Sure. Next time.” He snorted with relief and looked down at the ground. “I’d like there to be a next time,” he said. He looked directly into her eyes, and there was that overwhelming smile again.

  Van could feel herself melting. As a decent, sensitive human being, how could she say no to that? “I’d like that,” she said softly. “I’d give you my name and number, but”—gesturing with her hands—“no paper, no pen.” Van felt embarrassed again. She was actually flirting with this guy. She could feel the heat move up into her face.

  “I only have a pen,” he said, chuckling. “We may have to end this acquaintance right here. So great was my remorse, I deleted your number after I misdialed.”

  “Give me your pen,” she said, and taking it, she took his hand, too, and began writing her name and phone number on the back. The hand was warm and strong, and she didn’t want to give it back. Slowly she let go and held the pen out to him.

  “No, you keep it. It was never totally happy with m
e. I think it was just a rebound relationship.”

  “Right.” It was her turn to snort as she nodded and put the pen in her hip pocket.

  “I’ll never wash again,” Ryan sighed as he looked down at his hand, and they both broke out in nervous laughter. “Why do I feel like I’m in the fifth grade again?”

  “I hope you know I don’t do that for just anybody,” Van said.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t think so. Thanks. I’ll call you. It may be a few days, though,” he added. I’m heading south and then swinging back through on my way back to New York.”

  “That is the quickest kiss-off I ever got. You’ve had my number less than a minute, and you’re already making excuses for not calling.”

  There was that magnetic smile again. “I promise I’ll call you. Good-bye, Vanessa Hardy.”

  “Good-bye, Ryan Thomas. Take the Yankee dimes, but not the wooden nickels.”

  “What?”

  She grinned at him, then turned and headed back to the boardwalk, resisting the urge to turn around.

  *

  Ryan thought he could hear her begin to hum softly to herself, and it brought a quiet smile to his lips. He watched with admiration as she walked away. Even when women weren’t trying to look sexy, there was still something magical about the way they moved. He looked toward the bay and caught sight of a tern diving expertly into the water. It was the ageless saga of the hunter and the hunted, and it never failed to fascinate him.

  He reclaimed his seat on the bench and stretched out his six-foot frame. The slight breeze coming off the water was balmy. It was calm and quiet, with just the sound of bluebirds calling to each other in the surrounding trees. He closed his eyes and began planning step two, and a smile slowly spread across his upturned face. The day was beginning to go better than he could have expected.

  He flipped open his cell phone. “Hey, just touching base. Think I’ll be able to wrap this up a lot quicker than I thought. Just met someone who could be the answer to our prayers … No, totally clueless. You know my radar only picks up the cute ones.” The smile abruptly disappeared from his face. “Wait—sending who? I don’t need any help.” Ryan got up and began to pace. “Tell ’em to fuck off … Shit, at least send someone else. Where’s Earl? … How far?” His eyes darted around the park. “Never mind. I’ll find the son of a bitch,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll return the favor sometime.” He flipped the phone closed and slid it back into his pocket.