The Pickle Boat House

by Louise Gorday

  Finally, Van started to pull away. “I’m sorr—”

  “Don’t,” he interrupted, and tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer to him and kissing her hair. She twisted around in his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and closing her eyes as soft lips met in a gentle, tentative kiss. As the passion rose, the gentleness changed into desperate want, longing, and need.

  “Stay,” she implored.

  “Yes,” he answered at once. Taking him by the hand, she pulled him up from the steps, led him into the house, and closed the door.

  *

  The next morning, they awoke to the sunlight peeking through the curtains. Ryan’s leaving the house was obviously going to get more notice than his entrance last night. Certainly, Mr. Pickett would bear witness; that was a given. Jean, however, was another story. Van didn’t want the endless stream of questions and scrutiny that would trigger.

  “Do you think she’s even home?” Ryan asked as he and Van stood giggling like two guilty children, peeking between the slats in the window blinds.

  “She usually does her errands in the morning,” said Van. “I think she might be gone. Quick—I think you should make a run for it now!”

  Ryan bounced down the steps, a little more spring in his step than usual.

  “Morning, Mr. Thomas. I see you’re up early,” Charlie said, coming around the side of the house. Caught dead to rights, Ryan could only nod and walk a little faster to his car without uttering a word. Van could hardly keep a straight face as Charlie turned his gaze on her, standing at the front door in her bathrobe.

  Charlie approached her with an expression she had never seen on him before. “Van,” he said, “you know I love you, and I know it’s none of my damn business, but I just hate to see you get mixed up with that man. Something about him just doesn’t sit right.”

  It wasn’t as if she had to answer to him. “It’ll be okay, Charlie, but thanks for your concern.” She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning to go back into the house.

  “Van,” he said, lightly grabbing her arm. “Then at least think about taking it slow, okay? You’re probably a little more vulnerable than you’d like to admit, and I’d hate to see someone take advantage of you. Okay?”

  “Sure thing, Pop.” And this time she gave him a peck on the cheek. She knew he had only her best interests at heart, but she was beginning to get a little annoyed with everyone telling her to take it slow. They all made her seem like a basket case or the village idiot. “Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  *

  As Ryan drove away and reality returned, he came down from his emotional high. The smile slid off his face. “You dumb bastard, what are you doing and who the hell are you?” He was getting soft, getting in too deep with this woman. This wasn’t like him at all. He ran his hand nervously through his hair. For God’s sake, she was consuming him. When had he ever wanted to protect a woman instead of just sleeping with her and moving on? He was all over the place, as if the body snatchers had abducted him and replaced him with their own spawn. The job couldn’t be clearer, Thomas. Get the information, forget the woman, and get the hell out of this little burg before you totally lose yourself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPISODIC NIGHTMARES

  It was not a good night. Puzzling dreams and nightmares had come to Ryan before in the powerful moments just before dawn, when the spirit was vulnerable and weak like the light, and thoughts and meanings hid in murk and shadow. And the dreams about her were crazy, like out-of-body experiences that left him uneasy but unable to recall in detail what made them troubling—all interwoven with an oddly familiar classical music piece that his brain loved and insisted on playing over and over again. He sat bolt upright in the bed, awakened by the sound of his own screaming. Dripping wet, he peeled off his T-shirt and flung it at the foot of the bed, where the sheet and blanket already lay in disarray. It was two a.m.—his witching hour.

  Ryan struggled out of bed and walked across the room to the balcony. He slid the door open and walked out into the night air as he summoned Beethoven’s op 123 from the Web to his cell phone. The strains began to play, and just as he had suspected, they were the stuff of nightmares. He knew every musical nuance, yet he could remember no waking moment when he had heard it before, or how he even knew its name.

  “Interesting scream. Rough night?” Hector asked.

  Ryan whipped his head around toward the familiar smell of burning tobacco wafting from the balcony next door. The faint red glow of the cigarette gave a general indication of Hector’s location. He sounded oddly peaceful in the darkness—a perfectly placed specter of negative dark energy.

  “Where were you last night, Ryan?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize we were checking in. Your mother sends her best.”

  Hector cackled, sounded genuinely amused. “Mothers are fair game. Too bad yours isn’t around to join in. It could have been a threesome.” He cackled again.

  “Fuck off.”

  “A little testy, are we? I seem to remember being out here first. Beethoven—interesting choice,” he said, nodding and sending a smoke ring in Ryan’s direction. “Another desperate play for depth and character?”

  “It’s keeping me calm so I don’t act on impulse, jump this railing, and beat the shit out of you. I am impressed, though. How’d you know it was Beethoven?”

  “Doesn’t everyone grow up listening to classical music at supper? Opus One-twenty-three—Beethoven’s search for spirituality. You’re feeling suddenly religious. What’s going on with you, Ryan?”

  “You make conscience and spirituality sound like vices.”

  “We’ve done fine without ’em so far. Ryan, you’re such a motherfucker—why don’t you just sleep with her and get it over with?”

  “Shut the hell up,” Ryan hissed. “You just don’t get it.”

  “You’re the one that’s not getting it, apparently. Today would be a good day to head back to New York. We have what we need. What time do you want to leave?”

  “Tomorrow. I have loose ends to tie up.” Ryan shut off the music, closed the door on the unwanted noise, and went back to bed. A flood of jumbled dreams had been plaguing him since he first arrived in Nevis. He needed to know what they meant. He knew he could piece them together. He just had to concentrate on the commonality. But in spite of all his efforts, he fell almost immediately into a deeper and more troubling sleep than before.

  The National Aquarium—windows full of colorful fish floating lackadaisically in a calm blue world. It was peaceful, quiet, as Ryan put his finger up against the glass and watched, fascinated, while the lips of the huge orange fish with black stripes pushed up against the glass and kissed his fingertip. He watched as a tiny bead of water appeared near his finger and began to roll slowly down the wall of glass.

  Intrigued, Ryan moved his finger to touch the bead, smearing the wetness around until it disappeared. And then a second bead appeared, and he moved his finger to touch that one, too. And a third appeared, and so on until the glass was trickling with drops of water down the length of the wall. The water began to seep through the pores in the glass and puddle at his feet.

  The beautiful calm evaporated, and panic set in. As the water engulfed him, Ryan pounded helplessly on the glass, and excruciating pain shot through his body with the first breath of tepid water. Fighting the urge to breathe was useless, but just as he had resigned himself to breathe again, two strong hands seized him by the upper arms and pulled him to the water’s surface. Relief and love swept over him as Van pulled him to her and hugged him tightly.

  “Don’t worry, son, I’m here. I’m here, James.”

  There was safety in her embrace, but she quickly pushed him back to arm’s length and gave him the once-over. “You need a haircut, boy,” she said, ruffling his hair. The boy ducked under her, tilting his head back in laughter as he began to run circles around her. Van stood motionless, absently twirling a yellow flower around in h
er fingers as she watched him run. Giggling and emboldened by her stillness, he darted too close and she quickly snatched him up into the air and twirled in a circle, with him laughing and squealing in childish delight until she returned him gently to his feet again.

  “Do it again! Do it again!” the boy pleaded. “Mommy …”

  Ryan bolted awake, screaming. “Van?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CUTTING THE MUSTARD

  Never mind the Maine lobster and melted butter; no self-respecting Marylander would trade delicately flavored Bay crab steamed in red pepper and beer. Once a year, Van traded a couple of paychecks for bushels of blue crab and threw the biggest crab feast of the season. All she had to do was supply the crabs. The Natty Boh beer, potato salad, coleslaw, and other side dishes all came courtesy of friends.

  Worshipping at the altar of the blue crab was like a religious experience, with all the pomp and circumstance of Sunday high mass. Only instead of fine altar cloth, ornamental stoups, and goblets crafted of precious metal, the tables were covered in plain brown paper, with disposable cups of vinegar and red pepper, and the beverage of choice served in pop-top cans. Jean and Van spent most of the morning dragging picnic tables around, hosing down lawn furniture, and equipping the tables with paring knives and every crab mallet they could find.

  “Heard any more from Ryan?” Jean asked.

  “Yeah, we talked last night.” Van shot Jean a sideways glance to gauge whether she was baiting her. “He’s coming today. Don’t get all excited, though—he’s bringing a business partner with him.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know he was traveling with anyone. Don’t even think about trying to set me up with him,” Jean said, giving her a warning look. She was such a blowhard, but then, that was part of her appeal. Apparently, where Ryan spent the night was not going to be a major theme in their conversation.

  “Relax; it was only a thought in passing!” Van replied. “Mea culpa. Now, help me bring the cooler and ice around. In fact, you’re such a snow queen, you can take the ice.”

  “Don’t think you’re hurting my feelings—I’ll wear the title proudly.”

  *

  It didn’t matter that they weren’t completely ready when the first guests showed up. They had been through this routine before. A crab feast was not something you rushed through. It required beer for the steamer pot, beer for the cook, and beer for your friends, not to mention mountains of potato salad and coleslaw.

  Jean had decided to take Ryan under her wing and make him an honorary Marylander. She thought he was too much of a dandy to handle it, but Van was betting he would be able to cut the mustard.

  “Ryan, I need your help,” said Jean, grabbing him by the hand as soon as he arrived and dragging him toward the steamer pot. “Help me wrangle these loose crabs before they latch on to someone.” As she spoke, she reached for the cooking tongs and sprayed the garden hose across the grass. Immediately, several hidden pairs of claws rose up out of the lawn and snapped at the air.

  “Like me, you mean?” Ryan said, laughing as he tried to make his way over to Van “I don’t think so. You go ahead; I’ll observe your technique.”

  “Chicken,” Jean said, using the tongs to toss each crab into the steamer pot. “What makes you think you can eat without working for it? Oh, right, you’re a city boy. I guess we’ll have to cut you some slack.” She put the tongs back on the table and again grabbed Ryan by the hand. “Okay, I’m going to show you the proper way to eat crabs. Ready for Crab one-o-one?”

  “I can watch someone else first.” He shot Van a pleading look, but she gave him thumbs-up and promptly disappeared to mingle with her friends.

  “Rule number one: never wipe your eyes. That’s grade-A red pepper on those beauties—you’ll think you just got Maced. See this?” she said, pointing at the goblet-shaped flap on the bottom of the shell. “This is the apron. Pull it up and off. Then pry the two halves of the shell apart with your thumbs. And watch the steam—these suckers are ho … hot!”

  Ryan was a good sport and not squeamish. It was an untidy business, culminating in pepper-encrusted hands, and tiny crab-shell cuts burning with vinegar and red pepper. But it was worth it, and even Ryan, a lifelong lobster devotee, had to admit that the tender blue crab was a rare delicacy.

  He was good at mingling, and soon everybody was a friend. Still, as he introduced himself to others, his eyes never strayed far from Van’s every movement. He needed to talk to her alone, for he was coming to the realization that more than happenstance had brought them together.

  “She’s a very interesting woman.”

  Ryan’s concentration broke, and he turned to acknowledge the young woman speaking to him, commanding his attention. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair, laughing green eyes, and a killer smile. Ryan automatically returned the smile. It was a male reaction that the woman was clearly accustomed to.

  “Hi, I’m Marla, Jean’s daughter,” she said, extending a well-manicured hand. She held on just a moment too long, forcing his eyes back up to hers. Again the beautiful smile. He glanced back in Van’s direction, but she had disappeared from view. Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the dark-haired beauty.

  “Nice to meet you. I didn’t know Jean had a daughter. Do you live next door?”

  “Oh, no. We do best with occasional visits. You’re from New York. I’d give my right arm to live there—not a lot going on in a place like Nevis. I spent time here after my parents split up. It was either find some fun or go crazy. If you ever get too bored, you should give me a call.”

  “Van’s done a pretty good job of showing me around, giving me the lay of the land,” he said. “It’s not such a bad place. It’s all in what you appreciate. As you get older, it’ll grow on you.”

  “I’m probably older than you think. How old do you think I am?”

  He smiled. “Not old enough,” he said, trying not to show his amusement. “You are a strikingly beautiful young woman, and it’s been wonderful meeting y—”

  “I’d bet there’s the same age difference between us as between you and Vanessa,” Marla said, with a tilt of her head as she curled a wisp of her hair around her finger.

  Ryan didn’t respond immediately but just studied her over the rim of his drink. A month ago, he might have taken her up on her unspoken offer. Still, he was a man who preferred to be the pursuer rather than the quarry, and a meaningless fling was of no real interest at the moment.

  “Would you please excuse me?” he said. “I see someone I’ve been waiting to have a word with.” And he backed away and melted into the crowd.

  *

  “Cool your jets,” said Jean, walking up behind Marla.

  Marla turned and laughed. “What?”

  “You know exactly what. Van is a friend of mine.”

  “I thought blood was thicker than water. Guess I was wrong, Mom.”

  “Don’t be so obvious. It doesn’t become you—in fact, it makes you look cheap.”

  *

  On the far side of the yard, after scanning the group for Ryan and finding him talking alone with Marla, Van had watched the whole flirtatious encounter. Red flags went up immediately as she saw the closeness of their stance, the way Marla leaned in and laughed while touching Ryan’s arm, the way she flipped her hair behind her shoulder. No mixed signals there. As a woman, she had to admire the technique. But as a rival, she had to know how quickly a woman like that could spin a man’s head. She started across the yard to limit the potential damage to her budding relationship with Ryan, but before she could close the distance she was relieved to see that he had disappeared and Jean was talking with Marla. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but it didn’t last long, and they dispersed into the crowd before she could join them.

  Relieved, Van changed direction and approached a tall guy she didn’t recognize, who was grabbing a beer out of the cooler.

  “Hi, I’m Van,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

 
“Hi, I work with Ryan.”

  “Are you Earl? Ryan has said so many nice things about you,” she said, extending her hand. “So nice to meet you.”

  “No, I’m Hector Young,” he said, shaking her hand. “I also work with Ryan.”

  “Oh, of course, Ryan works for your company.”

  “Actually, it’s my father’s company. I’m a junior. He still runs it, and I’m just one of the peons working there. Someday, hopefully, I’ll get a chance to run it.”

  “It must be an amazing job to be able to travel around and see so many different places. I love listening to Ryan talk about it.”

  Hector laughed. “Yeah, Ryan’s quite a talker. He could charm the hat off the pope. Although I’d say he’s a little quieter since his accident.”

  “What accident?”

  “Ryan didn’t tell you? I’m surprised. A few years back, he was almost killed in a traffic accident—hit in a crosswalk by a city bus. Hospitalized for weeks. It was real touch and go for a while—they even had to resuscitate him once.” Hector paused. “I guess I’m talking out of school. Well, I’ve already put my foot in my mouth, so I may as well finish. No one thought he had a ghost of a chance of making it, but he pulled through. He’s the best that ever worked at Hector Young. In the boss’s eyes, no one even comes close—makes the rest of us look like also-rans. But I know him better than anyone. The accident changed everything. It’s subtle, but the edge is gone. Good for the also-rans, but I’d just as soon it didn’t happen on my watch.” Hector popped the top on his Natty Boh and leaned against one of the picnic tables. Like Ryan, he seemed to be a dab hand at meeting and dealing. “Just out of curiosity, has he told you why he’s here?”