No More Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “It’s all so peaceful. I can’t believe I have another week of this.”

  “Don’t think about it ending. Just be in the moment,” he said.

  “In the moment? Has Suki gotten to you?” Suki Shung was Bill’s deputy chief, a martial arts specialist, and a Buddhist. Even in the midst of harrowing law enforcement episodes, she managed to maintain her equilibrium.

  “Suki? No. It’s the—”

  “Heat!” My cell buzzed signaling a text coming in.

  Bill took my hand and squeezed. “Ignore it.”

  He was right. I was on vacation. Anyone who needed to communicate with me could wait until tomorrow. Besides, Bill seemed to be getting a little frisky, and I knew where that could lead. I laid my head against his shoulder. “Good idea.”

  We crossed Ocean Avenue, entered Atlantic Street, which ran perpendicular to the boardwalk. I could see our cozy bungalow, only a block from the ocean, up ahead. A living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, a lovely patio, and a large screened-in porch. Perfect for outdoor sleeping in this weather.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked, one side of his mouth curving upward.

  We arrived at our rental. “You bet,” I murmured sexily and climbed the front steps, Bill grasping my hand close behind. “Why don’t we pop the cork on that champagne we’ve been chilling?” I opened the screen door, and my foot scraped a large object. That moved. I jumped. “Eek!”

  “What’s going on?” Bill yelled, catching me as I fell backward.

  A voice in the dark hollered, “Dudette!”

  My heart banged in my chest. I knew only one person who referred to me as dudette. “J-Jackson?” I said, unbelieving.

  “It’s me. In the flesh.” He cackled.

  “Jackson?” Bill ushered me onto the porch and flicked on the light.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped.

  “It’s a long story.” He caught sight of Bill. “Hey, what’s happening, man?” He did a kind of bro handshake, his brown curls bouncing off his forehead and around his neck as he tried out variations on gripping the hand of the police chief of Etonville, New Jersey. “Hope you don’t mind I kind of made myself at home on your porch.”

  In the dim light I could see a sleeping bag and an open backpack with clothes spilling out of it.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked again. My mind not putting it all together. “Why aren’t you in Iowa?”

  “I had to split that scene. Missed the ocean. I kinda got fed up with tractors, combines, balers—”

  “Jackson!” I practically screamed.

  “Yo! You’re killing my eardrums.” He plopped on the ground and leaned back against the chaise lounge. “So what’ve you been up to?” He got a glimpse of Bill and grinned lazily.

  “Excuse me.” Bill, tight-lipped, went into our house.

  I counted to ten to calm down. “Okay…I’m happy to see you. We can get together for a drink and talk old times. Good night.” I opened the screen door for Jackson to leave.

  “That’s a problem. I got a negative cash flow. No place to stay. Hey, I could crash out here.”

  “Here?” My voice skidded up an octave.

  “For tonight. For old times’ sake.” I remembered that young, boyish grin that usually got him whatever he wanted. Including me. “Puleeeease?” he whined. “I’ll make breakfast in the morning. I rock the kitchen.”

  A light went on inside our bedroom. Yikes. Poor Bill. “For one night,” I said emphatically.

  He nodded. “Nighty night. Sleep tight.”

  I slammed the door into the house. It was supposed to be a romantic end to our day, Bill and me under the stars, monitoring a constellation or two…my cell pinged. Once, then twice. Who was so insistent? Might as well check it. The night couldn’t get any worse.

  It was Lola: ELT chosen for NJ CTF!!! Cranford had to bow out. Food poisoning! We’re coming down the shore. Can’t wait to see u!

  Geez.

  2

  A clanging yanked me from the throes of a dream—I was on the beach buried in sand up to my neck being force-fed seafood risotto. My eyes fluttered open. I rolled to my side, slapped the top of the alarm, yanking the bedsheet with me. Seven thirty. Bill was asleep, snoring beside me, utterly unaware of the racket. Had he set the alarm?

  His chest rose and fell, the spikes of his brush cut pointing every which way, and sandy-colored stubble covered his face. He’d been a real trouper about Jackson last night after I’d joined him in bed. Claiming that he wasn’t upset that my former boyfriend had shown up unannounced on our doorstep, making himself at home on our porch, and had ruined our romantic evening. As long as Jackson’s visit ended this morning. I insisted that our guest would be gone after breakfast and Bill was satisfied. I wasn’t.

  I watched a fly zoom around the room, banging into the window screen before it gave up and flew into the bathroom. What had brought Jackson back to the shore this summer? Was it really his boredom with farm equipment? What had taken him so long to return? It had been four years since Hurricane Sandy, and Jackson had a short attention span.

  “Hey. Did the alarm go off?” Bill yawned and kissed my cheek.

  “Yep.”

  “What time is it?” He leaned over my torso and squinted at the clock. “I have to get going or I’ll be late. Captain Cook waits for no passengers.” He stumbled out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

  “Captain Cook?”

  “Deep-sea fishing? Remember?” Bill asked and stepped into the shower.

  Right. Bill had made these plans weeks ago. A day out on a boat trying his luck with a rod, reel, and tackle. He’d been so excited, like a kid in the proverbial candy store. I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Even when I lived down here, I avoided any activity that included raw bait, a pitching sea, and the possibility of throwing up a recent meal. My one experience deep-sea fishing had left me hanging over the side of the boat willing it to sink. Not caring that my parents and brother were aboard.

  “What are you doing today?” Bill toweled off and dressed speedily.

  “A bit of sun, happy hour, maybe a visit with Grody.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “By the way, I got a text from Lola and guess who’s coming to town? You remember that theater festival Grody mentioned? Apparently, something happened with the group from Cranford. Food poisoning. Anyway, they’re out and the ELT is in.”

  “Soup’s on!” yelled a voice from down the hall. It was Jackson.

  “What’s that mean?” Bill asked, wary.

  “No idea. But I’ll find out.” I threw on a robe and strode out the bedroom door, whipping the ties around my midsection.

  “Yo, Dodie. Whoa!” Jackson snickered at my morning ensemble. He whisked his brown strands into a man bun with an elastic band.

  “Very funny.” I stopped and sniffed. “Is that French toast? And bacon?”

  “Totally. And my special homemade syrup.”

  The table was set for three. I was flabbergasted. I’d never seen Jackson lift a finger in the cooking department.

  “Hope you don’t mind I kind of dumpster-dived into your refrigerator.” He flipped the French toast expertly. “Have a seat.”

  I smelled Bill’s minty clean aftershave before I saw him. “What’s this?” he asked, standing behind my chair.

  “Jackson’s cooking,” I said politely.

  “Yeah?” Bill nodded. “Oh.”

  “Breakfast, bud?” Jackson asked.

  I’m not sure anyone had ever referred to Bill as “bud.” I sneaked a peek—he was peaceful, his smile gracious. Deep-sea fishing can be a narcotic for some people.

  “Sorry. I have a date with a boat.” Bill swung a backpack onto his shoulder.

  “Been there, done that,” Jackson said. “Spent the best years of my
life on the sea.”

  “The best years? Aren’t you exaggerating a bit? Anyway, the sea was only inlets and bays.” I doused a piece of French toast with syrup and bit into the golden-brown bread. It was to die for.

  Jackson opened cabinets, searching for something.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Got it.” He found a takeaway mug and filled it with coffee. “Hey, dude. Here you go.”

  Bill reached for the mug carefully as if it might explode. “Uh, thanks.”

  “Have fun. YOLO,” Jackson said and saluted.

  “YOLO…?” Bill was confused.

  “You Only Live Once. Catch the big one, Moby Dick.” Jackson fist-bumped Bill, who gave me a pleading look and ran out the door.

  “Serious dude.” Jackson popped a strip of bacon into his mouth.

  * * * *

  At ten o’clock, after stuffing myself with Jackson’s feast, I was ready to go back to bed. We’d spent the last hour rehashing our recent pasts and catching up. “Now I know why I don’t eat like this every morning. I feel like a blimp,” I said.

  Jackson cleared dishes, refilled my coffee cup, and studied me critically. “I’d say looking excellent.”

  “Thanks.” Jackson had always been ready with a sweet compliment back in the day. One of the things I appreciated about him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again. Ever,” he said.

  Ditto for me. “Well…here I am. And here you are too. Speaking of which, I’m sorry, but you need to—”

  Jackson raised a hand to cut me off. “Got it. My bags are packed.”

  I peered out the screen door. His belongings were still strewn around the porch.

  “Figuratively speaking,” he said. “But not to worry. By the end of the day, no more cash flow issues.” He crossed his arms confidently.

  “That’s…great.” I emptied the last dregs of my coffee. “Hey, guess who I bumped into yesterday? Vinnie C. Looking very spiffy.”

  “He’s around.” Jackson wiped down the kitchen table.

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  Jackson shrugged. “We’ve, like, been in communicado.”

  “I assumed he left town after Sandy. Got out of the charter business, like you. From what I heard he’s doing well.”

  “Mmm.” Jackson scrubbed a skillet, loaded the dishwasher, and draped a wet towel over the dish rack.

  What was he not telling me? “Are you going to hook up? I know there was some…tension when you split up.”

  “Heh. Sounds like we were married,” he said.

  “If I remember correctly, you spent more time with him when we were together than you did with me,” I chided Jackson gently.

  “It’s water over the bridge.”

  “Under the bridge,” I corrected him.

  “That too.” Jackson stuffed his hands in his pockets and scrunched up his face like a kid. “Mind if I use the outdoor shower?”

  The cold shower most beach houses employed to remove sand from sunbathers instead of having the stuff tracked into the house. “You can use the indoor plumbing. Towels are on the bathroom shelf.”

  I followed Jackson to the porch and watched as he dug through his possessions and withdrew a clean pair of shorts and a shirt. “By the way, you never told me how you found out where I was staying.”

  He strolled past me on his way to the bathroom. “I got my connections.”

  “Jackson!”

  “Uh…Grody. But don’t tell him I told you.”

  * * * *

  “Sorry, kiddo. He made me promise not to tell you. Said he wanted to surprise you.” Grody lifted his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t sure how you two left things, so…I assumed he wanted to clear the air.”

  “He camped out on our porch last night.”

  Grody stifled a grin. “You dodged a bullet with Jackson.”

  I sipped a strawberry margarita, savoring the chill of the crushed ice, the sweetness of the fruit, and the tang of the tequila. I rarely drank this early in the day, but I was on vacation and, as my great-aunt Maureen believed, It’s happy hour somewhere in the world.

  “But hey, I like Bill. You done good there, Red.”

  “I agree. He’s been understanding. So far.” With Jackson out of the way, tonight could be a reboot: chilled champagne, the summer breeze, Bill enamored of the constellations…and me.

  “…suggestions, I’d like to hear them,” Grody said.

  I’d gotten lost on my screened-in porch. My old boss had inquired about theater theme food advice for the New Jersey Community Theater Festival. “I’ve had some hot ideas, like a seafood buffet for Dames at Sea, Italian night for Romeo and Juliet, a 1940s food festival for Arsenic and Old Lace—”

  “I like that one.” Grody scribbled on an inventory sheet.

  “Slight hiccup there. The director died, and I was left with fifty pounds of hot dogs and a case of black-and-white cookies.”

  “Too bad.” Grody frowned.

  “Then there was the early American food for Eton Town. But due to the show being postponed, the Swamp Yankee Applesauce Cake was mostly eaten by the cast and crew.”

  “Postponed?” he asked.

  “Another hiccup.”

  Grody studied me. “So, Henry was right about you investigating murders.”

  “Yep. But hey, the last show had a food contest that went over well. People loved it. And nobody got murdered inside the Windjammer or the theater.” I giggled. Grody joined in, his belly shaking as the laughs bubbled up and burst out of him.

  Happy hour at noon was an excellent invention.

  A waiter appeared with a plate and a setup. Lobster rolls and chips.

  “Yummy,” I said. “Where’s your lunch?”

  Grody dismissed my question. “I don’t eat during the day, remember? I’ll catch up tonight. At some point this afternoon, I need to talk with Sam Baldwin.”

  “Who’s that?” I bit into my sandwich. The succulent lobster meat melted in my mouth.

  “He’s the sponsor of the theater festival. A local guy. Baldwin General Contractors did a lot of Hurricane Sandy reconstruction. Kind of Candle Beach’s town father. I want to find out what he has in mind for the reception.”

  The margarita made me loose…and generous. “I could run interference for you. Stop by the theater and check things out. Where is the theater anyway?”

  Grody snatched a cocktail napkin and drew a map. “Down the boardwalk until it ends. Right on Cummings Street by the Surf Shack. Go three blocks to the town park. You’ll see a gazebo. The theater is behind it. An old converted barn. Hey, thanks, Irish! I owe you one.” Grody grabbed my bill. “Lunch is on the house.” He hurried off before I could change my mind.

  Fortified by lobster and alcohol, I sauntered out of the Sandbar and headed down the boardwalk. The squawking of the wheeling seagulls, the surge and crash of the surf, and the slap of my flip-flops on the faux wooden boards were familiar, comfortable sounds. I passed the Candy Kitchen, where I popped in for half a pound of taffy, the souvenir shops with hats and shirts and beachwear for sale, the arcade where kids badgered their parents for money to play games, and the Candle Diner. Where Bill and I had already sampled the breakfast specials.

  I chewed taffy and followed Grody’s map, hanging a right on Cummings Street. In a matter of minutes, I reached the old barn, where prominent signage indicated the New Jersey Community Theater Festival was set to open in a few days. I approached the main entrance and entered the lobby. Even from out here, the odors of paint thinner and sawdust assaulted my nose. In the theater a crew of carpenters was installing a backdrop on the stage while two electricians had mounted ladders and were hanging instruments on lowered battens. As a result of my familiarity with the Etonville Little Theatre, it was a scene that I knew well. As a matter of fa
ct, I felt right at home in the theater, having sewn a costume or two and done my share of ascending ladders to assist with the hanging of curtains—

  “The theater is closed to outsiders,” a cranky voice said.

  If I closed my eyes, I could swear it was Penny Ossining, the Etonville Little Theatre stage manager barking at me. Instead it was a tall women in overalls, hair in pigtails, clipboard in hand. “Hi. I’m looking for Sam Baldwin? I was told he might be here?”

  “Who wants to know?” she asked, full of herself.

  I tilted my head back to meet her gaze. “I’m here for Grody Van Houten. The Sandbar is catering the opening night reception, and I need some information from Sam.”

  Apparently nothing I said held much sway with the woman. She scanned me from head to toe. “Wait here and don’t go wandering around. Otherwise you’ll get in the way.” She stomped off.

  Talk about a bedside manner. Could be Penny all right.

  “Ignore Maddy. She gets off on intimidation. She’s really harmless.”

  I whipped around and saw a smiling, older gentleman in a beige linen suit who leaned on a cane. I extended my hand. “I’m Dodie O’Dell. Helping out with catering for the reception.”

  “John Bannister. I’m the unofficial official welcoming committee for the NJCTF.” He took my hand. “Glad to meet you.”

  What a sweetheart. “Same here. Is Sam Baldwin around? I’m supposed to get the lay of the land for Grody Van Houten at the Sandbar.”

  “Come on. Sam’s out back wrestling with the load-in schedule. Several of the community theaters have arrived in town early and want to get onstage to rehearse. This is a very competitive event.” John arched an eyebrow and pursed his lips, laughing.

  Friendly and funny. “Lead on,” I said.

  I followed John down the center aisle of the theater, up a small stair unit, across the stage—careful to avoid stepping on cables and shop tools—and out a rear exit. A parking lot was filling with vans and cars and milling theater folks. No wonder Maddy was a bit crabby. In the midst of the chaos was a short, stocky fellow with a deep tan, a fringe of gray hair, sunglasses, and a tropical shirt stretched around a bulging belly. He had a cigar in one hand, a piece of paper in the other.