by Grouse, Lili
There weren’t a lot of cars out, she noted. Maybe people were still at the beach, or out on the pier. Or maybe this was just the kind of place where people preferred to bike or walk. Just as she was thinking that, though, a pick-up truck came thundering down the slope. She turned her head just in time to jump aside and not get run over. She threw up her hands and yelled, but the driver seemed oblivious to her outrage. Jerks. They were everywhere.
FORD HAMM glanced in his rearview mirror. The woman was flailing her arms and jumping up and down, and was that a finger? Blasted tourists, walking in the middle of the street as if they owned the place. Even worse, they just kept coming. Like locust, invading and pillaging until nothing remained but barren land.
Ford had seen an increase in the influx in the last couple of years, and every year, it grated more and more on his nerves. If only they’d stopped at visiting, enjoying the scenery and boosting the local economy, that would have been fine. But they hadn’t. They’d started building houses for themselves, and restaurants and – shudder – water sport rentals. Rich people had made Greenport their playpen, and locals like him were nothing but local wildlife.
Sure, he’d taken business from the rich. A single contractor in a town populated by mere hundreds, he didn’t get to be picky about his work. At least the town statutes were good for something – any construction work within the town limits had to be performed – or at the very least consulted on – by a licensed heritage contractor. He wasn’t sure such a thing existed outside of Greenport, but the Greenport Historical Society carried a lot of weight around – and he wasn’t just talking about hefty Hetty Port. It was the town’s way of sticking it to the tourists, and he was happy to play his part.
Only, sometimes he wished he wasn’t the only licensed heritage contractor around. Sharing the workload would have been nice, and of course, if there was another contractor in Greenport, he wouldn’t have to take on crazy ass jobs like the one for Quinlan Bankhead. What kind of name was that, anyway? Sounded like something someone pulled out of a hat and stuck on the first pompous guy to walk by.
The man was clearly used to getting whatever he pointed at, but he hadn’t gotten past the Historical Society. Ford grinned at the thought of Mr. High-and-Mighty having no choice but to hire a local instead of the fancy contractors he had lined up. The grin quickly faded as he reminded himself that he was that local.
Apparently Bankhead was bringing in an architect or designer or whatever lame-ass title people put on themselves over in Tinseltown, and Ford was going to have to ‘liaise’ with the hack. Undoubtedly some bleached blonde bunny who only cared about rearranging furniture – or, rather, getting other people to do it for her.
Well, she could point all she wanted, there was no way he was jumping through hoops for anyone. And there was no way he’d see his great-grandfather’s lighthouse torn down to make room for some jerk with too much money on his hands.
TWO
Kristen found the grocery store first. The impact of tourism could be clearly seen here in the displays of sunscreen, disposable cameras, hats with ‘Greenport’ stenciled on them and T-shirts depicting shellfish and seashells. In the more practical section, she found the batteries she needed to stock up on.
She had one of those digital cameras that ran on batteries instead of being charged via USB. She needed to document her work every step of the way, and she’d found that it was far easier to carry around an extra set of batteries than to find a power outlet in a building undergoing construction.
She also needed batteries for her alarm clock. Kristen had long ago discovered her affinity towards snoozing, and so in order not to oversleep, she would set at least three alarms every night.
One wall was dedicated to libations of various kinds – water bottles in groups of six, wrapped in plastic; cases of beer piled high; soft drinks in cans arranged as six-, twelve- or twenty-four packs. There were also two refrigerators keeping individual drinks cold, and a group of kids were grabbing as many cans of soda as they could to deposit with their parents already at the checkout counter.
Once the kids had cleared out, Kristen walked over to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. It wasn’t that she didn’t like kids, it was just that she preferred to keep them at a safe distance. Like cats. Getting too close meant getting scratches and stained clothes. She liked her skin – and her clothes – just as they were.
“Anything else?” the teenager behind the counter asked between her chewing. Kristen hoped it was gum and not tobacco.
“No, thanks, I’m fine for now,” Kristen said and took out her wallet. The teenager stopped her chewing and simply gawked.
“Is that- Is that a-“
Kristen pulled out her credit card and handed it over. She liked nice things, but she’d left most of her designer bags at home. However, her long time friend and companion Monsieur Vuitton had come along for the ride. Right now, though, she wished she’d kept him hidden.
The teenager didn’t seem to think ‘eww, another rich girl’, thank goodness. Instead, she looked longingly impressed. Better than disgust, but still not Kristen’s favorite look. Growing up in California to wealthy parents, Kristen had never really thought twice about the stuff she wore or owned. She’d gone to private school, and then roomed with an exclusive sorority while she was in college.
“Here you go,” the girl said as she handed back Kristen’s credit card and the little plastic bag containing her purchases, now even brandishing a smile. “See you around.”
“Thanks,” Kristen returned the smile and headed out of the little store. Chances were she would see the teenager around, given that she’d be in this town for a whole year. She must get online and see where the nearest shopping mall was. She was planning to have at least part of her closet shipped out here, but she needed more casual wear – and winter clothes. She doubted ski wear would work. Did it snow in Greenport?
She looked around. The grocery store sat alongside a wooden deck stretching from one rock formation to another at the opposite end of the harbor area. There were little eateries and more souvenir shops than she could count. A quick glance at the displays showed that representations of various sea creatures were popular trinkets, as well as postcards of the Greenport lighthouse. The lighthouse she was hired to remodel.
Kristen felt an unease spread throughout her body. Mr. Bankhead had cleared the purchase of the light house and the rebuilding of the same with the town council, hadn’t he? Why would they part with a tourist attraction and landmark without reservations? Was this where the smooching would come in?
A couple of kids running past made Kristen sway on her feet, and she was happy she hadn’t worn her heels. Giant lobsters bobbed in the air behind them as they ran. At least they weren’t giant lighthouse balloons… that would have been weird-looking.
The little harbor was busy and the chatter of people blended with the smells of smoked fish, the sun hanging low on the horizon warming her cheeks. Kristen liked people and the bustle suited her. However, the lighthouse catching and reflecting most of the sun’s rays was like a beacon of forebodance. She was about to make a lot of people very angry.
Despite the fact that it was Quinlan Bankhead’s name on the deed and his money paying her fee, Kristen had been around long enough to know that any negative press always came down hard on the middleman. You could criticize the head honcho nonstop in the privacy of your own home and head, but when it came to throwing out accusations and threats to a person’s face, it was the little guy that got it, the one with his or her paycheck in hand.
Kristen remembered visiting her father’s office as a young girl, and being assigned to play with her dolls behind his assistant’s desk. She had been too young to understand that Mrs. Kale’s patient voice over the phone remained the same no matter what words were uttered to her, but Kristen remembered vividly the angry man who’d come busting through the door and yelled at the middle-aged assistant, calling both her and Kristen’s father horrible name
s. She’d begun to cry from the exchange, and the angry man had spotted her on the floor. He’d lost his train of thought, then, and security had come and taken him away.
When she’d asked Mrs. Kale why the stranger was so angry, the older woman had patted her cheek lovingly and told her that sometimes people got upset and they needed to let off steam so that their heads wouldn’t explode, and it didn’t much matter to them who they were yelling at.
Kristen had thought it unfair even then, and had muttered something about wishing the mean man had blown his head off. This had not gone over well with Mrs. Kale, who’d sternly said that only bad people wished other people harm, and that Kristen should take care never to become such a person. She’d tried her best not to.
Kristen’s stomach made a disgruntled sound, reminding her that she had yet to eat. Music was coming from a little restaurant nearby, with string lights hanging down from the steepled roof. A menu was tacked to a fisherman’s net out front and Kristen made a qualified guess that the restaurant specialized in seafood.
A waitress came over as Kristen perused the menu, her apron even shorter than her daisy dukes. She had long hair pulled back in a ponytail placed high on her head, and a couple of pens were stuck up there.
“Find anything you like? Happy hour starts in half an hour. Bartender does a mean Martini, but don’t tell him I said so,” she added in a stage-whisper. “He prefers being known as the King of Brews.”
Kristen laughed. “I swear I won’t say a word. How are the prawns?”
“Actually, we have a large population of rock pool prawn here in Greenport. There were a bunch of scientists out here a few years ago, shaking their head at the infestation, but as it turns out, they’re edible, and quite tasty.”
“Okay, sounds good. And I’ll be sure to ask for that martini,” Kristen smiled and the waitress showed her to a table close to the bar. She handed over a menu and pointed at the prawn dish she recommended. “I trust your recommendation,” Kristen said and handed back the menu.
She sat back in the chair and took in her surroundings as the waitress headed for what was presumably the kitchen to relay her order. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and the table tops had a similar style. This made the restaurant murky, but the music playing over hidden speakers and the clinking of glasses behind the bar made the atmosphere a cozy one.
The inside of the restaurant was only half-full, while families had invaded the outdoor serving area. Just as well, keeping the trilling laughter of children separate from the more soothing tunes of 90s rock music. Again, it wasn’t that she didn’t like children – she just preferred to eat her food and have her drinks accompanied by the sound of music instead of crying.
“I put in that order for you,” the waitress said, returning from the kitchen. “You want that cocktail now or do you wanna wait for Happy Hour?”
“No time like the present,” Kristen smiled.
“My kind of girl,” the waitress winked and sauntered over to the bar. She leaned across the bar counter, no doubt half-flashing the bartender in the process, and Kristen’s eyes dropped to the brunette’s feet. Gorgeous wedge sandals. She must ask where her new best friend shopped.
“Here you go,” the waitress returned with a lethal-looking cocktail and set it down on the table. “I’m Hallie. You here on vacation?”
“Work. I’ll be here for awhile.” Kristen carefully sipped at the cocktail. It had punch. Not literally, of course. She suspected a hefty dose of vodka, though. “I’m Kristen.”
“Nice to meet you. Where are you staying?” Hallie asked, tucking her tray under her arm and cocking her hip.
“At the Breeze Inn. Like five or ten minutes walk from here.”
“With old Breezer? Ouch. Who’d you kill?” Hallie grimaced.
“Sorry?”
“In your previous life? Come on, spill. It had to be bad if karma stuck you with old lady Breezer.”
Kristen laughed. “Beats me. If you have any leads on another place, I’m all ears. I figure I’ve got about three weeks until I start adopting cats myself.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. How long are you here for? Tourist season should be winding down in less than a month.”
“I’m looking at a year.”
“Oh, then we’ll definitely have to get you into another place,” Hallie said determinedly. “I’ll ask around. Once tourist season dies down a lot of places will be looking for guests to fill their rooms – well, the ones that don’t close down, that is.”
“It must be hard to operate a business in a place where you’re so reliant on tourism…” Kristen pondered aloud.
“Well, we do all right. The souvenir shops close down. They don’t have to pay rent during off season.”
“Really?”
“The town council is good like that. Taxes are high, but that really only affects the rich people. Still, they keep on coming,” Hallie clicked her tongue.
“Not a fan of rich people, huh?” Kristen said, sipping her drink and hoping she wasn’t too obvious. It would be a long, lonely year if she couldn’t make friends here.
“Not a fan of the pompous kind,” Hallie corrected, “and that’s the only kind that show up here and start building mansions.”
Kristen smiled, but it probably didn’t reach her eyes.
“Gotta go collect some tips,” Hallie said and patted Kristen’s table. “I’ll be back with your food in a bit.”
“Sure. Thanks.“
Kristen sighed as soon as Hallie was out of earshot. By tomorrow, the whole town would probably know why she was here, and she’d be ostracized. She may need another drink.
Ford dropped his keys in the ceramic bowl in the hallway. Ugly old thing that his mother-in-law once bestowed on the happy newlyweds. He should have seen it back then – the old bat hated his guts. He had no doubt she’d played a major part in turning Suzy against him. Now she was doing the same thing with Annabelle.
Ford raked a hand over his cropped hair, the stubble rasping against his calloused palm. He should throw the old thing out, but Annabelle would see it and report back to her grandma. No need to stir up that wasp nest. One last glare at the ceramic monstrosity and he headed for the shower.
He had drywall dust everywhere, it seemed. Not like he needed the extra sprinkle of white in his hair – he was well aware that his hair was lightening with each passing year. Having a teenager to combat with – even on an intermittent basis – would turn anyone’s hair gray.
Teenager. He couldn’t believe his baby girl had turned 15 just last month. He felt like an old man, even if he’d only been 23 when she was born. The divorce had knocked off a couple of years of his life, that was for sure.
Ford was just stepping out of the shower when he heard the door slam shut. Great. Annabelle was in a mood.
“Annabelle!” he called out, wrapping a towel around his hips. “Don’t run out again. We need to talk!”
Yeah, like that was going to compel a stubborn teenager to stay put. Ford shook his head at his own stupidity and walked over to his closet. A pair of well-worn jeans and a T-shirt were the first things he saw and he pulled them on without hesitation. Then he headed downstairs.
“Annabelle!”
“Whaaat?” came a whining noise from the kitchen, where his daughter was rummaging through drawers.
“What are you looking for?” Ford asked as he stepped through the doorway.
“Bottle opener.”
“What do you need a bottle opener for?” he frowned.
“To open a bottle,” she deadpanned.
“Clever. Give it.” He held out his hand.
“What?”
“The bottle you stole from my fridge.”
“I didn’t steal anything. And it’s your fridge now? Don’t I live here, too?”
“Of course you do,” Ford sighed. “Sorry, Annie.”
“Whatever. I’m going out.”
“Whoa! No, you’re not.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“You and I are going to go out and grab some dinner, and then we’re going to talk about your attitude adjustment.”
“My what now?”
“You’re going back to your mom’s house in two weeks, and I don’t want to hear about you getting into trouble at school again this year. This attitude you’ve got going on here needs to change.”
“You’re one to talk, Dad,” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “You’re always barking at people. It’s not like I have such a stellar example to live by, is it?”
Ford ran his hand over his face, taking a beat to calm himself. Yelling had gotten him nowhere in the past year, and so he was going to give reasoning a try.
“Okay. Let’s just go grab some food and…”
“Sorry, Dad, I’ve already got plans.” As if on cue, a car horn honked outside and Annabelle flung her bag over her shoulder. “See ya.”
Ford knew he should go after her, but he suddenly felt bone-weary. He pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table and sunk into it. A pile of bills sat at the far end of the table, and he reached for them without much enthusiasm.
He loved his daughter to death, but the child support check he made out to her mother every month really put a dent in his finances. He was happy to pay for his child’s care, but less than happy to pay for his ex-wife’s shopping addiction. Annabelle had started taking after her, too. All she could talk about when he called was the latest beauty product or fashion statement she needed to get her hands on. Next year, it’d be cars she was mooning over, he was sure of it.
Suzy had traded him in for a more expensive model, so to speak. Burt Simons, Suzy’s new husband, had a house on Cape Cod and a villa in Spain, and of course their home in Beverly Hills. Simons was a film producer, and now Annabelle was talking about getting into acting. No way that was happening. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Annabelle knew what kind of movies Simons produced, but he did. As long as he had a voice, he was going to say exactly what he thought about Mr. Moneybags and his bad influence on Annabelle. Not that Suzy cared much what he thought about anything these days.
