Alex walked into the galley/living room and looked all around. Then she walked over to the kitchen area, running her fingers along the smooth mahogany countertop. She turned and walked across to the small radio on the shelf, turning it on. Smooth jazz resonated off the dense wood walls. She turned completely around in the middle of the living room, noting the heavy oak furnishings and comfortable looking couch and recliner and said, “I approve, Captain Hermit.” Then she walked slowly and seductively toward me. She wrapped her arms around my neck, lifted her face to mine, and kissed me deeply, slowly grinding her pelvis into my own. Then she let go and turned around again saying, “But it’s kind of dark in here for mid afternoon.”
“Tell ya what,” I said, “If you’ll put the bags away, I’ll get the storm shutters off the windows. Then we can relax before supper.”
“What’s on the menu?” She asked.
Lifting the fish the dog had caught, I said, “Snapper, fried light.” She started laughing loudly, holding her stomach. She finally got control and said, “Give me that. Where’s the cleaning board?”
“Down by the docks, on the right,” I replied. “But, you don’t have to do that.” I should have known better, with a woman like Alex.
“What?” she said, “You think I’m some kind of squeamish city girl, that can’t clean a fish?” She started laughing again and headed out the door.
It only took me a half-hour to get the storm shutters off and stored away. I started with the kitchen window and worked my way around the house, stacking three at a time, before carrying them down to the storage locker below. By the time I was finished, I could smell garlic and onions, mixed with the wonderful aroma of fresh snapper, fried light.
The sun was getting lower in the sky, painting the wispy clouds with pastel pink, orange and red hues as we sat down on the deck to eat. She’d found her way around my little kitchen pretty well, it seemed. Along with the snapper, we had fried plantains, potatoes, and fresh biscuits, with a bottle of French merlot.
Putting down her wineglass, she looked at me and smiled, saying, “It’s beautiful out here. How’d you ever find this place to start with?”
“Well,” I replied, “I was at the courthouse down in Key West, getting the Revenge registered. There was bunch of flyers in a little display thing on the counter there, saying, ‘Own Your Own Island’. I picked one up and was idly looking it over, while I waited. The county was selling several of the smaller islands around here, the idea that they’d be used for fishing camps. When the clerk finished up with my title transfer and registration, I asked her about it. She said there hadn’t been a lot of interest, due to the remoteness of the islands available for sale. I asked about selling prices and she said it depended on the size and location. I showed her the map on the flyer, pointed to the Content Keys, and asked about one of the smaller islands here. She had me wait while she went to get the County Clerk. He told me that there were several islands available here, about $15,000 an acre and asked if I was interested. Long story short, I went to his office and made a deal on this island for $25,000 and got the septic and channel permits thrown in, with a five year construction clause.”
“Well, I love it here. Did you get someone to build it?
“Nope, did everything myself. Well, except the septic system and the concrete piers. That cost more than the island.”
“What do you do for water?”
“There’s a rain water cistern on the other side of the house, up on the roof. There’s a cold-water shower right under it, plus a hot water shower in the head. It only holds two thousand gallons, though and the propane water heater’s only twenty gallons, so I have to be conservative, especially in the dry season. That’s one of the main reasons I want to bring the Revenge up. It has a desalinization system on board.”
Just then, we heard the clicking of the dog’s claws on the steps as he came back from exploring the island. We both had a little left on our plates, so Alex went inside and got an old bowl from the cupboard and scraped everything into it. “You’re going to need to get some dog food,” she said. She set the bowl on the deck and the dog sniffed it and looked up at me. “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s yours, you caught it.” The dog glanced up at her, and then looked back at me. “Oh, good grief, tell him it’s okay,” she said.
“Go ahead,” I said to the dog and he dug into the bowl of leftovers. “No, he’s not staying. That dog belongs to someone and I’m sure they’re missing him, right now.”
“Well, in the meantime, he needs a name,” she said. You can’t just keep calling him ‘dog’. How about Pescador?
I laughed, “Yeah, fisherman it is. What do you think, Pescador?” The dog had finished eating and looked up at me, barking once.
“If he’s going to stay inside, he needs a bath,” she said. “If you take care of that, I’ll get the dishes. I imagine after that storm your cistern should be full.”
I got up and said to the dog, “Heel, Pescador,” and walked around the deck to the cold-water rinse, with the dog trotting right beside me. “Unbelievable,” I said yet again.
Alex gathered up the dishes and the empty bottle of merlot and went inside. I got the dog under the shower and rinsed him down well. He stood perfectly still while I lathered him up with a bar of hand soap and rinsed him again. When I turned off the water, he shook himself vigorously sending sheets of water all over the place, including me. I took the dog over to the other side of the deck and experimenting again, ordered him to stay. Since I needed a shower anyway, I went back over the outdoor shower, stripped down, stepped under the cold shower until I was completely wet, then shut off the water and started lathering up.
“Starting without me, Captain Wet Head?” Alex asked. I opened my eyes and she was standing, hip shot, leaning on the railing, looking at me. Without saying another word, she removed her shirt and jeans and stepped into my embrace. I turned the water on and she shrieked at the sudden cold water pouring over her. Then she melted into my arms again and we kissed, long and slow, as the sun slowly dropped down to the horizon. We finished our shower, not without some discomfort and obvious arousal on my part and padded naked into the house.
I held the door as she walked inside, then turned to the dog and said, “You coming?”
“Not even breathing hard yet,” Alex said, as she disappeared into the bedroom, laughing.
The dog walked over and into the house. I pulled an old musty poncho liner off a shelf in the closet, folded it up in the corner for him, and said, “This is your place, okay?” To my surprise, he stepped onto the poncho liner, turned around twice, and then curled up in the middle of it. “Goodnight, Pescador,” I said, scratching him behind the left ear.
When I walked into the bedroom, Alex had a hurricane lamp lit on the dresser, turned down low. She was lying on her side in my bed, with her head propped up on one hand. “Unbelievable,” I said once more, as I closed the door and joined her.
13
Tuesday morning, October 25, 2005
I was awake before the sun rose. Alex was still asleep, with her head resting on my shoulder. I slowly eased my arm out from under her and rose from the bed. I quietly opened the door and Pescador lifted his head and looked at me, still lying in the same spot I’d left him the night before. I eased the door closed and walked to the front door and opened it, then motioned him with my finger. He got up and trotted over to me and out the door. Once I closed the door, I said, “Go ahead,” and he trotted happily down the steps and lifted his leg on the pier under the house. I stood at the railing and urinated into the water below. Just two guys being guys, I thought. He came back up the steps and stood waiting by the door for me. “No opposing thumb, huh?” I asked, as I opened the door.
Alex was in the kitchen, wearing one of my long sleeved denim shirts. Man, did she look sexy like that. I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her narrow waist, as she mixed eggs in a bowl, with some cheese and chives. “Is that the uniform of the day?” she asked, not
ing my nakedness, without looking.
“It could be,” I replied, kissing her neck and cupping a breast though the fabric of my shirt.
“Go get dressed, while I make breakfast,” she said. “We’re going fishing as soon as it gets light.”
“Aye aye, ma’am,” I said and did as I was ordered. I was looking forward to seeing how she earned a living. I’m an open water angler, using heavy rods and reels. Her lightweight fly rods were foreign to me. This should be an experience.
We ate outside on the deck again, using a hurricane lantern, as the eastern sky slowly changed from black to midnight blue. It was going to be a beautiful day. As if reading my thoughts, she said, “I’ve always marveled at how crisp and clean the sky is after a storm. It’s like the earth has scrubbed itself clean.”
“Should be a good day, on the cut. Will you show me how to cast one of your fly rods?” I asked.
“You’ve never used light tackle? That’s hard to believe.”
“Spinning reels, sure,” I said. “Never had a chance to use a fly rod, though. I’ve always thought it looked cool,” I said. “Very graceful and artistic.”
“Okay, I’ll teach you. Can’t be any harder than when I taught my brother.” Her eyes went kind of cloudy then for a second or two. I knew she must miss him terribly. She shook it off and said, “He turned out to be pretty good at it. But, somehow, I don’t think there’s a lot of grace in that big, raw boned body of yours.” Then she laughed that laugh I’d fallen for over two years ago. “You need any help getting your Maverick down?”
“No, I can handle it easy enough,” I replied.
“Get to it then, Captain Easy. I’ll get these dishes cleaned up and join you in a few minutes. Should we take Pescador?”
“Well, I don’t think it’d be smart to leave him here. He might swim off again,” I replied, as I got up and started down the front steps to the docks. “Come on, Pescador. The Admiral wants her launch in the water.”
The dog rose from where he had laid down after eating his breakfast, and trotted along beside me. At the docks, I got the heavy plank down and laid it across the handrails to remove the nuts holding the corrugated metal in place under the skiff. Once I had the metal put away and the nuts threaded back on, I removed the plank and started lowering the skiff. First the bow, then the stern, working back and forth until she was riding in the water once more. I tied her off, pulled the straps clear and winched them back up to the underside of the floor.
I took one of my lightweight spinning rods out of the storage closet, stowed it aboard, just in case. I had just started the outboard when Alex came down the steps to the dock. She handed me her rod cases and a small box of flies and I held her hand as she stepped into the skiff. I looked at the dog, still sitting on the dock watching and said, “Load up.” He jumped over the gunwale and went straight to the forward casting deck and sat down, looking straight ahead. “I’m starting to like this dog,” I laughed.
“He certainly seems to know boats. I can’t help wondering how he ended up way out here,” she said.
I cast off and put the skiff in forward, slowly idling down the channel to deeper water, then turned left. We headed northeast toward the cuts that opened into the deeper waters of the Gulf of Mexico. The natural channel we were in was about fifteen feet deep on the left and shallower on the right. I’d pulled quite a few lobsters out of there last season. At the end of this channel were several cuts made by the changing tides moving water over the flats. As we moved quietly over the water at about ten knots, the dog turned his head to the left, stood up on the casting deck and started barking. Alex and I both looked over to see what he was barking at.
“Slow down, Jesse,” Alex said.
I backed the skiff down to idle speed, still looking off to port, the dog still barking at something. I couldn’t see anything, other than the sandbar on the other side of the deep part of the channel and the undulating green water. The sun was just peeking above the horizon, behind us.
“Right there,” Alex said pointing. “Turn into those flats and shut off the engine.” I still didn’t see anything, but the backwater is her habitat and I trusted her instinct. The dog stopped barking once we nudged the sand flats and stood there, staring intently at whatever it was that caught his eye.
Alex opened one of her cases and took out a three-piece fly rod and reel. She had it assembled in seconds, tied one of the flies to the line, and was on the casting deck standing next to the dog before I even had the engine tilted up. Standing up, I turned to where they were both looking, but still didn’t see a damn thing. “What is it?” I asked.
“Right over there,” she said pointing with her rod. “There’s three bonefish, tailing the flats, near that small coconut tree. You don’t think the dog saw them, do you?”
“At this point, I don’t think there’s much about this animal that would surprise me. There! I see them now,” I replied.
“Okay, here’s your first lesson. Watch carefully,” she said. Then she stripped thirty or forty feet of line off the reel, dropping it at her feet and lifted the rod tip so that ten feet of line fell from the end and dropped the fly into the water. Then she whipped the rod back horizontally to her right, and then rolled it in a low arc forward. Some of the line came up off the deck and stretched out in front of her. Just before it fell to the water, she whipped the rod horizontally back and repeated the slight arc forward. More line came up off the deck as it stretched in a slow roll out to its full length again. Once more, just before it settled to the water, she repeated the whipping movement. Now, the rest of the line came up off the deck and stretched forward. The fly at the end of the line slowly rolled out and very lightly touched the water with the line still falling, near where the three fish were moving, slightly in front of them. She whipped the rod once more, with the same arcing motion and the fly touched the water again, right in front of the lead fish. This time, the fish exploded on the fly and her rod bent nearly double as she moved the rod to the side, away from the direction the fish was going. It started stripping line from the reel at a dizzying pace, headed across the flats away from us. When the fish turned right, she brought he rod around and pulled to the left. It was really a beautiful thing to see.
“You never want to pull straight up,” she said nonchalantly, as if nothing was going on. “Side pressure will tire the fish faster and with light tackle it’s all about tiring the fish. Bonefish have a hard pallet, which is how they get their name. A barbed hook is useless, so it’s very important to always keep pressure on the rod, so the hook doesn‘t fall out of its mouth. If he turns and makes a run at you, you have microseconds to strip line back and keep the pressure on him.”
As if the fish were following her instructions, it turned toward us and she quickly stripped back ten or fifteen feet of line, always keeping the rod tip bent. Then it turned back to the left and she brought the rod over her head and down to her right. She held the line with her fingertip now, as the fish started to tire and she reeled the line up off the deck, always keeping the rod tip bent. Once it was all up off the deck, she started reeling the fish in toward the boat. He turned and made another run, stripping a few feet from the reel, until it became exhausted. She quickly reeled the fish up close to the boat and dipped it up out of the water with a net that seemed to appear in her hand from nowhere. She reached in and easily removed the fly from the fishes mouth, lifted him out of the net and held it up to me. It was the first bonefish I’d ever seen up close. It was a beautiful fish, long and powerful looking. It was silver, with darker gray stripes running the length of its body.
She bent over the side of the boat and lowered the fish back into the water. Holding it by the forked tail, with her other hand under it’s belly, she slowly moved it back and forth, forcing water through it’s mouth and across it’s gills. Suddenly, the fish shot out of her hands and disappeared.
“That was incredible,” I said. “Lady, you are a true artist. Now, I see why you have such a repu
tation around here.” I was dumbstruck and in complete awe of this fantastic woman. I suddenly saw her in a completely new light.
“Well, bonefish are fun and challenging,” she said. “But they don’t put food on the table. Let’s go get some snook.”
The dog barked, wagging its tail.
“Your wish is my command, Admiral Snook Slayer,” I said.
She laughed and came back to sit next to me and planted a big wet one on my lips. We fished the cuts the rest of the morning, but I’m afraid the woman was right. I just couldn’t get the hang of the magical way she used a fly rod. Eventually, I had to break out my spinning rod. We both caught two nice snook, which we put in the live well and headed back to the house. Once there, I cleaned the fish and told Alex we really needed to get back to Marathon before sunset. I didn’t want to risk hitting anything that’d blown up into Rusty’s canal that we didn’t know about and tear the bottom out of the skiffs. Plus, I wanted to get the dog to a vet as soon as possible to see if he was microchipped.
After a quick lunch, we went down and loaded our stuff into the two skiffs. Alex would take Rusty’s and follow me in my Maverick. I locked up the house and we headed out. Since Pescador seemed more comfortable with me, he rode in the bow of my Maverick. When I started the engine, he looked back at me and barked once. We went back the same way we came, across the flats. Crossing Spanish Banks, I happened to glance down at the console and noticed the light on my phone was flashing. It was Rusty. I backed the Maverick down and Alex pulled up alongside. “What’s wrong,” she asked.
“Rusty’s calling,” I replied. By the time I picked the phone up, he’d disconnected the call. So, I called him back and he answered on the first ring.
“Someone’s here looking for you, Jesse,” he said, without even saying hello.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Didn’t say. Bro, he’s on your boat.”
Fallen Palm (Jesse McDermitt Series) Page 9
