The Pirate's Legacy

by Sarita Leone

  “The last thing the concrete needs is for you to crack it with that hard head of yours.”

  “Did you come up here to make jokes at my expense?”

  He shook his head. She noticed he wore his favorite blue shirt tucked into low-riding hip hugger jeans. On his feet, beige suede chukka boots. Not his old ones, either. These were new, which told her he’d come by in the hopes of taking her out.

  After practically a lifetime of knowing each other, he’d become too predictable by far.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t.” He pressed his thumb to the wood she’d exposed. It gave under the pressure, sending small cracks along the board’s surface.

  “Look, don’t wreck it any more than necessary, okay?” She tossed the hammer onto the roof, and it hit near the new cracks. A spider web of smaller lines spread from the dent it created. “Damn it.”

  Neil didn’t say anything for a while, and she was content to just rest. She passed her forearm over her forehead, wiping away a film of perspiration. The mold made her eyes itchy, and she’d been sneezing the whole time she’d been working. Now, she sneezed again, catching the outburst with the back of the arm she’d raised.

  He looked at her. “Allergies?”

  “I guess.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “Thought I knew everything there was to know about you. Did not know you have allergies. That’s something new.”

  “I didn’t know, either. Not until this morning.” She paused, sneezed again. “But I doubt you know everything about me.”

  He met her gaze. “How can you say that? We’ve known each other forever, remember?”

  As if she could ever forget.

  “Almost forever.” She grinned, hoping to lighten the mood. His eyes were serious, and she was in no mood for one of their “talks”—in fact, she would have preferred root canal to another of the let’s-get-serious-about-the-future discussions he sprung on her every few weeks.

  “Chloe—”

  She cut him off before he could utter another syllable.

  “Not now, please.” She plowed her fingers through her hair, then realized she’d pulled it up. Untwisting the fabric-covered elastic that held it, she looked down at the roof. “I have a big enough mess in my life right now. I don’t think I can handle much more. Really, I don’t.”

  His voice took on an edge, one she’d heard many times in the past. “So now I’m nothing more than another ‘mess’ in your life?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She stood, leaning on her left leg to compensate for the angle of the roof. “And if you came over here to pick a fight, then mission accomplished.”

  Neil shook his head, frustration showing plainly in the tanned features. He was a great guy, a great-looking guy, but there was no getting past it. He wasn’t “the guy” for her—regardless of how hot and steamy they could get in the back seat of the black Charger he drove when not using the pickup truck.

  He stood and took a step, closing the distance between them. His tone was softer when he spoke.

  “Listen, I didn’t come to argue. Damn, I came to ask you to take a ride along the coast with me. I thought we could grab some lunch, maybe a matinee at the movie theater in Bar Harbor. I know you’ve got to work tonight; I just figured…”

  She waved a slow hand at the debris at their feet.

  “You figured I would be polishing my nails or doing something mindless, like weeding the garden, right?”

  He nodded. “Kind of.”

  “I get it, Neil. Really, I do.” She pushed the curls back off her face. The humidity made them grow, and with the sun rising higher in the sky she felt entirely too warm. “I didn’t expect to be doing this. Believe me, I’d much rather be putting a coat of Maybelline on my fingernails.”

  “I could’ve fixed this already. Why didn’t you call me?”

  She sighed. The answer was obvious—to her—but not so much to him, or else he wouldn’t be asking.

  “Two reasons: First, it just started leaking last night. I knew it looked kind of shitty up here, but the sunroom was dry until this morning.”

  “Fair enough. Reason number two?”

  Time for the truth. Again. They’d touched on it more than once, but it never seemed to become a part of their lives, this reality of theirs.

  “Reason number two? I’m not your problem to take care of. It’s nice of you to offer, but the truth is, we’re not going out. We’ve been over for so long…we both know we just tease each other a bit, just because we can. We’re not going anywhere—together, I mean. So why would I call you? My problems are nothing you need to be involved with. Nothing.”

  He looked as if she’d slapped him across the face. Shaking his head in denial, he took a step closer and tried to put his palm on her cheek. She wanted to pull back but it seemed too cruel, so she let him touch her.

  “I want more, and you know that. Damn it, Chloe—I’ve been waiting for you to come around for years! We were teenagers, for God’s sake—you’re my one and only, don’t you get it? I want more—I don’t want to push you but hell, how much can a man take? How long can a guy wait for someone to love him the way he loves her?”

  Neil leaned down, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let him kiss her—not now, and maybe not ever again.

  “No, don’t—”

  Instinct made her step back, out of his reach. Rotten boards sent her crashing through the roof.

  “Chloe! No!”

  Neil lunged for her, but her foot was already through. She scrabbled for a handhold, but the moss slicked beneath her palms as she fell.

  He grabbed her by the arm, nearly yanking it from its socket as gravity pulled her into the hole. Throwing his body down, he laid on his stomach and grabbed her in a bear hug, his arms wrapping around her just beneath her armpits.

  When she stopped falling, both legs dangled in midair somewhere below her. They heard Gabby, Reva, and Julia screaming, but their cries seemed distant.

  Chloe felt his breath against her cheek. Her heart thudded so hard it felt as if it were trying to escape her body. She was afraid to move, afraid she’d pull them both into the hole and into a pile of twisted limbs and broken bones.

  Slowly, she met his gaze. Gave him a shaky smile.

  Licking her lips so she could speak, she whispered, “I guess you got more than you bargained for, didn’t you?”

  Chapter 18

  Quinn Beach was nearly deserted. A group of surfers braved the waves near the rocks.

  Chloe and Reva crested the path on the dune that led to the sand. They stopped, placed hands above their eyes to shade the sun, and watched the wave riders. Two men sat on boards, legs dangling in the water, cheering on the two who were upright and, it seemed, racing for shore.

  “I never tire of seeing that,” Reva said. “It defies logic, watching people stand on water.”

  “Like magic. They walk—no, run—over the ocean. Too cool for words, really.”

  The wave beneath the racers dropped off, forcing them to swerve and fall. Each surfaced, grabbed the board attached to their leg, and waved fists in the air with their free hands. Even from the path, they could hear the good-natured exchanges the men threw back and forth.

  “Good thing the mommies are home with their little darlings.” Reva snorted. “I guess the beach has its own schedule: mornings, for the old folks who get their exercise while smoking their Camels, midday for the tourists, mothers and kiddies, late afternoon and evening for guys like that, who want to have fun without offending anyone, and nighttime…”

  “Nighttime…” She touched her side with gentle fingers, then ran a hand along the outside of her left thigh. “Not quite sure I’m up to any nighttime fun on the beach, to tell the truth. In my mind? Hell, yeah. But this bruised body screams, ‘no way!’ so nights are off-limits.”

  “For now.” They took their time with the downward slope of the sandy p
ath.

  “Yeah, for now.” Chloe squeezed the cooling sand between her toes. There was such a grounded feeling that came with being on the beach. It soothed her soul every time she dug her toes into the point where ocean met land. “What about you? Any nighttime fun I should know about?”

  Their resident scholar had been involved with another law student for about a year. Everyone—including Reva—thought the match was perfect, but it ended on a sour note. The guy decided dating a law student “cramped” his style, that he needed someone more lively who could take his mind off precedents, procedures, and protocol. She had been crushed, and they tried their best to lift her spirits and show her she was worthy of a better specimen of manhood than any jerk who dumped her like that, but friends could only do so much. Time was the great healer, so six months later, it was possible someone else—and hopefully less of a jackass—had caught her attention.

  “No, none of that for me.” Reva turned to the horizon with a resolute stare.

  She looked ready to walk on water—without a surfboard. If determination had a face, it was the one beside her, Chloe thought.

  “Hey, let’s cop a squat.” She brushed the biggest seashells from the area at their feet with a toe, then folded her legs and sat on the sand. Her friend did the same, pulling her billowing, ankle-length broomstick skirt up around her thighs.

  “Not a lot of sun left, but I’m in the library so much that every little bit on these white legs helps.” She waved a hand over the legs she kept straight out in front of her. They were alabaster, a tone not seen much in a beach community. Reva leaned over, bumped her shoulder against Chloe’s. “I bet your ass isn’t as white as my legs are, sister.”

  Their future lawyer was generally so serious, statements like this were priceless.

  She grinned, returning the shoulder bump. Now that they were sitting, it hurt less to move.

  “I don’t think anyone’s ass is as white as those sticks of yours.” She wasn’t sure she should do it, but she plunged in anyway. “You know, it’s okay for you to see a guy—or ten—if you want. Not everyone is as big a jerk as—”

  Reva held up a hand. Her manicure was perfect, every nail filed to an oval and polished a bland barely-there pink.

  “Don’t even say that loser’s name. Please, I solicit you, don’t say it.”

  “Fine. But you’ve got to remember that he-who-can’t-be-named is a jerk. Not every guy is like him.”

  “Right. I understand that. Statistically, it’s impossible for every single man to be as big an asshole as The Dickhead. But, that doesn’t mean I feel compelled to waste my time with any of them.”

  She gave it one last shot. “But what if you meet someone who’s really nice, who respects you and your goals, treats you wonderfully, and makes you feel like a million bucks? What then?”

  Reva turned, disbelief plain and accented by the single raised eyebrow. Which, of course, was as polished as every other part of the woman.

  “You have just described a myth. A legend. An old wives’ tale. That man? The one who you speak of so glibly? He does not exist. I’d be better off selling my law books, the little black pumps I plan to wear during my first trial case and even my goldfish, Pete, and heading up into the Canadian provinces.”

  “What? I don’t get what you’re saying—why sell everything and go to Canada?”

  A shrug as she turned to face the ocean again. And, in a voice that did not allow for dispute or cross-examination, said, “Because a woman has a better chance of finding Sasquatch than that mythological man you insist exists.”

  There was no point arguing with a genius, so Chloe accepted the defeat.

  They sat in silence for a long while. She was content to let her mind wander, and wonder if her companion was doing the same—or if that brilliant mind even had the capacity to wander.

  Finally, a question.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Well, considering I’ve been shocked in a closet, slid along the road with my bike, and fallen through a roof, I think I’m doing pretty damn good. Bruised here and there, but I’m still standing, so I think that’s an encouraging sign.”

  Reva shook her head, turned, and gave what the girls in the house called her are-you-crazy,-criminal? look. “I can’t believe you think I’m asking how your broken fingernails and scratches are. They’re going to heal—what I want to know is, how do you feel inside? I mean, you’ve got Doctor Dreamy sending loud and clear love signals while Mister Same Old, Same Old wants you to make him ‘the happiest man on the face of the earth’ and marry him.”

  The Lou Gehrig reference was one of Uncle Ted’s favorites, so it got bandied around a lot in the house. A real lot.

  It cut the sting of feeling foolish. She should have realized her bumps and lumps weren’t cause enough to take time from studying to head to the beach with her. Now it was clear; this was an information-gathering excursion, when all she’d wanted was a tiny morsel of the peaceful pie.

  She jokingly held up the peace sign. “It’s all good, sister. My body is healing, my mind is spinning, but it’s fine. What’s the song say? A good rain is gonna come…?”

  “Don’t quote Bob Dylan to me.”

  “Hey, you started with the Gehrig bit.”

  Reva held up her own fingers in the familiar v shape. “Listen, I hardly realize I even say that anymore. I don’t think any of us do.”

  “I hear you. Uncle Ted has been saying it for so long I don’t even remember the first time I heard it.”

  A young woman, about their age, probably, walked toward them. By her side, a little girl who looked to be about six or seven years old. The kid was cute, with honey-colored curls hanging down her back. She wore purple shorts and a midriff-baring top that had crazy pink daisies on it. She skipped, so that with each step her curls bounced.

  “Probably when you were about that age. So, your whole life, practically.”

  The woman nodded as she passed, but the child stopped. Holding up the two fingers on her left hand, she giggled. “Peace!”

  They both turned their hands toward the girl, smiled and in near unison said, “Peace!”

  Her smile froze when Chloe saw the child up close.

  The face smiling back at her was her own…from twenty years earlier.

  Chapter 19

  The child’s face was haunting. It had to be a coincidence, seeing someone with such a strong resemblance. She tried to tell herself it couldn’t be anything else, but that smile, dimples, and eyes were a picture she couldn’t get her mind to forget.

  If Reva had any thoughts on the matter, she kept them to herself. If she discussed what happened with the others when Chloe wasn’t around, well, that was something that couldn’t be helped. It felt silly to ask that the incident—if exchanging peace signs on a beach with a stranger’s kid could be called that—be hushed up, so she didn’t.

  Besides, when they got back to the house, she barely had enough time to change into her work clothes, reassure her uncle she was well enough to go to the office, and speed up to Bar Harbor. It was good the fuzz weren’t hiding anywhere in ambush, because she put the bike through its paces.

  There was always a social worker on duty at the agency. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, they were available to any woman who required their services. It was tough to cover like that, given they really did operate on a shoestring budget and bare-bones staff, but somehow they managed it.

  Taking turns on the overnights was part of the job, so they rotated duty. It screwed with a girl’s social life, but as long as women were being battered and abused, there was no other way. Until society stepped up to put an end to the barbarism, Chloe and the rest of the social workers knew their obligation to women in the community could not be shirked.

  She’d hoped to stop in and visit Jackie before manning the phone, but her timing had been lousy. Falling through the roof, and the subsequent arrangements, explanations and even the foray to the beach had robbed her of a minut
e to spare.

  Ree Bolivar, the oldest member of the team, waited at the door. Her clogs, so often stuck under her desk, were on her feet and the long, flowery shawl she favored was pulled around her shoulders. Somehow, despite being shaped like a barrel, she always looked polished. And, the waist-length, snow-white braid she wore did not ever seem to have a stray hair threatening to come lose. Chloe figured the hairs on the mature woman’s head knew better than to give her any trouble.

  “I’m sorry—I know I’m late.” She dashed into the office without bothering to take her helmet off first. She unbuckled it, freed her hair with a fast shake and apologized again. “Really, I’m sorry.”

  The other woman waved a hand, sending points of light dancing off the ceiling. Every finger on her right hand wore a ring, including her thumb. “No sweat, chickadee. And if I didn’t have a date, I wouldn’t be standing here at all.” She looked down and scowled at her feet. “Damn shoes—why can’t a man take me to a place where shoes are optional?”

  There was no good answer for that, and Ree probably didn’t expect one, anyway, so Chloe dumped her backpack and the helmet on her desk.

  “You’ve got another date? Same guy as last time?”

  “Different gentleman.”

  “What does that make this week? Two? Three?”

  Ree examined her fingernails with a critical eye. They were fluorescent pink, with blue swirls at the tips. She blew on one, then looked over and smiled.

  “Four, actually.”

  She put the helmet beneath the desk, pushed the backpack to the far side, and plopped down into her chair. It squeaked, but she was so used to hearing its oil-thirsty protest she didn’t flinch.

  “Four? Wow—a man for every night. How do you do that? Spill your secrets, please! I keep reading Cosmo and still can’t rack ’em up the way you do.”

  Ree scanned the street, obviously waiting for Man Number Four to show up. She squinted out the glass panel in the door. A small smile twitched her lips upward.