Unlike me, I’m almost certain he loves it.
Mark’s an old dog whose blood is half saltwater and half beer. He’s a damn good oyster farmer and even better withmechanical shit, and while he’ll never admit it, he likes being the go-to fixer.
“Magic hands, Mark,” I say, releasing the lines from the floating dock.
“Not magic.” He slams the motor cap in place, and I lower the prop into the water. “Now stop sitting on your ass and get us out there.”
No one else on my crew would speak to me like that, but laws don’t apply to Mark. At seventy-one, he’s earned the right to be ornery, and he’s reliable as hell. Not to mention, he has plenty of money to retire, but insists on sticking around and working his ass off for a thirty-year-old oyster farm owner who almost screwed the business last year. He’s covered me more times than I can count.
So, yeah, Mark can say whatever he wants.
I breathe in the cool, briny air as we putz to the floating oyster cages, and some of the tension from the morning eases out of my shoulders. Being out on the water always has this effect. Something about fresh air, no paperwork, and the salt pond’s pretty mix of vivid greenery and calm water always puts me at ease. Ironic, given how grueling this work can be.
Oyster farming isn’t a cakewalk. The labor is tough and the days are long. We’re out here during frigid December mornings, pelting spring rains, and brutal summer afternoons. Maintenance never ends, my back is constantly sore, and the trade is dirty by nature. Between weather, water, and business, problems are always arising.
But even during freezing shifts or vicious storms, there’s no better workplace.
Pretty sure I’d shrivel into a brain-dead zombie at a computer in a four-walled institution.
Above, the sky is clearing, sunlight peeking through thedispersing rain clouds. With it comes the tentative brush of heat that late May usually brings in Rhode Island.
I’m thinking it might turn out to be a nice day when fate throws another punch.
My pocket vibrates, and I slide out my beat-up phone to see Anson’s name on the screen. Behind it is a picture of us flipping off Old Plum Bridge. The photo is ancient, back from when a stick wasn’t lodged up my brother’s ass.
Angling the boat left, I accept the call.
“Gray,” I bark.
“How’s your morning?”
I already know he’s edging around something. It’s Monday, and we’re both working. Anson might be the only person I know who gives more to his job than I do. He isn’t calling right now to shoot the shit.
“Fine,” I say.
“Glad to hear that. Mine was, too, until you decided to create a problem for me to handle,” he says dryly.
Big brother’s unhappy.
The cages pop into view, and I turn the skiff toward them. “You going to make me guess?”
“Shouldn’t be that hard, Gray. Unless you’ve suddenly decided to be an asshole to everyone and all the instances are blurring together.”
I frown, adjusting the speed of the skiff.
Then it clicks.
“You want me to be nicer to random, privileged vacationers who break into a closed office and attack my duck?”
I try not to picture her, but she comes anyway. Glossy brown hair with these caramel bits in it tied into a knot. Trench coat, little heeled boots, expensive-looking clothes. Cute nose and wide, hazel eyes that regarded me with pretentious judgement.
This can’t actually be about her. She’s a city girl, through and through. Probably vacationing in a beach house for the summer. Maybe one of the mini-mansions over on Orchard Row.
“I have no problem with you being a dick to random vacationers who break into your place.” Anson’s voice takes on a gritty note. “But she isn’t a random vacationer. And you already know this, because she fucking explained it to you.”
I roll my eyes. “Like I’m just going to take her word for?—”
“And before she explained it to you, you were informed about her.Three. Separate. Times.” He’s starting to overpronounce his syllables, and I’d bet he’s pinching his nose.
