Page 26 of On Dry Land

“Yes.” Taking a drink, I feel Spencer’s eyes shift back onto me. “Tea?” I offer.

“Sure. Thank you.”

“Fix it yourself, Spencer. I’m not running a charity.”

He laughs, and this time when I look over, it’s a full smile on his face, complete with chipped tooth. Shaking his head, he stands up, slipping his jacket down off his shoulders and draping it over the back of his chair. Resolutely, I do not watch him as he walks to the kitchen. I don’t care to see what he’s been hiding under that bulky coat. I don’t care about him at all.

Chapter Eleven

SPENCER

Ilook down at the resumés in my hand. I’d updated it and printed off a few a couple of weeks ago, paying fifty cents at a public library. It’s not much of a resumé, truth be told, but most legitimate employers won’t even talk to you without one, and Dryden already told me I’m not going to have any luck finding under-the-counter landscaping work this time of year. Glancing up at the empty road the Porsche just drove off down, I feel an odd sense of disquiet. I wish I weren’t canvassing for a job and was instead back in the boat shed with Dryden, watching his pretty fingers tie knots and listening to him explain things in a neutral monotone.

Sighing, I walk the few feet down the sidewalk to the little office for the Libby Cottages and open the door. I’m going to try my luck here first before moving on to the other rental and hotel options in town. Housekeeping is a job that’s usually hiring and requires little experience. I have no problems getting my hands dirty.

“Hello again!” Amy greets me, smiling as she rises from her chair.

“Hi. Nicer weather today,” I joke, and she laughs kindly.

“It is! Anything stick up at Dryden’s?”

I pause. Up at Dryden’s? How the hell does she know I’ve been up at Dryden’s? Scrambling to think of a reply that isn’t what the fuck, I clear my throat.

“Uh, no. The snow hasn’t been too bad.”

“That’s good. We’ve had a horrible winter, and those back roads can get awful with the ice. Dryden drop you off on his way to the wharf?”

Good lord, this woman can read minds, I think, staring dumbly at her. I’m unsure whether to be impressed with her fact-gathering abilities or frightened by them. Maybe I won’t have to give her my resumé at all. She probably knows everything on it, as well as the date and time I was born and how much I weighed.

“Yeah,” I agree, shaking off the surprise enough to slip my papers from my pocket. Separating one from the bunch, I hold it out to her. She smiles as she takes it. “I was actually wondering if you needed any help around here? Cleaning—housekeeping, or anything like that?”

“You know, I actually don’t. But I’ll tell you what, Spencer, I bet we can find you something else.” She’s still smiling as she puts my resumé down on the counter and taps it. “I’ll hold on to this in case anything changes and I need to give you a call, okay?”

I nod, watching as she rips a page from a notepad and clicks open a pen. I step a little closer, unsure but willing to see where this is going. One thing is clear—this woman knows what’s up in this town.

“Meryl Thompson and her husband, Doug, have been wanting to clear out their shed for ages. Their son lives in Tennessee—a lawyer, actually, if you can believe it!” She looks up at me, smiling. I nod, even though I have no idea who this person is. “They’re getting on in years, so they need a little help with things like this. There’s the house phone. You can give Meryl a call and let her know Amy Libby sent you, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree faintly.

“Now, what else… Oliver Martin—he lives up on Mariner Road. Well, Portsmouth now, but nobody calls it that. Strange how they change the names of things for no reason, isn’t it? He’s got a lot of overgrowth on his land, and I imagine he wouldn’t say no to a little help. It’s not quite the right time for landscaping, but…I’ll jot his information down just in case, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for me to agree, bending low and writing out the name and phone number in a beautiful, flowing hand. I wonder if this woman is the mayor or something to know so much about people’s business.

“Oh! I cannot believe I didn’t think of it sooner!” She laughs again, shaking her head and reaching for a tray of business cards. Plucking one out, she hands it to me. “Rudy has been needing a spare set of hands for ages. I tried to get my teenage nephew to apply, but he wanted to drive his car and work for tips. He delivers pizzas, and that boy is happy as a clam. But anyhow, stop by and see Rudy. He’ll be absolutely glowing; hire you on the spot, I guarantee.”

Heart sinking, I look down at the business card. Caring Claws Animal Clinic. Instead of explaining precisely why I can’t work for Benjamin Rudy, D.V.M., I meet Amy Libby’s eyes and smile. It’s not her fault the best option in town is one that’s a bad fit for me.

“Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing! Here you go. And I’ll call you up if I have an opening, okay?”

Outside, I sigh and fold up the paper she gave me, tucking the business card inside. Even though she didn’t mention it, I’m still stopping by the hotel first. Just because she didn’t bring it up, it doesn’t mean they aren’t looking for someone to clean the toilets.

They aren’t. And even though the manager was kind enough to sit down and chat with me in an informal, impromptu interview, that still doesn’t change the fact that they didn’t have any openings. As I walk down the main street and stop into businesses, the common refrain seems to be “not right now, but come back in the high season, and we’ll talk.” Apparently, Siren’s Point doesn’t revolve around the sun like the rest of the world. It revolves around crustaceans and tourists.

Sitting down on a bench and pulling off my gloves, I unfold the paper Amy Libby gave me. I really prefer not to work for individuals if there are other options available, liking the safety of W-2s and Human Resources. But I’m a beggar, so I cannot also be a chooser. If Meryl Thompson and her husband, Doug, are too old and frail to clean out their own storage shed, they’re probably also too old to assault me. Typing in the number, I bring the phone to my ear and listen to it ring.

“Hello?” a loud, female voice answers on the second ring. I can’t help but smile. I have a soft spot for older folks.