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“Don’t disappear on me,” Remy said. “Stay where you can see me, and I can see you.”
She nodded. “Got it.”
With Shelby in his peripheral vision, Remy continued to the ice chest where Ethan still stood, tossing back the beer he’d just opened.
“Is this your beer?” Remy asked.
Ethan shook his head. “Anyone can have some. Help yourself.”
“Thank you,” Remy opened the ice chest, grabbed a beer can and popped the top. “Been a while since I was in town. I’m Remy Montagne.” He moved his beer to his left hand and held out his right one to Ethan.
The younger man shook his hand. “Ethan.” He lifted his chin toward the house. “The old man is my grandfather.”
“Nice party they’re throwing for his birthday,” Remy said, looking around at everyone who’d come to celebrate.
Ethan shrugged. “If you’ve got good food, booze and music, folks come.”
“I understand the Fontenot family runs a charter boat service.” Remy downed a long swallow of beer, his gaze on Shelby striking up a conversation with Pete Mosier.
“Yeah, we do,” Ethan said, his foot tapping to the music.
The zydeco band played another song. People gathered in the middle of the yard, dancing to the music.
“How many boats do you operate?”
“We have two airboats and five fishing boats—two are commercial fishing boats, three are charter fishing boats we use to take tourists out to catch fish in the bayou or out in the Gulf.”
“Are you involved in the business?”
He nodded. “I’m a boat captain.”
“That must be fun. Beats being stuck behind a desk.”
Ethan nodded. “I guess. I couldn’t stand being inside all day.”
“Which of the boats do you captain?”
“I can handle all of them, but I mainly take people out in the airboat. It handles a lot differently than the fishing boats.”
“Nice,” Remy said with a grin. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on an airboat.”
“I have a tour going out tomorrow. You can sign up to go with it.”
“Thanks. I’ll look into it,” Remy said. “Do you ever do custom charters?”
“If the price is right,” Ethan nodded. “Did one the other day.”
“When was that?” Remy asked.
“I don’t know,” he took a swig of his beer and swallowed. “Maybe three days ago.”
Out of the corner of Remy’s eye, he spotted Shelby headed his way, leaving Pete Mosier scooping more food onto his plate.
“Good talking to you, Ethan,” Remy said. “The band’s playing one of my favorites. Think I’ll snag a dance partner and bust some moves.”
Remy dropped his beer in a trashcan, hurried toward Shelby, hooked her arm and steered her out into the middle of the yard with the other people dancing.
Shelby frowned. “I’m not very good at dancing.”
