Wavedancer, part ten
May. 11th, 2009 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read with the commentary
The rest of the morning went fairly well, as we managed to get two more keepers, an excellent catch for so late in the season. Mr. Jensen decided to cut it short at ten thirty, as Sean was starting to get worn out. I could see the beginnings of a sunburn on his young face. I packed it it and headed for home, trying to sort out my mental list of things to do with a charterless afternoon.
We arrived at the dock and Mr. Jensen helped me tie the 'Dancer off. I pulled the fish out of the cooler and headed over to the screened in fish-cleaning shack I had helped my father build years ago. "This shouldn't take long," I called to them. "There's a washroom there next to the house that should be unlocked." By the time they'd both finished washing up I'd cleaned the fish and sealed the red fillets in big freezer bags. I scrubbed my hands thoroughly--doesn' really matter, because you can never get that smell fully off--and came out of the shack, where an expectant Sean stood waiting.
"Which one's my fish?" he said, peering intently at the bags.
"The one with the big S on it," I laughed, handing it to him. "You guys have yourselves a safe drive home." I turned to walk away and Sean was already sprinting to the car. Mr. Jensen stopped me and put a bill in my hand, and refused to listen as I protested. He waved goodbye and followed his grandson.
I walked back to the boat and unloaded the electronics. A little last minute cleaning and then I snapped the cover on. It was almost noon and the sun was hot despite the cold wind off the bay. It was shaping up to be a warm fall afternoon. I picked up my thermos and jacket and walked into the house. The jacket I hung on the hatrack next to the door and the thermos I set on the counter. I went back into the foyer and pulled the bill Mr. Jensen had handed me out of my pocket. It was a twenty, and I added it in my charter notebook to the amount paid earlier by Lucinda. I dropped the notebook back into its drawer and checked on Mike as I was heading back to my kitchen. He was still asleep on the couch, and I picked another blanket up off the back of a chair and added it. His jaw betrayed a day and a half's worth of stubble.
As I was not very hungry and he was still asleep I decided to go out to the boatshed and work instead. I put my jacket back on and poured myself another thermos of coffee, mentally thanking Mike again for buying me a coffeepot with a timer. The walk to the boatshed was short and cold, and I swore when I saw it because the door was hanging wide open again. I'd fixed the latch three times already. I stepped inside and flipped on the lights.
It was spacious, with enough room for my entire flotilla. A little chaotic at the end of the season, of course, with the cleaning and winterizing, but warm enough to work without the electric heater on. Which was fine with me, as I had already made up my mind to strip and revarnish the Celestial, and I was always a little uneasy about turning the heater on while I was doing that. I went through the tool cabinet until I found my folder of sandpaper and picked out a couple different grades. It was tough work, and it required a fine touch to strip the old varnish off, but I was up to it. It was always thrilling to me to take something and render it new and better, and thoughts of a well polished Celestial put me in a good mood. The arm movements possessed an inherent rhythm that was infectious to me. I took great pride in being able to do such a professional job. It always drew compliments from the other captains. I'd even twice been invited to speak at the Lake Michigan Wooden Boating Club, though I'd turned them down.
I was humming and almost finished with one side of the boat when I suddenly heard the door open explosively. It was Mike, and he looked angry, fire dancing in his eyes.
"What's up?" I asked, as casually as possible. I realized that I was clenching the sheet of sandpaper I was holding, and I forced myself to relax.
"Do you know what time it is?" he asked coolly.
"No," I said, matching his tone perfectly, "but I've a feeling you're going to tell me."
"It is," he said with an ominous pause, "almost nine o'clock at night."
"Oh." I was a little surprised. "Really."
"Really." He crossed his arms. "I've been waiting, and waiting, thinking you were out on a charter, until I noticed 'Dancer at the dock."
"I'm sorry about that," I apologized. "I started sanding...I guess I just lost track of time." We both just kind of stared at each other for a moment. "Have you eaten dinner yet?" I asked calmly.
"I was waiting for you," he replied. "How was lunch, anyways?"
"Lunch?" I was confused.
"I knew it." He raked a hand through his hair. "What did you do, just go right out to the shed and start sanding?"
"Is this a problem?" I said icily, eyeing him directly.
"Yes!" he shot. There was another uncomfortable silence, and I was unsure of what to say.
"Look," I said. "Let me just finish the rest of this side, and I'll--I'll grill the steaks. We'll eat dinner on the porch--"
"I really don't think you need to finish that side," he interrupted. "It's already pretty late."
"Fine," I said tiredly. Who does he think he is, ordering me around like that? I thought. But I simply nodded in agreement and set the sandpaper down on the workbench.
It had warmed up considerably outside, and I yawned sleepily as I went in and retrieved the steaks from my fridge. I started up the grill and sat down on one of the redwood chairs, trying to enjoy this last taste of summer. A lone moth aimlessly courted the porchlight. I yawned again, thinking dreamily of the coming winter and relishing not having the snow removal business anymore.
I got up and put the steaks on the grill, making a few minor adjustments to the heat level. I turned to look as the screen door slammed shut and Mike walked onto the porch wearing only a pair of old blue jeans. My breath caught at the unexpected sight of him; even after three seasons I was forced to admit that he was easily the finest man Moray had to offer. At just over six feet, his well-muscled lithe frame and blonde good looks always caused women to stop and stare, though he never seemed to notice. He must have noticed the odd look I had because his smile slowly faded. "What's the matter?" he asked quietly.
"You're going to give Mrs. Champlain a heart attack," I answered, but I couldn't bring a teasing tone to my voice. The electricity of his presence was too intense.
He frowned. "I don't see how, unless she has a high-powered telescope." The Champlains, our nearest neighbor, lived almost a half mile away through a thick screen of trees.
It was though I was balanced upon a razor's edge, and the tension wrapped around my heart and squeezed tight. Bitterness flowed heavily through me. "Then you'll catch your death," I snapped, turning back to the grill to hide my embarrassment.
The screen door slammed, and I released my breath, aware of the sharp edge of longing I felt. I won't do this again, I told myself harshly, I won't endure that pain again for anybody. I deliberately brought to mind the cruel things he'd said to me on that night in the cove so many years ago, and slowly the ache receded. The screen door reopened and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that he was wearing a black T-shirt that did nothing to hide his considerable physical appeal. He sat down easily on the long redwood couch and propped up his feet on one arm, taking a sip of coffee. I could feel his eyes watching me, trying to puzzle out my grey mood.
I tried to concentrate on the steaks, but to my surprise I found myself blinking in an effort not to cry. I furiously rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.
The night air was thick with tension, and I wanted to will the steaks to cook faster. Mike swung his legs off the couch and sat with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, looking absently at the boatshed.
His steak was done, and I slipped it onto a plate and held it out for him to take. Instead he leaned forward and looked at me thoughtfully. I frowned and set the plate on the table harder than I intended to and turned back to the grill. I heard him stand up and go back inside, and I felt a quick stab of guilt. I was spoiling this, probably our last meal outside this year.
The screen door reopened and he came up behind me and gently set a fork and steak knife on my plate. The redwood couch creaked as he sat down again. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but it was no use. I turned the grill off and sat down with my steak at the other end of the long table, though I usually sat next to him on the couch. He looked up and nudge towards me a cup a coffee he must have brought out. It was a nice gesture, as I got cold easily and I was already starting to freeze now that I was away from the grill. I picked up the coffee and held it to warm my hand as I took another bite of steak, which was delicious.
It was late, and a cooling wind was hastening winter's first foray into fall. I could hear small waves hitting the beach. The weather reports I had listened to on my morning charter were confirming Mike's storm to break at the end of the week. I hoped it would wait until I finished up the last couple of charters I had, and it reminded me of my early charter tomorrow. I checked my watch, wincing at the late hour. I stood up and closed the grill, picking up my plate and coffee on the way back into the house.
On to part eleven
Read this section with the commentary
The rest of the morning went fairly well, as we managed to get two more keepers, an excellent catch for so late in the season. Mr. Jensen decided to cut it short at ten thirty, as Sean was starting to get worn out. I could see the beginnings of a sunburn on his young face. I packed it it and headed for home, trying to sort out my mental list of things to do with a charterless afternoon.
We arrived at the dock and Mr. Jensen helped me tie the 'Dancer off. I pulled the fish out of the cooler and headed over to the screened in fish-cleaning shack I had helped my father build years ago. "This shouldn't take long," I called to them. "There's a washroom there next to the house that should be unlocked." By the time they'd both finished washing up I'd cleaned the fish and sealed the red fillets in big freezer bags. I scrubbed my hands thoroughly--doesn' really matter, because you can never get that smell fully off--and came out of the shack, where an expectant Sean stood waiting.
"Which one's my fish?" he said, peering intently at the bags.
"The one with the big S on it," I laughed, handing it to him. "You guys have yourselves a safe drive home." I turned to walk away and Sean was already sprinting to the car. Mr. Jensen stopped me and put a bill in my hand, and refused to listen as I protested. He waved goodbye and followed his grandson.
I walked back to the boat and unloaded the electronics. A little last minute cleaning and then I snapped the cover on. It was almost noon and the sun was hot despite the cold wind off the bay. It was shaping up to be a warm fall afternoon. I picked up my thermos and jacket and walked into the house. The jacket I hung on the hatrack next to the door and the thermos I set on the counter. I went back into the foyer and pulled the bill Mr. Jensen had handed me out of my pocket. It was a twenty, and I added it in my charter notebook to the amount paid earlier by Lucinda. I dropped the notebook back into its drawer and checked on Mike as I was heading back to my kitchen. He was still asleep on the couch, and I picked another blanket up off the back of a chair and added it. His jaw betrayed a day and a half's worth of stubble.
As I was not very hungry and he was still asleep I decided to go out to the boatshed and work instead. I put my jacket back on and poured myself another thermos of coffee, mentally thanking Mike again for buying me a coffeepot with a timer. The walk to the boatshed was short and cold, and I swore when I saw it because the door was hanging wide open again. I'd fixed the latch three times already. I stepped inside and flipped on the lights.
It was spacious, with enough room for my entire flotilla. A little chaotic at the end of the season, of course, with the cleaning and winterizing, but warm enough to work without the electric heater on. Which was fine with me, as I had already made up my mind to strip and revarnish the Celestial, and I was always a little uneasy about turning the heater on while I was doing that. I went through the tool cabinet until I found my folder of sandpaper and picked out a couple different grades. It was tough work, and it required a fine touch to strip the old varnish off, but I was up to it. It was always thrilling to me to take something and render it new and better, and thoughts of a well polished Celestial put me in a good mood. The arm movements possessed an inherent rhythm that was infectious to me. I took great pride in being able to do such a professional job. It always drew compliments from the other captains. I'd even twice been invited to speak at the Lake Michigan Wooden Boating Club, though I'd turned them down.
I was humming and almost finished with one side of the boat when I suddenly heard the door open explosively. It was Mike, and he looked angry, fire dancing in his eyes.
"What's up?" I asked, as casually as possible. I realized that I was clenching the sheet of sandpaper I was holding, and I forced myself to relax.
"Do you know what time it is?" he asked coolly.
"No," I said, matching his tone perfectly, "but I've a feeling you're going to tell me."
"It is," he said with an ominous pause, "almost nine o'clock at night."
"Oh." I was a little surprised. "Really."
"Really." He crossed his arms. "I've been waiting, and waiting, thinking you were out on a charter, until I noticed 'Dancer at the dock."
"I'm sorry about that," I apologized. "I started sanding...I guess I just lost track of time." We both just kind of stared at each other for a moment. "Have you eaten dinner yet?" I asked calmly.
"I was waiting for you," he replied. "How was lunch, anyways?"
"Lunch?" I was confused.
"I knew it." He raked a hand through his hair. "What did you do, just go right out to the shed and start sanding?"
"Is this a problem?" I said icily, eyeing him directly.
"Yes!" he shot. There was another uncomfortable silence, and I was unsure of what to say.
"Look," I said. "Let me just finish the rest of this side, and I'll--I'll grill the steaks. We'll eat dinner on the porch--"
"I really don't think you need to finish that side," he interrupted. "It's already pretty late."
"Fine," I said tiredly. Who does he think he is, ordering me around like that? I thought. But I simply nodded in agreement and set the sandpaper down on the workbench.
It had warmed up considerably outside, and I yawned sleepily as I went in and retrieved the steaks from my fridge. I started up the grill and sat down on one of the redwood chairs, trying to enjoy this last taste of summer. A lone moth aimlessly courted the porchlight. I yawned again, thinking dreamily of the coming winter and relishing not having the snow removal business anymore.
I got up and put the steaks on the grill, making a few minor adjustments to the heat level. I turned to look as the screen door slammed shut and Mike walked onto the porch wearing only a pair of old blue jeans. My breath caught at the unexpected sight of him; even after three seasons I was forced to admit that he was easily the finest man Moray had to offer. At just over six feet, his well-muscled lithe frame and blonde good looks always caused women to stop and stare, though he never seemed to notice. He must have noticed the odd look I had because his smile slowly faded. "What's the matter?" he asked quietly.
"You're going to give Mrs. Champlain a heart attack," I answered, but I couldn't bring a teasing tone to my voice. The electricity of his presence was too intense.
He frowned. "I don't see how, unless she has a high-powered telescope." The Champlains, our nearest neighbor, lived almost a half mile away through a thick screen of trees.
It was though I was balanced upon a razor's edge, and the tension wrapped around my heart and squeezed tight. Bitterness flowed heavily through me. "Then you'll catch your death," I snapped, turning back to the grill to hide my embarrassment.
The screen door slammed, and I released my breath, aware of the sharp edge of longing I felt. I won't do this again, I told myself harshly, I won't endure that pain again for anybody. I deliberately brought to mind the cruel things he'd said to me on that night in the cove so many years ago, and slowly the ache receded. The screen door reopened and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that he was wearing a black T-shirt that did nothing to hide his considerable physical appeal. He sat down easily on the long redwood couch and propped up his feet on one arm, taking a sip of coffee. I could feel his eyes watching me, trying to puzzle out my grey mood.
I tried to concentrate on the steaks, but to my surprise I found myself blinking in an effort not to cry. I furiously rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.
The night air was thick with tension, and I wanted to will the steaks to cook faster. Mike swung his legs off the couch and sat with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, looking absently at the boatshed.
His steak was done, and I slipped it onto a plate and held it out for him to take. Instead he leaned forward and looked at me thoughtfully. I frowned and set the plate on the table harder than I intended to and turned back to the grill. I heard him stand up and go back inside, and I felt a quick stab of guilt. I was spoiling this, probably our last meal outside this year.
The screen door reopened and he came up behind me and gently set a fork and steak knife on my plate. The redwood couch creaked as he sat down again. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but it was no use. I turned the grill off and sat down with my steak at the other end of the long table, though I usually sat next to him on the couch. He looked up and nudge towards me a cup a coffee he must have brought out. It was a nice gesture, as I got cold easily and I was already starting to freeze now that I was away from the grill. I picked up the coffee and held it to warm my hand as I took another bite of steak, which was delicious.
It was late, and a cooling wind was hastening winter's first foray into fall. I could hear small waves hitting the beach. The weather reports I had listened to on my morning charter were confirming Mike's storm to break at the end of the week. I hoped it would wait until I finished up the last couple of charters I had, and it reminded me of my early charter tomorrow. I checked my watch, wincing at the late hour. I stood up and closed the grill, picking up my plate and coffee on the way back into the house.
On to part eleven
Read this section with the commentary