Chapter 4
Santiago is waiting for Cece when she arrives at work on Monday.
She’s expecting more of the same: no real responsibility, mucky plastic crates stacked ten high, ready to be cleaned.
Davi is already down by the docks, walking the length of the boat and eyeing the sputtering outboard engine, a black cloud painting the sky ominous.
From the doorway, Santiago glares at Cece while she puts on her rubber waders and roots around in a drawer for safety goggles.
Ignore him, she thinks. He’s just pissy she’s still showing up.
No doubt he assumed she’d quit once the novelty of the job wore off.
The pressure washer isn’t where she’d left it.
A tremor pings at the back of her neck. It has to be here.
Had someone moved it? Did she forget to lock up?
Santiago hasn’t budged, his beady eyes tracking her every move.
Dread seeps in. Cece turns slowly to face him.
“Where is it?”
He crosses his sinewy arms over his chest. “What?”
“The pressure washer.”
“You didn’t hear? Some ninny forgot to turn the water off when they were done with it on Saturday. Do you know what happens to that piece of machinery when you don’t cut the water source?”
Cece, chin to her chest, shakes her head.
“Lemme tell ya,” Santiago says almost gleefully. “That pressure builds up and has nowhere to go. Eventually all the seals and gaskets get blown out.”
“Is that what happened?”
“You betcha. We dropped it off to get repaired this morning, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s completely shot.”
“I’m sorry,” Cece says, because it’s the first thing that comes to her mind. “I could’ve sworn I disconnected the water.”
“Sorry?” Santiago chuckles and tugs a cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Sorry’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Please don’t tell Mr. Rayburn. I’ll pay for the repair myself.”
“You’ve got that kind of money?”
Cece doesn’t have that kind of money; she doesn’t have a clue how much such a repair will cost, but she can’t have Richie finding out about this after he took a chance on her. “I’m good for it.”
Santiago smirks and heads toward the boat, stopping halfway and turning to say, “That’ll be difficult on account of Richie being the guy who’s tryna fix it.”
He’s nearly out of earshot when Cece asks him what she should do.
“Nothing,” he says. “The last thing we need is you breaking more stuff. Maybe you can organize the tool wall or go get us lunch when it’s time.”
Watching the boat labor out of the harbor, Santiago’s and Davi’s bodies suddenly lithe and gleeful on the water, Cece slumps against the rank crates. How could she have screwed up something so simple? All she’s done is confirm Santiago’s doubts.
Better to get out in front of this, she thinks. Rip the Band-Aid off. She takes out her phone. Richie sounds more disappointed than angry when he answers, which feels much worse, Cece realizes. “Maybe you just aren’t cut out for this sort of thing,” he says.
Cece picks up a handful of gravel and sends it tinkling across the parking lot. She tells Richie she very much is. This was a simple mistake, an oversight. Even to herself, Cece is unwilling to admit the cause of her absentmindedness: Jonathan, Morgan, all of the above.
“I took a chance on you,” Richie is saying. “There’s no shame admitting you’re out over your skis.”
Cece assures him she’s perfectly capable and promises to pay for the repair. Richie seems dubious. “That would put you in a mighty big hole before you get your first paycheck.”
“I’ll pay in installments,” Cece says firmly.
“Well, all right.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Mr. Rayburn.”
Papers shuffle in the background, an office chair creaks. “That’s, uh…that’s not necessary,” he says, his voice distant and gauzy. “Just do whatever Santiago tells you to do, and don’t touch anything with an on-off switch for a while.” The line goes dead.
A shadow passes over Cece. She must have dozed off. Santiago, backlit by the sun, looks down at her, a toothy grin cut into his tanned face. On her feet, Cece looms over him. She wonders if this is why he doesn’t like her. Wouldn’t be the first man to resent her vertical superiority.
“We had to turn back. Boat engine’s acting up. I need you to run it over to the boatyard.”
Why the sudden trust? Cece is suspicious.
“Think you can handle that?”
Cece ignores the sarcasm. “No problem. Where’s the engine?”
Santiago jangles a set of keys before tossing them to her. “Pickup truck.”
It takes all the self-control Cece currently possesses not to betray her panic.
The Rayburn work truck is a heavy-duty pickup with dual rear wheels, side mirrors the size of traffic lights, and a hood impossible to see over.
It’s a behemoth, a colossus on wheels. It also happens to be brand-new, not a scuff or dent on it.
“Don’t crash. Richie’ll have your head.”
So, Santiago is trying to get her fired. That’s his angle. “Where am I going?” Cece asks.
“New London.”
“Across the bridge? There’s gotta be a closer boatyard.”
“Oh, there is, but Richie had a falling out with the owner. He’s got a feud going with half the locals, and we pay the price.”
So she’d be taking the highway, which means she’d be merging, changing lanes, and exceeding speeds of thirty-five miles per hour.
Images of a five-car pileup, twisted metal, and smoldering wreckage play out in Cece’s imagination.
The ruse is up. Why had she thought herself capable of this kind of work?
What level of delusion and desperation had led her here?
But it’s too late now. It really isn’t, but Cece needs to feel like it is.
She’s walked out on Jonathan, uprooted her life, somehow convinced Richie she’s a capable employee.
If she can’t complete a simple task like driving a truck, she might as well give up this entire enterprise, whatever it might be.
“Which boatyard is it?”
Santiago shrugs. “It’s near the college and the Coast Guard Academy.”
Cece is certain she’s misheard. “Which college?”
“The only college over there.”
A panicked thrill coils in Cece’s stomach.
She hasn’t seen or spoken to Morgan since she snuck out of his bed.
It isn’t that she didn’t enjoy herself. She did, immensely, it’s just that she doesn’t want to give him the wrong idea—about what they are, what they could be.
There’s something else too, a fear, a silly, irrational fear that Cece won’t be able to control herself when she sees him, and she’s promised herself their night together was something casual and unsentimental.
It was too good to just be a one-off, but Cece’s determined for it not to become a regular thing, a habit, where feelings might blossom.
This summer…this moment—living in Lorraine’s pool house, working at Rayburn Oyster Company, taking stock—is supposed to be about finding clarity and purpose.
She can’t afford attachments right now, no matter how good they might feel.
Clutching the keys, Cece stalks off toward the truck.
“Don’t forget to use your mirrors!” Santiago calls after her.
The truck’s easier to drive than Cece thought.
Everyone gets out of your way when you’re the biggest thing on the road.
Towering over the other cars, Cece feels an intoxicating sense of power and superiority.
Is this why everyone drives these things?
No matter how absurd they might look? A few sharp turns on the smaller roads prove difficult, and Cece cringes as shrubs and tree branches scratch and scrape.
At first glance through the dirt-flecked windshield, the boatyard is abandoned.
Cece double- and triple-checks her mirrors to make sure she’s got the clearance while she rolls through the entrance, the chain-link gate mere inches away.
She cranes her aching neck to see over the hood.
Sailboats sit aloft, supported by rusting metal cradles, their bottoms faded and stripped, looking naked and strange without water beneath them.
In the distance, a blue crane cuts into the sky, yellow boat slings dangling from it like confetti.
Cece aims for an empty parking spot in the corner of the yard, forever thankful that she doesn’t have to parallel park.
Underfoot, the shifting gravel announces Cece’s arrival as she walks in the direction of the main hangar.
Inside the dark and cavernous space, her eyes adjusting, she makes out shapes, men on the job, crude banter mingling with sweat and bravado.
A few look up from their work, sanders whirring, torches glowing bright, mechanical parts strewn across makeshift plywood tables.
No sign of Morgan. Cece asks where she should drop the engine, but her question goes unanswered, hanging in the heavy air.
Even in her baggy T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans, Cece can feel their eyes on her.
A lanky teenager with a welding helmet pushed up on his pale forehead gives her a begrudging nod toward the white double-wide trailer outside in the parking lot.
Making her way back to where she came from, Cece can’t help but admit her disappointment.
Maybe he’s on his lunch break; maybe he took the day off, but to do what?
To go where? Cece’s curiosity gets the better of her, imagining Morgan’s life—where he’s from, what he did before this, whether he’s sleeping with anyone else.
Cece isn’t proud of that last question. She has no right to wonder about it—but there it is.