Chapter 4 #2
The trailer appears empty, but Cece still gives the flimsy door a good knock and pauses, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.
A gruff voice from within follows the sound of rustling paper and slamming drawers.
Cece runs her tongue along the back of her teeth and prepares for the worst: a grumpy foreman; an old-timer with some questionable views on women in the workplace.
Part of Cece enjoys these newfound sparring sessions, proving men wrong with her gumption and stick-to-itiveness.
At least down here at the shipyard and with Santiago and Davi, the men are up-front, almost charming about doubting her capabilities, and perhaps for good reason.
At her old job, the men had attended enough mandatory HR training sessions to know how to disguise their dismissiveness, unless Cece had a good idea—then they were happy to be collaborative partners, magnanimously offering to let her take the lead and do all the work in the name of equity.
The door swings open, and it takes Cece a moment to realize Morgan stands before her, pencil behind his ear, a V-neck T-shirt stretched across his chest. For one brief moment that doesn’t feel brief at all, the two take each other in, and Cece struggles to find an explanation for her presence.
Morgan smiles, hands in his back pockets.
“I meant to give you a call, but I never got your number,” he says finally.
“Oh, no…I’m not here…” Cece says, mortified to think how desperate she must seem. She points to the white pickup truck, as if it might explain everything. “I’m here for work.”
Is it disappointment flickering across his bearded face?
“Let me guess. Busted engine and you can’t take it anywhere else because Richie’s got beef with someone?”
“How’d you know?”
Morgan steps down from the trailer, the flimsy stairs bending to his weight.
“It’s a regular occurrence. Nice guy, but he drives a hard bargain, and that was before this whole Mamacoke Cove shitstorm.
Now everyone’s got an opinion, especially if you’ve got a nice little house on the water up there. ”
“You mean the new oyster farm?”
Morgan gives a stiff nod. “Bit ironic if you think about it, boat-repair fella not wanting another oyster farm. More oysters, more boats. Then again, he’s the one with the million-dollar view…But yeah, we can take the engine off your hands.”
They make their way over to where Cece parked.
“I didn’t realize you were the supervisor,” she says.
Morgan puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles in the direction of the hangar. “Just whenever the owner isn’t here. Plus, it’s not like these guys need a ton of help.”
They stand by the truck and wait. Morgan runs his hand over the engine, saying something about the make and model, but Cece isn’t listening. She’s too busy trying not to remember their night together, sheets twisted between her legs, soles of her feet cramping.
“You left pretty early on Sunday morning,” he says.
Cece’s face warms. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“And here I was planning on making you breakfast…Thought I’d dreamed the other night until you showed up just now.”
Two workers emerge from the hangar, their gait slow and plodding. Cece tries to calculate how much time she has. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea…Things are complicated.”
“No explanation needed. I’m a big boy.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Making this easy.”
“Maybe I’m like you. Trying to keep things simple.”
Cece finds herself smiling for no particular reason.
Morgan drops the tailgate with a clang. “Have you been out on the water this summer?”
“Not even for work,” Cece says. “They’ve stuck me on dry land.”
“Why don’t we go out this weekend? The owner lets me borrow his boat whenever he’s not using it.”
“What happened to keeping things simple?”
“Being out on the water is as simple as it gets.”
Cece can only look at him, unable to find a reasonable reason to say no.
“I’m taking the silence as a yes.”
“Sure,” Cece says.
“Meet me down here on Saturday. Let’s say sunrise,” Morgan says, before turning to the approaching men. “Busted engine from Richie. And Mickey, let’s try not to fuck this one up more than it already is.”
It’s strange to hear him giving orders, his language rough, his tone stilted and ill-tempered. The man Cece presumes to be Mickey scowls at Morgan from under a mop of brown hair. “I didn’t do nothing.”
“Next you’re gonna tell me the drive clamp screws stripped themselves.”
“I already told you that was Wesley.”
“Okay, Einstein. Don’t forget. Righty tighty, lefty loosey.”
Morgan already seems to have forgotten about Cece while he helps the men carry the engine.
After muscling the tailgate shut, Cece gets in and watches him in the rearview mirror.
After dropping off the engine, he stalks through the yard with purpose, arms swinging ever so slightly against his boxy frame, checking the undersides of boats, rubbing his hand along the bottoms. He climbs ladders into raised motorboats, walking the length of the spacious decks and inspecting whatever work’s been done.
Back on solid ground, he makes a phone call to the owner, Cece presumes, and starts gesturing to the water and then to the enormous crane above.
Another worker comes out and offers a smoke.
Morgan hangs up and the men stand there surveying the yard, arms crossed over their chests, sun beating down on their shoulders.
Cece wonders what they’re talking about in that strange language that men use with each other.
Before Morgan notices her lingering, Cece starts up the truck and heads back to Noank, hoping Santiago will be impressed she didn’t crash.
Lorraine hovers over the stove stirring red sauce with a comically long wooden spoon, the fragrance of fire-roasted tomatoes and sautéed garlic filling the air.
Cece had been wary of getting too close to Lorraine when she’d first moved into the cottage.
An old, eccentric ex-hippie landlord hadn’t exactly been Cece’s idea of a friend.
Plus, she wasn’t intending on staying very long.
But apparently, all it takes to sway Cece from her convictions is a decent home-cooked meal and an invitation.
There’s also the prospect that Cece is simply lonely, but she doesn’t allow this thought to linger.
While Lorraine shuffles around the island, Cece peruses the sitting room.
The coffee table is littered with old newspapers and magazines, mostly National Geographic and Fine Gardening, a stray New Yorker, by the looks of it.
It’s not exactly the house of a hoarder, but it’s close.
On the walls, faded posters for Woodstock ’69, Earth Day, and the Altamont.
A giant flag hangs over the sofa: SAY NO TO NUCLEAR POWER.
“I’ve been meaning to get those framed,” Lorraine says, appearing at her side, spoon held out to Cece, “just haven’t gotten around to it. Taste.”
“Perfect.”
“Not too spicy?”
“Bring on the heat.”
“I lived in Calabria for a while after college. Let me tell you. Once you taste food like that, you can’t go back. Everything’s gotta have spice.”
“What were you doing over there?”
“My former botany professor. She was working at the local university. She hired me as a research assistant. But mostly, I just remember drinking some incredible wine and eating the best meats and cheeses I’ve ever had in my life.”
The only times Cece’s left the country were with Jonathan.
She’d never considered studying abroad. It hadn’t seemed financially feasible.
As for traveling after graduation, taking three months off to backpack Europe or Southeast Asia didn’t exactly seem like the most responsible thing to do.
Gainful employment was her highest priority.
What good was her degree if she couldn’t make money and pay off her loans?
Now Cece wonders if she’d made a mistake.
If she’d traveled more, gained worldly insights, would she be stuck in her current predicament?
Or might she have found the courage to strike out on her own?
Compared to Lorraine’s, her life feels quiet and small.
The thought depresses Cece. Isn’t she too young for such regrets?
“These posters are great,” she says, hoping to change the subject. “Very vintage.”
“When you’re old, everything you own is vintage,” Lorraine says, and drops a handful of salt in a pot of water. “That last one…the Altamont. Hells Angels were doing security. Beat my best friend into a coma…Animals. You don’t ride motorcycles, do you?”
Before Cece can answer, her pocket vibrates. “I gotta take this.”
Lorraine shoos her out the French doors onto the deck. “Dinner’s being served in fifteen minutes, with or without you.”
Outside, the pool looks almost inviting, framed by a wrought-iron fence and flower beds sporting vertiginous Russian sage and floppy catmint.
Cece loves these long summer evenings, when the night deepens, the sun clinging to the horizon.
They make her feel like she still has time, like her life’s not rushing by.
She thinks about sending the call to voicemail, but that’ll only make things worse.
Cece wonders how much Wynonna’s told Mom.
No doubt they’ve been strategizing about how to get Cece back on her feet or, more precisely, back with Jonathan.
“Hi, Mom,” Cece says, trying to sound aloof.
“How’s the job search coming?”