Chapter 14
MAREN
I’ve lived nearly thirty years in the tsunami of sounds belonging to my father, trying to interpret them for any hint as to what his mood might be.
Thankfully, I dressed a few minutes after Knox had left. I needed to get out of the stormproof apartment and get some air. I felt insulated in there last night. Like the decisions we made couldn’t possibly bleed out into a world that wouldn’t understand why we did what we did.
All that was left of Knox was the faint scent of him on the pillow that I’d held on to for a second too long after he left.
I’ve never much considered the importance of aftercare after any kind of sexual activity, beyond the idea that holding someone is a nice thing to do once the heat of sex has passed.
But I felt adrift when Knox left.
Bereft, even.
The pillow gave me a small amount of comfort.
Then, I got dressed and checked the cameras to see how bad any flooding was, or whether I should wait, only to see my father and Knox arguing, and I ran. Ran down the stairs and through the water that had spilled over the boathouse dock by a couple of inches as I carried my sneakers in my hand.
There was no real thought about what I would do once I got to the two of them, except maybe I wanted to bear witness to whatever my father would do or say.
And I didn’t know what the two of them would do or say to me.
So, in some ways, I’m grateful Knox solved half my problem by tipping his chin in my direction while saying something to my father I couldn’t hear before riding away.
“Want to explain yourself?” my father says, as the roar of Knox’s motorcycle fades in the distance.
“Explain what?” I ask, pulling out the wooden panel that sits between the roller shutter and the store.
I prop it up against the wall, but the wind immediately gets behind it and blows it over into the gently rippling water.
Thankfully, due to the slight elevation from the boathouse to the store, the store isn’t flooded.
“I saw him leaving.” My father puts his hands on his hips as he states the obvious. For the first time, he reminds me of one of those red pandas that stand on their hind legs to scare off predators by making themselves bigger.
“And?” I reply.
I unlock the door, manage to lift the wooden panel over the sandbags, and step into the store.
Once inside, I dry my feet, put my sneakers on, and head to the coffee pot behind the drinks counter to set it to brew.
It’s a shitty old machine that can be temperamental, hissing and spitting.
But the coffee is the best I can buy because life is too short to drink shit coffee.
I look at my father. One eyebrow is raised as he says, “You think this town won’t talk?”
It’s foolish and childish to even think he might show some concern for the state of my face. But, no, he remains focused on himself. So much so, he hasn’t noticed the two racks of snacks that were knocked over when I tried to fight the two men off last night.
“There’s barely a soul around. It’s early in the morning, the worst of the storm has blown through, and most people are still tucked up in their beds. Plus, it’s none of this town’s business.”
I pull a mug out of the cupboard and set it down before my shaking hands betray the confidence in my words.
“This is my town, and this is my business.”
I place my hands on the small granite counter. “This is my store and property, and this is my business. Not yours.”
My father steps closer to me. His boots thud heavy against the wood floor as he scans the room.
I’m not even sure what he’s looking for.
Maybe some kind of infraction I might be committing.
But there’s nothing here except a pile of outdoor furniture stacked clumsily, a few small round tables and chairs, and a painting of the sunrise over Martha’s Vineyard that I painted from a photograph I took when I visited there once.
When he finally looks at me, I see it. It’s in the wrinkle over the bridge of his nose and the furrows between his brows. I’ve seen this look in a thousand different situations, and I brace myself.
“You embarrass me. Always have.” His voice is calm and controlled, which is almost worse than the yelling. “Ever since you were old enough, you’ve disappointed me. Your mother was so embarrassed of you, she left you behind. It was up to me to try to make you right.”
The scent of brewing coffee suddenly makes me feel sick as he exposes and pokes at the raw wound I’ve carried for years.
“I took this business that was barely breaking even and made it into a place that turns a profit.” Revulsion hits me; I can’t help trying to prove myself to this man.
He laughs like I’m pathetic. And under his gaze, I almost believe I am.
“This pit?” He gestures around the store I renovated.
“This little hole in the wall. This isn’t building something.
I’m head of the police department. I built a safe community with my own hands.
I sit on boards. I have status in this town, and you’re here, playing house above a fishing shop with a biker. You had so much potential and blew it.”
His gaze moves to the wide glass doors where the dock stretches out above the water.
Something tightens in my ribs as I fight down the pain of his words. My therapist once said that, in situations like this, it’s important to look for evidence before I believe it.
I was talented in things he didn’t care about. I had the capacity for great artistry. I was kind. I was a middle-of-the-pack kid who never got into trouble. What few friends I had drifted away because of my father, not because I was bad company.
The bait and marine supply store plays a vital role in the community. I provide the resources regulars need to enjoy their hobbies and free time, as well as a way to encourage tourists to capitalize on the glory of all the nature that surrounds us.
I provide employment to seven people on varying schedules and keep on Leo, even though the old man can no longer keep up with the pace of work.
There is nothing about my life that’s truly an embarrassment. Only the deluded expectations of my father about the person I could have been. And there is no evidence to suggest I would have made a great lawyer or schoolteacher or cop. Not that I was ever even interested in those professions.
I trust my internal assessment of myself. “You’re wrong.”
He slams his hand on the counter so hard that the container holding the wooden stir sticks tips over, and I jump in fear. “Painting storms and entertaining bikers isn’t anything to be proud of.”
“I don’t entertain anyone,” I say, and I hate the waver in my voice. I can’t let him get under my skin like this, so I take a deep breath and try again. “And you’ve never understood my value, as a daughter or a businesswoman.”
“Don’t insult me,” my father says, his tone sharp. “You think men like that biker are interested in shit like this?” He jabs his finger in the direction of the painting I did and hung behind the counter, and I think about the way Knox spoke about my artwork last night.
That painting is too good to be in here if you barely use this place.
Not much of an art connoisseur, but you can almost feel the pull of the swamp in it.
You sure know how to capture a storm.
I keep my chin lifted.
“He do that to your face?” Dad asks, finally noticing I was hurt.
I shake my head. “No. Absolutely not. I slipped getting away from the storm, face-planted into the dock. Not that you really care about that.” The excuse forms quickly. “Knox found me. Helped me into the boathouse apartment. Was too late for him to go.”
My father’s face curls into a snarl. “You expect me to believe the whole, ‘he stayed because of the storm’ excuse?”
“I don’t care what you believe. What I do with my body is none of your business.”
Another slam of his palm, and I jump again, but this time, he rounds the cafe counter, and I’m trapped. “You will mind your mouth when talking to me. I’m your father, and I’m also the sheriff.”
I can’t help but think if you need to keep telling someone who you are, it conveys your insecurity rather than reinforces your power. “Knox helped me. That’s it. I don’t think he was any more comfortable about the situation than you are.” I think back to the look on his face when he left.
“You want me to believe he was here out of civic duty?”
I shrug. “Again, I don’t care what you believe.”
“It’s not just me.” His voice reaches a crescendo, echoing through the café and store. It echoes off the walls and tile floor and metal appliances. “The community is going to think that my daughter opened her legs for the first Outlaw who paid attention.”
The words land as effectively as a slap, and I recoil as my throat tightens. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“I absolutely do. You’re a Caldwell, whether either of us likes it or not. What you do reflects on me. Approaching thirty years old and still behaving like an insecure child. You think he really wants you?”
I don’t answer. My feelings on the subject are too raw.
“He used you,” my father continues. “Men like that don’t love. They use. You were an easy lay when there weren’t any other options around. And what better way to get at me, to get under my skin, than to sleep with my daughter.”
I feel sick to my stomach. I hadn’t considered that angle. Was that all it was? A way to rile my father? Casual sex I’m okay with, but revenge sex?
“He told me something this morning,” my father adds.
“What was that?” I ask, but I hate myself for doing so because it suggests to my father that I care.
Which I know I do. But I need him to believe that I don’t.
“He stood in the lot out there and told me you’re not my little girl anymore.”
The room feels small; so do my own clothes.
My skin, even.
I want to crawl out of it all, jump on an airboat, and let the remnants of the storm batter me.
But, perhaps, in this situation, it’s Knox who deserves the benefit of the doubt. I don’t know his motives, neither does my father. Heck, I don’t even know if Dad is telling me the truth.
“He’s playing you,” my father says. His voice is cooler now that he’s made his point.
It must be written all over my face that it landed.
“Now that he’s done with you, he won’t be back.
But every time I have any business with him from now on, he’s gonna tell me details a father should never have to hear about his daughter.
And, believe me, if he makes my life hard, I’m going to make yours even harder. ”
Then, with a slam of the door that makes me jolt, he’s gone.