Chapter Three – Jack
Chapter Three
JACK
‘A lrighty folks, welcome on board. There’s a bit of a swell today, and it’s still busy out there so we might need to do some fancy footwork. I want three points of contact at all times – two feet and a hand, two hands, one foot – you choose. I award extra points for style.’
I glance over my shoulder at my latecomer, the melancholy girl with the wild curly brown hair. I hammed up the last part of my welcome spiel to try to make her smile. But her eyes are closed, head leaning against the seat and chin tilted up to the sky. Her cheeks are pink from her sprint down the dock and freckles pepper her nose.
‘Life jackets are under the seat,’ I go on. ‘If you do go overboard just make sure you get out of the way. The steering’s busted so there’s a good chance I’ll run you over. Please don’t do that to me. The paperwork’s horrendous.’
Her eyes spring open. They’re the colour of my favourite pale ale. My heart gives a soul-bending thrum.
A smile plays on her lips, perfect teeth glinting in the sunshine. She turns and says something to the blonde in an obnoxious wide-brimmed straw hat next to her.
‘Yes. Goldie Hawn!’ the blonde shrieks. ‘OMG, Andie. Should we?’
Andie.
Her name is Andie.
Andie laughs and shakes her head, her ringlets dancing in the breeze. A split second later the blonde has sprung out of her seat and is tugging Andie up with her. The move coincides with a Clam Cove Resort motor boat speeding past us at an illegal forty knots, sending a sizeable wave rippling towards us. As we rocket over the water, we get some air and the girls stumble as we crash back down.
The blonde is now hatless.
‘Sorry, I only go back for hats if there’s a body attached to them,’ I sing out cheerily.
I half consider channelling my reckless teenage self and making a sharp hairpin turn, but Charlie will kill me if I damage the motor doing a donut to impress a girl. Andie doesn’t look like the sort who’d be impressed by that kind of thing anyway.
At least she’s laughing. The women are doubled over, clutching their sides as their shoulders bounce up and down.
‘I’m sure there’s a gift shop on the island. We’ll get you another,’ Andie gasps between body heaves.
Now is not the time to break it to them that Charlie Farleys only stocks practical fluoro sun visors and not the kind of ridiculous hats that block UV rays and peripheral vision.
‘If you wanted to role-play Overboard , you should have just said,’ I tease. ‘I have a package for that.’
‘Really?’ The blonde is still looking wistfully out at the water as she comes to terms not only with her loss but with the restoration of her line of sight.
‘No, not really, Taylor,’ Andie says, amber eyes glinting cheerfully as she glances at me. ‘He’s obviously joking.’
I may have lost a passenger’s belongings, but Andie’s mournful expression has also been washed away. I’d call that a fair trade.
‘I’m not,’ I protest, enjoying the schtick too much to give it up yet. ‘Try diving off the back of the boat and I’ll return in an hour or so to pick you up. If we’re doing things properly, you’ll have to pretend not to know who I am – or who you are, for that matter.’
My eyes flick to Andie’s face, expecting to find it lit up, but her forehead is lined and she’s looking down at her feet.
‘That’s the whole point of the movie, isn’t it? Fancy heiress Goldie gets amnesia and starts a new life with a humble, blue-collar man?’
‘Mm, yes, I think so,’ Andie mumbles.
‘I’d offer a Titanic package too, if we weren’t in such tropical waters,’ I say, desperate to recover the lightness from moments before, but there’s no time to elaborate or gauge her reaction.
Oh, shit.
My hands grip the wheel tightly as we approach another set of waves. They’re even bigger than before.
‘Ladies, take your seats, we’re in for a hell of a ride here.’ I don’t want to risk actually sending them overboard.
Luckily they follow my directive, and as we momentarily sail through the air, all bums are firmly on seats.
‘Whooooo!’ they cry as a wash of frothy water sprays them.
Once we’re in calmer waters, Andie pulls a towel from her bag and offers it around. She dries her own limbs last, then stands to wipe down the empty benches closest to me.
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it once we dock. Permanent wet T-shirt competitions are perks of the job, I’m afraid.’ I grin as I gesture to my shirt, which is now slicked to my chest like a cheap wetsuit. It’s another terry-cloth polo – a staple in vacation suitcases.
‘So that was an intentional move,’ she says, tugging at her own soaked dress. It’s yellow and adorned with tiny pearl buttons. I count twelve. Do the number of buttons on an item of clothing determine whether or not someone is out of your league? I wonder. I don’t own many shirts with buttons.
I can see the outline of her lacy bra.
Shit, eyes on the water, Jack . Not only do you sound like a perv, you’re starting to act like one too.
‘Where are you girls staying?’ I ask, gaze fixed on the river.
‘Moorings?’ She’s finished wiping the seats and is folding the damp towel into squares.
Ah, so these are Clara’s guests. An unsettled feeling rushes to my chest as my body reacts to the casual name-drop of a place that means so much to me. It’s been rented out for a few months now, but it’s still odd to have strangers waltzing in and out. I’m happy to clean up after them, but I haven’t decided if it’s better or worse when I meet them.
I clear my throat. ‘Really nice spot. Make sure you grab wheelbarrows at the wharf for all of this, then.’ I point to the small village of suitcases I’ve strapped to the bow. Clara taught me better than to comment on the amount of luggage women bring on holidays, but seriously, what could they possibly need aside from a couple of pairs of bathers and a few sundresses? ‘And be sure to return them when you’re done,’ I continue. ‘Otherwise Bob will hunt you down. There are island eyes everywhere.’
Andie smiles. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘I’d help you but I have another couple of trips to make before I knock off.’
The island boat doesn’t typically operate as a water taxi, but I’ve also vowed to do whatever it takes to try to keep this island and its 329.5 residents (a new Farley is due any day now) afloat. Tourism has almost completely dried up, and without our oyster industry, things are dire. I’m doing what I can, but guilt and shame gnaw at me relentlessly.
We dock to some more splashes and delighted squeals, and I swing the suitcases off two at a time and set them on the wharf. I’m putting the boat into reverse when I spot an item tucked under one of the seats. It’s the karaoke machine I intercepted from Andie when she boarded. I move to retrieve it before changing my mind, and instead use my foot to nudge it further out of sight.
The island may be small, but it’s nice to have a guarantee that I’ll see her again.