Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Lace looked at the clock.
An hour later than the time she’d mentioned.
Crap.
If she had to guess, she’d have to say Vincent had been scared off.
If he were really interested, he would have been here by now. After all, Lace had informed Bobbie of her “visitable” hours today, and Bobbie had assured her that if there was one thing she knew about Vincent, it was his commitment to promptness.
Sure. How was that working out?
Lace’s stomach roiled again.
Great. Vincent’s no-show was adding to her normal nausea mix. Just what she needed. Additional distress on top of all the other crap she was going through.
Yup. Crap and distress.
They sure were the operative words of the week.
Thinking back over the last six days had Lace grimacing.
The crew aboard the Water Wrestler—a stupid name for a boat if anyone wanted Lace’s opinion—had been assholes to her. Well, all except two young men who had silently shadowed her as self-appointed bodyguards. But she wasn’t about to win over any of the others, and she knew it.
The bullshit had started almost as soon as they’d weighed anchor on their way to Jeffrey’s Ledge the day after her last infusion.
The older prick-of-a-captain onboard, Otis Macleen, had “accidently” tripped, and the entire batch of chocolate chip cookies Lace had baked and just handed to him, had gone spilling over the rail.
“Oops,” he’d said, looking her right in the face with an arrogance that had her wanting to punch the smirk off his weathered puss.
A few of the men had grumbled, knowing that Lace’s baking was always top-notch, but none had called Captain Ahab—Lace never thought of him by his real name—out on it.
He was their boss, after all. Volatile at best, apoplectic at his worst, so nobody ever overtly crossed him for any of his insouciant behavior.
His next attack, however, hadn’t been anywhere near as subtle, if you could call blatantly tossing her cookies overboard, subtle.
Later in the day, when he’d walked by her, he’d hip checked her, hard, and nearly sent her into one of the refrigerated seawater tanks below deck.
Her weight and equilibrium having been compromised by the chemo, had made her an easy target, and she hated that. A few months ago, she would not only have easily saved herself, but would have shoved the prick in the chest and told him to watch his ass.
All she had done this time was throw herself away from the well, landing hard on the deck.
And now…
She knew she had to be extra careful. She was already a weak link, often challenged both mentally and physically during the day. And she hadn’t informed him—or any of these crew members for that matter—of what she was going through.
Hell no. Any shortcomings they glimpsed, anything they could exploit as an “infirmity”, would gain her nothing but derision. It was already bad enough being the only woman aboard, without adding the label of cancer patient to the mix.
The only positive?
Something about that purposeful bump to her body—and the last second save she’d managed by slamming her hip into the edge of the fish box and falling flat to keep from plunging into the frigid storage area below—had brought those two younger men to her side.
They hadn’t said a word, but their presence for the rest of the trip, dogging her footsteps, had been a constant.
They’d actually stuck close to her for the rest of the week.
It made her heart feel better that there were some good people in the world.
Tonight, she’d be baking an enormous batch of brownies. Just for them.
Even with her protectors nearby, however, the slurs she’d endured, and the loud complaints she’d sustained from the blow-hard captain had been escalating.
The higher-than-normal throwback rate of undersized bluefin tuna he was catching was the cause, with him spitting at her that it was all bullshit.
Lace knew better. Even though those numbers were up, she was doing her job correctly. The captain had simply laid his longlines in an area inexplicably rife with adolescents, and any bluefin under seventy-three inches had to be thrown back.
Otis knew it, but blamed Lace for things that were beyond anyone’s control.
She’d have to include his piss-poor attitude in her reports to the home office, but she wasn’t about to ask for a reassignment.
Nope. She’d stick this one out. Her rotation on the WW, as the crew liked to call it, would only last until late fall.
Surely, she could endure the hostile environment until then.
Still…
Yesterday, in particular, had been completely disheartening.
Winching in their pelagic longlines had, for the first time, sent them a complete curveball.
Seaturtles.
Although not a “schooling” species like a lot of undersea creatures, the shelled wonders tended to group together during mating or feeding seasons.
But since mating amongst their species was rare in the colder waters off the Maine coast, there must have been something that the leatherbacks had found appetizing near the longlines to have them amass in such numbers.
Over a dozen of them had, unfortunately taken the mackerel bait from the circle hooks the boat had set, and had been subsequently hauled onboard.
Of the inadvertent-yield of fourteen that were winched aboard amongst the tuna, four turtles had already been deceased, and immediately thrown overboard.
The rest hadn’t been in exactly great shape.
Lace had warned the fishermen to be cautious unhooking the live ones before tossing them back into the sea, but the men, led by Captain Bligh, had been belligerent and careless, most likely just to spite her.
Lace doubted whether half the remaining turtles repatriated to the depths had survived the night.
Normally, that kind of thing burned her gut. But she’d add it to her report, and let the higher-ups deal with it.
Still, she’d almost had an emotional breakdown.
Maybe it was the poisons that were still working their way through her system.
Or maybe she felt a kindredship with the compromised leatherbacks; being much closer, herself, to understanding how precious and fleeting life could be.
Either way, she’d had to fight hard to hold back her tears at the possibility that the turtles might not have made it.
By the time Lace had gotten back to her house, well after dark, she’d been utterly despondent, and totally wiped out. She hadn’t even had the energy to make food. Which was probably why, today, she was feeling so wan and defeated. Well, at least more wan and defeated than was her norm these days.
Add to that, the disappointment that Vincent obviously wasn’t coming, and…
Nausea rose hard, and this time she couldn’t push it back.
Goddammit.
Lace was determined to make it to the bathroom and not puke all over herself this time.
Swiftly, she got to her feet, grabbed her IV pole, and was beelining it for the bathroom, when…
Honk. Honk.
Shit.
Now was not the time.
Vincent.
Unable to say a word for fear of spewing all over Cenzo the Clown—or whatever he’d decided to call himself—Lace ignored the smile he was beaming her way, scooted past him, and practically ran for the facilities.
She just made it, slamming the door and dropping to the porcelain before bringing up the bagel she’d eaten for breakfast.
That sucked.
Lace was finally able to sit back on her heels and sigh.
Why? Why?
This was sooo not what she’d signed up for at this stage of her life. Her thirties were supposed to be for funsies; traveling the world, having lots of sex, finding the man of her dreams, starting a family. She felt as if she were being completely cheated out of all that.
Not that listening to the older women in the room talking about themselves and their situations, had Lace thinking that anyone deserved this shit.
One sixty-something lady was the owner of a local daycare center, and was constantly having to worry about catching something from the kids that would put her in serious jeopardy.
Another gray-haired grandmother was caring not only for disabled daughter, but also her husband who was in the early stages of dementia.
A third hoot-of-a-woman ran her own architectural landscape and design company, which required her to be on jobsites doing physical labor with her crews, daily.
Something she was meeting with humor and good graces, but Lace could see the toll it was taking.
No matter how you looked at this shit, it sucked.
And now, as defeated as she was feeling, Vincent was waiting for her.
Lace was going to have to use the travel toothbrush and toothpaste she always carried to chemo to make herself fresh as a daisy, but all she felt like doing was curling up into a ball and throwing a sobbing, pity-party.
Taking a deep breath and determining that she was finished puking for now, Lace pushed herself to standing, flushed the toilet, then washed up, splashing water on her face before she brushed her teeth.
Grimacing at her wan visage in the mirror, she squared her shoulders, rearranged the scrubs cap she always wore when she was here, and faced the door.
She could do this.
Lace grabbed her IV pole, unlocked the door, and stepped out to…
Vincent.
Pacing the hallway, where he’d obviously been waiting for her as if he had nothing else in the world better to do.
For the record, maybe he didn’t. Because Lace knew nothing about the man, other than he had stellar bloodlines. Oh. And genetic good looks. And broad shoulders that even his ridiculous outfits couldn’t disguise.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice much more solemn than the playful one he’d used with her the previous week. “Do you want me to get a nurse?”
Great. He was going to treat her with kid gloves now that he knew about her cancer.
“I’m good,” she told him, trying not to shuffle her feet as she walked past him and back toward her chair. “Par for the course, and all.” Lace hoped the words came off as breezy.
“Don’t they…?”
Clearly, he was discomfited.