18. Ellie
Eighteen
Ellie
The first thing I saw when I returned to Reef Rascal was the sign taped to the front door.
PLEASE ASK STAFF ABOUT:
DIVING
SNORKELING
BOAT TIMES
MARINE LIFE
PLEASE DO NOT ASK STAFF ABOUT:
SAVANNAH brOOKS
PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS
JEWELRY
At the bottom, in different handwriting, someone had added:
CAPTAIN PANCAKE HAS NO COMMENT.
I stood on the sidewalk with my suitcase and read it twice.
Then I opened the door.
Captain Pancake was lying behind the counter wearing a black bandana printed with the words NO COMMENT.
“Hank.”
Hank appeared from the office carrying a box of snorkel masks.
“You’re back.”
“Why is the dog dressed like a publicist?”
“He has boundaries.”
“He ate a tourist’s flip-flop last month.”
“Growth is possible.”
Captain Pancake stood, stretched, and came around the counter. He leaned his full weight against my legs, shifting me several inches sideways.
I dropped the suitcase handle and scratched behind his ears.
“Did you miss me?”
He sneezed onto my shirt.
“I’ll record that as enthusiasm.”
Hank set down the box and hugged me.
His hugs were less efficient than my father’s. They involved shoulder compression and no clear release policy.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He stepped back and studied my face.
“That answer arrive before or after you decided to use it?”
“I spent several days with my mother.”
“So after.”
I looked around the shop.
The rental fins had been reorganized by size. Someone had replaced the cracked clipboard beside the register. A jar marked PANCAKE’S LEGAL FUND contained at least forty dollars.
“What happened while I was gone?”
“Business.”
“Business usually doesn’t include legal defense for the dog.”
“We had visitors.”
“How many?”
“Enough that I made the sign.”
“Reporters?”
“Two. One podcast. Several people who claimed not to be either.”
“You spoke to them?”
“I told them Reef Rascal offers morning and afternoon departures and certified divers receive ten percent off rental equipment.”
“That was responsible.”
“I also told one woman you once backed the trailer into a recycling bin.”
“Hank.”
“She asked what you were like.”
“And you chose vehicular incompetence?”
“It showed humility.”
Captain Pancake put one paw on my shoe.
I reached down and removed his bandana.
He immediately tried to eat it.
“Strong commitment to the message.”
“He’s still learning media discipline.”
Hank took my suitcase.
“I can carry that.”
“You just got off a plane.”
“I sat on the plane.”
“That is not rest.”
“My mother said the same thing.”
“She texted.”
I stopped.
“She texted you?”
“She anticipated resistance.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“That you would attempt to work immediately and I should interfere.”
“Everyone has become very comfortable coordinating my life.”
“It saves time.”
He carried my suitcase into the office.
On the desk, beneath a stack of waivers, was a glossy magazine with Annie’s face on the cover.
I stopped.
Hank followed my gaze.
“I didn’t buy it.”
“Then why is it here?”
“A tourist left it.”
“Faceup?”
“I was reading the equipment review.”
“The equipment review is on page ninety.”
“It was thorough.”
I picked up the magazine.
The cover photograph had been taken during the tour. Savannah wore a silver jacket, dark eyeliner, and the expression she used when someone had asked a question she planned to answer with another question.
Across her chest:
SAVANNAH’S SECRET ESCAPE
Underneath:
THE WOMAN, THE brACELET, AND WHAT REALLY HAPPENED IN FLORIDA
I opened it.
The article contained no information about what had really happened in Florida.
It did contain photographs of the market, the road near the cottage, Reef Rascal, and Rosa carrying a tray outside the café.
Someone had circled Rosa’s photograph in blue pen and written:
REFUSED COMMENT. SERVED PIE.
“That was me,” Hank said.
I looked at him.
“It was accurate.”
I closed the magazine.
“Throw it away.”
“Okay.”
His hand moved toward the trash.
“No.”
He stopped.
“I’ll take it.”
Hank said nothing.
That was worse.
“It has pictures of the shop.”
“We have pictures of the shop.”
“Not aerial ones.”
“Useful.”
“For insurance.”
“Obviously.”
He handed me the magazine.
I placed it inside my suitcase.
Not hidden.
Not displayed either.
Just put somewhere until I understood why I wanted it.
Hank leaned against the desk.
“You watched the interview?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“She said more than she should have.”
“She didn’t call you a friend.”
“No.”
“That mattered.”
“Yes.”
“She admitted she hurt you.”
“On national television.”
“Large platform.”
“That is not an advantage.”
“Depends who is selling advertising.”
“I’m asking from the perspective of the person discussed.”
“Then definitely not.”
I looked through the office doorway.
A couple stood by the mask display comparing sizes. Neither was staring at me.
That felt luxurious.
“She texted afterward,” I said.
Hank waited.
“I told her I was still angry.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t argue.”
He nodded.
“Different.”
“It sounded different.”
“Do you believe it was?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Hank picked up a waiver from the printer.
“You don’t need to know today.”
“Everyone has become invested in reminding me time exists.”
“You used to like time.”
“I liked schedules.”
“Not the same thing.”
The couple approached the counter.
The woman smiled.
“You’re Ellie, right?”
Hank straightened slightly.
I felt him prepare to intervene.
“Yes.”
“We’re on the afternoon reef dive.”
She held up her certification card.
“My husband hasn’t been in the water for two years and is pretending he isn’t nervous.”
Her husband frowned.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You reorganized the gear bag three times.”
“It needed organization.”
I smiled.
“My father makes files when he’s nervous.”
The husband considered this.
“Does it help?”
“No.”
The woman laughed.
Neither mentioned Annie.
I checked their certification cards, asked about their last dives, and explained the afternoon conditions.
By the time they left for lunch, my shoulders had lowered.
Hank handed me a clipboard.
“You can work the afternoon boat.”
“I thought I was being prevented.”
“Limited activity was approved.”
“By whom?”
“Your mother.”
“I am thirty-two.”
“She was persuasive.”
“I’m blocking both of you.”
“You’ll need my number when the compressor fails.”
“The compressor is new.”
“Something else will fail.”
Something always did.
That was one of the things I liked about diving.
Problems were usually specific.
A leaking hose.
A worn fin strap.
A customer breathing too quickly.
You identified the problem.
You addressed it.
Nobody asked whether the regulator had meant to betray you.
At noon, I walked to Rosa’s.
The café was busy enough that I had to wait near the door.
Three people recognized me.
One whispered.
One pointed with what she probably believed was subtlety.
The third approached.
“Are you the dive instructor?”
“Yes.”
“I loved what Savannah said about you.”
My stomach tightened.
“She didn’t say much.”
The woman’s smile faltered.
“I meant the part about—”
“Ellie.”
Rosa appeared beside us carrying two plates.
“Your table is ready.”
“I don’t have a table.”
“You do now.”
She guided me toward the back corner.
The woman returned to her friends.
“That was unnecessary,” I said.
“It was efficient.”
“She wasn’t being cruel.”
“Most people are not cruel. They are curious.”
Rosa put coffee in front of me.
“I don’t need protection from every curious person.”
“No. But you need lunch.”
She returned with an egg sandwich.
“I didn’t order.”
“You traveled today.”
“So?”
“Airports remove the nutritional value from food.”
“That is not science.”
“It is observation.”
I took a bite.
The sandwich was better than anything I had eaten while traveling and worse than the one Annie had dropped across the table on her first morning.
Rosa watched me.
“What?”
“You are comparing.”
“I am eating.”
“Same face.”
“You cannot identify my comparison face.”
“You have been eating here for six years.”
“That does not grant diagnostic authority.”
“I learned from your mother.”
I looked up sharply.
“She called you too?”
“No.”
Rosa smiled.
“Not yet.”
She wiped the next table even though it was already clean.
“The island has stories,” she said.
“I assumed.”
“One says Savannah came here to write an album.”
“She cannot identify coral.”
“Another says you are secretly married.”
“To whom?”
“Savannah.”
“I met her less than a week ago.”
“Details weaken island folklore.”
I drank my coffee.
“Nobody here is talking to reporters,” Rosa added.
“I know.”
“Hank banned them from the boat. I banned them from asking questions before dessert.”
“That seems commercially motivated.”
“Everything is easier after pie.”
I looked toward the window.
Across the road, a tour group stopped beside Reef Rascal. The guide pointed toward the shop.
Maybe he was explaining the difference between snorkeling and diving.
Maybe he was identifying the site of a minor celebrity incident.
“I don’t want Pelican Key to become a place where nobody can say her name because they think I’ll break.”
Rosa stopped wiping.
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Then they can say it.”
“I also don’t want every sandwich to become a discussion about my private life.”
“That is why you sit in the back.”
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
“Balance.”
A shadow fell across the table.
Hank stood there holding Captain Pancake’s leash.
The dog sat beside me and fixed his eyes on the remaining half of my sandwich.
“Why is he here?”
“He needed lunch.”
“He ate breakfast.”
“He has completed breakfast.”
Rosa pointed toward the door.
“No dog.”
“He is emotionally vulnerable.”
“He has his own food.”
Captain Pancake rested his head on my knee.
I tore off a piece of egg.
Rosa slapped my hand.
“He is manipulating you.”
“He missed me.”
“He met Savannah twice and missed her too.”
I looked up.
Rosa returned my stare.
Hank studied the menu with sudden concentration.
“I’m going back to work.”
“You haven’t finished.”
“I’ve lost my appetite due to coordinated interference.”
Rosa wrapped the sandwich in paper.
“Eat on boat.”
She handed it to me.
Balance.
The afternoon dive was uncomplicated.
The nervous husband used air too quickly during the first ten minutes, then remembered how to breathe.
His wife found a spotted eagle ray and signaled so enthusiastically she nearly dislodged her mask.
We stayed at forty feet, moving above the reef while sunlight shifted across the sand.
The water was the same.
That should not have surprised me.
The coral had not changed because Annie left.
The fish had not reorganized themselves around my emotional life.
Near the end of the dive, a green turtle moved below us.
I almost laughed into my regulator.
Annie would have pointed at it with both hands, as if the rest of us might fail to notice an animal the size of a dining table.
The memory came easily.
It did not knock me over.
It moved beside me for a while.
Then the turtle disappeared into deeper water, and I guided the group toward the mooring line.
Back at the shop, the husband helped unload the equipment.
“That was exactly what I needed,” he said.
“What part?”
“Not thinking about anything except breathing.”
“That is most of scuba.”
His wife squeezed his arm.
“He’ll reorganize the gear bag tonight.”
“It may require further work,” he said.
After they left, Hank handed me my phone.
“Buzzed twice.”
“Did you read it?”
“I have ethics.”
“You opened my mail last year.”
“It looked like a bill.”
“It said personal.”
“Bills are personal.”
The first message was from Mom.
Did you unpack?
I typed:
Yes.
My suitcase was inside my house.
That felt close enough.
The second message was from Annie.
May I send you something unrelated to the interview?
I stared at it.
Hank pretended not to watch.
Me: Define unrelated.
Her answer came quickly.
Annie: No media. No feelings. No jewelry.
Me: That last category is very specific.
A photograph arrived.
A gray hotel chair stood in the corner of a gray hotel room.
No one was using it.
Beneath the photograph:
It knows what it did.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Hank smiled.
“Tell her hello.”
“I didn’t say who texted.”
“You don’t laugh at your mother like that.”
“I laugh at my mother.”
“Not voluntarily.”
I typed:
I hope you’re not sitting on the floor for the joke.
Annie: I’m on the bed. Rachel believes the chair is decorative.
Me: Rachel thinks granola bars are lunch.
Annie: This remains our most serious disagreement.
The messages stopped there.
No request to call.
No mention of forgiveness.
No attempt to turn a gray chair into a declaration.
I put the phone in my pocket.
At home, I unpacked.
Actually unpacked.
Toiletries in the bathroom.
Clean clothes in the dresser.
The magazine went into the bottom drawer beneath a stack of old dive maps.
Annie’s T-shirt remained in the suitcase.
I held it up.
It no longer smelled like her.
It smelled like my parents’ laundry detergent because Mom had washed it while I was in the shower, despite several objections and one warning about fabric care.
I checked the label.
Cold wash.
No dryer.
Mom had been correct.
That was irritating.
I dropped the shirt into the laundry basket with the rest of my clothes.
I made pasta, ate half, and put the remainder in the refrigerator.
At nine, I sat on the porch with my phone facedown beside me.
The island had gone quiet.
Music drifted from an open window down the road. A boat engine started near the marina and faded into the distance.
I turned the phone over.
One message.
Annie: Is texting still allowed tomorrow?
I read it twice.
She had asked.
The rule was simple.
The fact that she had followed it should not have felt significant.
It did.
Me: Yes.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Annie: I will attempt to remain calm about this policy expansion.
Me: Don’t make it ceremonial.
Annie: I canceled the parade.
I smiled.
Then typed:
Texting is not forgiveness.
Her reply took longer.
Annie: I understand.
I believed she understood the sentence.
I still did not know how much she understood beneath it.
Me: Good night, Annie.
Annie: Good night, Ellie.
I left the phone faceup on the porch table.
Inside, the washing machine turned, Annie’s shirt moving with the rest of my clothes.