7. Shedding the Gloss #2
Morning charters wanted their bait before they wanted conversation.
Deliveries had to be counted before the driver disappeared.
Receipts went into the book before somebody shoved another invoice under my nose.
If Skipper yelled from the dock, there was usually a reason, and I had learned enough by now to know whether it required immediate attention or could wait until I finished whatever was in my hands.
I reached for the first bundle of bait.
My stomach turned the moment I grabbed it.
I set the ballyhoo back on the table and gripped the edge of the work surface. The smell of fish, which had stopped bothering me days ago, became impossible to escape. Even the brine from the tanks seemed stronger with the freezer open.
The next bucket remained empty.
I stared hard at the receipt book beside the register, refusing to look at the bait. Three charter slips needed to be entered before lunch. The wholesale invoice from yesterday still needed Skipper’s initials. There were two tackle orders due by Friday.
Useful things. Ordinary things.
The nausea eased enough for me to straighten.
“All right,” I said under my breath.
I shut the freezer before the stock started thawing and crossed to the sink. A little water over my wrists helped with the lingering heat, and after a moment I returned to the prep table without making a production out of it.
Morning sickness had no respect for schedules—a fact the baby had been making clear for weeks. Neither did charter clients.
I picked up the receipt book, checked the first entry against the stack beside the register, and corrected a number Skipper had written in the wrong column.
Every shift added another small piece to the life I was building here.
Rent came from my paycheck. Groceries came from my paycheck.
Whatever the baby needed would come from money I had earned.
No one had to approve it first.
“Piper!” Skipper called from the fuel dock. “I need two more flats of rigged ballyhoo! The tourists are getting restless in this heat!”
I glanced at the open doorway.
Two men near the fuel pumps were already looking toward the shack as if impatience might make bait appear faster.
“I’m bagging them up right now!” I called back. “Just give me two seconds to clear off this prep space.”
“Make it one if they start complaining!”
“They can complain while they wait!”
A laugh carried back from somewhere near the dock.
I set the receipt book aside, swept the used packaging toward the disposal bin, and cleared enough space to finish the order without mixing anything up. I opened the freezer again, releasing another burst of chilled air across the room.
I pulled the next flat onto the table and went back to work.
I had just finished tying off the second bait bag when someone stepped through the open doorway.
He paused near the entrance instead of walking straight into my workspace. I recognized him from the far end of the docks. He was usually bent over an outboard with tools spread beside him. Up close, his T-shirt showed streaks of marine grease, and a pair of work gloves hung from one hand.
“You need that aisle clear?” he asked.
“Eventually.” I slid the finished bag toward the cooler. “I’m trying to get this order out first.”
He nodded and stayed where he was while I finished clearing the table. The ceiling fan pushed hot air around the shack without accomplishing much, and the cold air from the freezer had already faded. I wiped my hands on a towel and looked at the row of chum buckets waiting near the wall.
Those were next.
I had been putting them off for a reason.
The man followed my glance but made no move toward them. Instead, he folded his gloves and tucked them into his back pocket.
“I’m Lawson, by the way. I run the mechanic shop at the end of the dock.”
“Piper.”
“Figured.” He glanced toward the fuel dock. “Skipper’s been yelling your name across the marina for weeks.”
“That’s his preferred management style.”
Lawson gave a short laugh. “Could be worse. Sometimes he throws things.”
“I haven’t earned that privilege yet.”
“Give it time.”
I turned back to the table without wondering what he wanted from me. That alone was unusual. People in Nolan’s world were always reaching for something beneath the conversation—an introduction, access, a favor, a photograph, a story they could repeat later.
Lawson just looked at the buckets.
“Do you want a hand getting those bottom ones out to the carts?”
I glanced at the stack again.
Fully packed, the largest containers weighed close to eighty pounds. I could probably have dragged one across the floor if I had to, but lifting it cleanly onto a cart was another question. After the nausea earlier, proving a point to a plastic bucket seemed ridiculous.
“Yes, please.” I stepped away from the wall to give him room. “I was not looking forward to wrestling with those.”
“Smart.”
“That sounded suspiciously like judgment.”
“It was approval.”
He crouched beside the first bucket, caught both handles, and lifted it in one motion. No dramatic grunt. No performance. He just carried it across the shack as if he belonged there and waited for direction.
“Beside the door, please,” I said. “Skipper wants the loading path clear.”
Lawson changed course and set it where I pointed.
“Here works?”
“That’s good. Leave enough room for the bait cart to turn.”
He shifted the bucket farther over, then came back for the next one.
I moved the smaller containers out of his way and stacked loose lids beneath the table.
We worked around each other without much conversation for the next minute, which suited me fine.
He did not crowd me, did not tell me to sit down, and did not start rearranging the shack as if he knew my system better than I did.