7. Shedding the Gloss #3
When the last of the large buckets sat near the doorway, Lawson wiped his brow with his forearm.
“Anything else trying to ruin your morning?”
“Several things, but most of them are attached to charter boats.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
“Probably safer that way.”
He glanced toward the cooler I had been filling. “Skipper still waiting on those ballyhoo flats?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You want me to take the chum outside while you finish them?”
I considered the offer, then pointed toward the two containers closest to the entrance. “Those can go to the cart. Leave the smaller ones. I still need to check the labels.”
Lawson grabbed the first without argument.
That was what struck me most. He asked, I answered, and the conversation ended there. No insistence. No assumption that accepting help meant surrendering the whole task.
By the time he came back, I had another bait bag sealed and ready.
Lawson pulled his gloves from his pocket and nodded toward the buckets near the wall.
“Nice to meet you, Piper. I fix Skipper’s outboards, so I’m in here pretty often. Just point to whatever else needs to go outside, and I’ll make sure it gets stacked.”
The box truck backed toward the shack while I was sealing the last bait bag.
Its air brakes hissed beside the loading deck, cutting through the aerators and the engine noise from the docks.
I set the bag with the others, wiped my hands, and moved toward the doorway as the driver climbed down with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
“You receiving for Skipper today?” he asked.
“I am. Give me the sheet before you unload anything.”
He passed over the clipboard without argument. Behind me, Lawson glanced toward the closed shutters, then up at the fan that had been accomplishing almost nothing for the past hour.
“Want those shutters open before he starts bringing boxes in?”
“Please. It’s getting unbearable in here.”
Lawson crossed to the nearest one and released the catch while I scanned the invoice. The first shutter swung outward, letting a breeze through the shack. By the time he reached the second, I had stepped down onto the delivery deck with the driver.
“I’ve got twenty boxes of fluorocarbon leader and a dozen spools of braided line,” he said. “I just need a signature confirming the box count before I bring the hand truck down.”
“Hold the clipboard. I’m counting first.”
“Take your time.”
The rear of the truck stood open, with the tackle shipment arranged near the edge. I checked the leader cartons by row, then counted the braided-line spools stacked beside them.
Twenty boxes. Twelve spools.
I looked over the cartons for crushed corners or split seams, then matched the labels against the invoice.
A few weeks ago, I would have needed Skipper standing beside me to explain what I was looking for. Now I knew enough to check the product code, confirm the quantity, and make sure the driver wasn’t about to leave us with somebody else’s order.
I reached for the clipboard.
“The count looks accurate. You can leave the tackle boxes right here on the deck, and we’ll haul them into the back room later.”
I signed where Skipper had shown me, pressing hard enough to mark the carbon copy.
“You got it, ma’am. I’ll have the truck unloaded and out of your way in ten minutes.”
I handed it back.
Lawson had both shutters open now, and the air finally moved through the room instead of circling beneath the roof. He stepped out of the driver’s path as the handcart came down from the box truck.
“You want the leader on one side and the line on the other?” Lawson asked.
“Yes. Keep the labels facing out so I can check them when we shelve everything.”
“Got it.”
The driver stacked the first cartons where I had indicated. Nobody hovered over my shoulder. Nobody called Skipper to ask whether I was authorized to sign.
The driver just followed my directions.
That should have been an ordinary thing.
Here, it was becoming one.
By the time the last cartons came off the truck, the bait shack had returned to its usual rhythm. Aerators buzzed. Somebody called for ice from the dock. Lawson carried one of the tackle cartons farther out of the walkway before heading back toward his shop.
I took my copy of the invoice inside and slid it beneath the receipt book where Skipper kept the day’s paperwork.
Weeks earlier, I had walked through that doorway asking a stranger for work because I had nowhere else to go.
Now deliveries passed through my hands. Captains asked me where their bait orders were.
Skipper trusted my signature on his invoices, and when something didn’t add up, people expected me to catch it.
Not Nolan’s wife.
Not somebody Reid could keep outside the photograph.
Just Piper, doing her job.
The driver rolled the empty handcart back toward the truck while I returned to the prep area. Sweat had gathered along my hairline again. There was still bait to prep before the next charter arrived, but none of it made me want to leave.
For once, being needed didn’t mean making myself invisible in someone else’s life.
I had work to do, money I had earned, and a place that needed me.