9. Without a Press Release
Without a Press Release
Piper
The winter sun had no business burning this hot, but Osprey Bluff had never cared much about what the calendar claimed.
Light flashed off the marina water while I worked down the afternoon manifest, checking each tagged box of rigged bait against the charter list. Sweat gathered along my hairline before I finished the first column, and the faded tank top Skipper had handed me months ago had long since become ordinary work clothes.
The charter captain stepped over a coil of line and reached for another box near the loading cart. “These tags all belong to the afternoon run?”
“Yes. Keep the walkway open for the tackle cart.” I made a mark beside the matching entry, then turned the clipboard so I could check the next line. “Anything with the blue tag goes aboard. The rest stays here for tomorrow morning.”
“Got it.” He carried the box toward the boat while one of the dock lines creaked against its cleat. “Skipper finally let you take over his manifests, huh?”
“He didn’t let me do anything. He complained about his handwriting for two weeks until I got tired of deciphering it.”
A laugh came from the boat. “Sounds like Skipper.”
The pen scratched across the paper as I checked another entry.
Four months ago, I had needed Skipper to point out which freezer held ballyhoo and which charter captain would throw a fit if his bait order ran short.
Now the afternoon rush lived in my head before I ever looked at the page: what had been paid, what still needed loading, which boats needed ice, and which captain would try to sneak out without signing his fuel slip.
That knowledge mattered more than I wanted to admit.
Every week brought me closer to the point when I would have to step away for a while.
Skipper had taken a chance on a pregnant stranger who had arrived with a car full of clothes and nowhere sensible to go.
Before maternity leave forced me upstairs with swollen feet and a newborn, I wanted the winter season booked clean, the invoices current, and enough money sitting in the marina account that one broken freezer wouldn’t send Skipper into a three-day argument with his bank.
I stopped writing halfway through the next mark.
The baby kicked.
Fearing I’d drop it, I slid the pen back under the clip. My free hand settled over the curve of my stomach, and another small movement answered beneath my palm.
A smile slipped out.
The captain glanced back from the gunwale. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.” I rubbed my thumb once across my tank top, then dropped my arm, refusing to stand there grinning at my stomach for the rest of the afternoon. “The baby’s got opinions about the schedule today.”
“Smart kid. Nobody else around here can get Skipper to change one.”
“Don’t give the baby ideas. I already have enough people trying to reorganize my day.”
He chuckled and turned back to the boat. I freed the pen and found my place again, but the next line took an extra moment to come into focus.
You and me, kid. We’re doing all right.
The thought stayed where it belonged, private and quiet, while the marina kept moving around me. An engine coughed to life farther down the dock. Water slapped against the pilings, and the open bait shack door let out the constant hum of the aerators behind me.
The captain dragged one of the coolers toward the stern.
“Wait.” I lowered the clipboard and pointed with the pen. The lid sat in a strip of harsh sunlight, already shining with moisture. “Skipper wants these coolers kept out of the direct sun on the stern, please. The ice is going to melt if it sits on that hot deck.”
He followed my gesture and changed course. “I’m sliding them under the canopy now, ma’am. Do you want me to load the rest of the chum buckets into the bait well?”
“Yes, please take the buckets. I’ll sign the final slip as soon as you finish loading the tackle.”
“Then I’ll get you out of the sun before Skipper comes over here and blames me for keeping you on the dock.”
“Skipper can blame whoever he wants after this boat leaves on schedule.” I turned the clipboard toward myself again. “Until then, we’re finishing the load.”
The cooler disappeared beneath the canopy, and the captain went back for the chum. I checked the tags against the manifest once more and moved my pen down the page.
I crossed off the next line.
Lawson stepped onto the dock while I verified the next tag, grease smeared across the front of his T-shirt and one work glove tucked into his back pocket. He looked from the charter boat to the coolers waiting beside the loading cart, then to the manifest pressed against my arm.
“Which ones are still going?”
“The tagged coolers by the cart.” I tapped the next line with my pen. “Leave the smaller one. That’s for tomorrow.”
“Same placement as yesterday?”
“Under the canopy, weight split between the stern compartments.”
He nodded once and bent for the first eighty-pound cooler. The plastic handles bowed under the block ice as he lifted, and the lid shifted enough to spill freezer air across the dock. I stepped aside with the clipboard while he carried it toward the boat.
The captain reached over the gunwale to guide the far end. Lawson hoisted his side of the cooler over the gunwale, then climbed aboard long enough to set it where I had directed.
“Port side for the next one,” I called. “He’s already got tackle stacked starboard.”
Lawson looked over his shoulder. “Then move your clipboard before I bump it into the water.”
“Touch my paperwork and you’re explaining the lost manifest to Skipper.”
“I’ll take my chances with the cooler.”
The captain snorted from inside the boat. “Smart man.”
I checked the cooler tag while Lawson came back down the dock.
We had been doing this together long enough that there was almost nothing to explain anymore.
I kept the inventory straight, caught the loading mistakes, and made sure each captain left with what he had paid for.
Lawson handled anything my current center of balance made ridiculous to attempt.
He never grabbed something out of my hands and told me I shouldn’t be working. He asked what needed moving, moved it, and left the rest of the job to me.
That difference mattered.
Lawson reached for another cooler. “This one tagged for Miller’s afternoon run?”
I glanced down. “No. Green tag stays. You’re looking for blue.”
He shifted his hand to the cooler beside it. “This one?”
“That’s it.”
“Good thing somebody around here can read Skipper’s system.”
“That is my system. Skipper’s system was writing boat names on masking tape and hoping nobody asked questions.”
The captain grinned. “I remember those days.”
“I do too,” Lawson said. “That’s why I’m supporting the new management.”
“Keep talking like that and I’m putting you in charge of invoices.”
He went deadpan. “I withdraw my support.”
The second cooler went aboard, then another.
While Lawson worked, I moved down the manifest, checking tags against the captain’s load and crossing off each item as he stowed it out of sight.
The process had taken us weeks to refine.
Now he knew to leave me room near the cart, I knew which side he would approach from, and neither of us had to stop the whole dock because one person needed help.
The heat settled against the back of my neck despite the breeze off the water. I shifted the clipboard higher against my forearm and checked the final cluster of tags.
Lawson returned from the boat and glanced at me before reaching for the next cooler. “How long have you been standing out here?”
“Since the first charter.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“It was the answer you’re getting.”
He gave me a look, but bent for the cooler instead of arguing. That was another reason we worked well together. Lawson could tell me I was pushing too far without deciding he had authority over me.
By the time he carried the last load aboard, the captain had finished arranging the tackle along the opposite side. Lawson checked the placements, tugged once on the securing straps, then stepped back onto the dock.
“I’ve got the last three coolers secured on the deck. You need to sit down for a minute, Piper. You’ve been on your feet all morning.”
I glanced toward the captain, who was still working through the remaining gear. The final slip stayed tucked behind my manifest.
“I’ll sit down as soon as this charter pulls out of the slip. Skipper would have my head if we delayed a high-paying client, so just make sure the riggers are locked.”
Lawson leaned over the gunwale and checked them again rather than wasting time arguing with me. “They’re locked in tight. I’ll grab you a bottle of cold water from the shack while the captain finishes up.”
“Thank you. And bring one for yourself before you pretend engine grease counts as hydration.”
“Yes, boss.”
Lawson turned toward the shack while I checked the last tag.
He returned from the bait shack with a bottle of water in each hand. The captain had moved on to the tackle, leaving the dock clear enough that we were ahead of schedule.
“Last tag good?” Lawson held one bottle toward me.
“Good. The captain can sign as soon as he’s ready.”
“Then drink this before Skipper decides I’m responsible for keeping you alive.”
I slid the pen back under the clip and reached for the bottle. “Skipper isn’t my warden.”
“Tell him that.”
Tires ground over the crushed-shell driveway just as I reached for the bottle. Lawson turned toward the access road just as a black luxury SUV rolled past the faded marina sign, its paint throwing back the sun in bright flashes among Skipper’s rusted trailers and work trucks.
The vehicle kept coming until it stopped near the edge of the working yard. Its engine idled beneath the hum of the bait aerators and the rumble of the charter boat behind us. No decal marked the doors, no rods rested against the roof, and no cooler was strapped to the back.
“Somebody lost?” Lawson asked.
“I don’t know.”