13. Shifting the Weight
Shifting the Weight
Piper
The VHF spat static across the bait-shack deck, and I turned the volume knob until the weather bulletin cut through the wind.
“Coastal waters from the lower Keys eastward… gale warning in effect…”
The rest vanished beneath another burst of static. An hour ago, the horizon had been bright enough to hurt my eyes; now a bruise-purple wall of cloud had swallowed the open water, and a hard gust rattled the shack roof above me.
“Turn that thing up,” Skipper called as he came around the corner. His shirt snapped against his side. “I can’t make out the warning from over there.”
“It’s repeating.” I angled the radio toward him and stepped under the awning, where the wind stopped throwing my hair across my mouth. “Come here and listen.”
The speaker crackled again.
“Mariners are advised to seek safe harbor and secure vessels before conditions deteriorate…”
Skipper looked past me toward the docks. Loose canvas on one of the charter boats lifted, cracked in the gust, then slapped back against the rail.
“How much time are they giving us?”
“Not enough to leave anything loose.” I lowered the radio and looked up at the roofline.
One corner of the metal had started to chatter against the fasteners.
“The barometer’s dropping fast, Skipper, and the Coast Guard just issued a severe coastal gale warning.
If the wind gets under the tin roof, we’ll lose the whole shack. ”
His attention moved from the roof to the fuel dock, then to the boat ramp where the water had begun slapping against the pilings. Skipper didn’t tell me to go upstairs just because I was pregnant. He pointed toward the commercial side of the marina.
“You can handle the shack and the commercial side?”
“Yes.” Another gust shoved spray across the lower dock. “Take the fuel system before the water gets over the ramp.”
“Keep yourself off the outer edge once those boards get slick.”
“Then give me somebody who can haul the tarps.”
Skipper turned toward the yard.
Nolan was beside a hauled-out charter hull with a scraper in one hand, working at a strip of old bottom paint.
For more than a week, he’d done whatever Skipper handed him—scraping, hauling, washing down decks, staying out of my workspace unless I called for him.
I still didn’t know what to do with that version of my husband.
Forgiveness wasn’t on the table yet, but I had noticed.
Skipper cupped both hands around his mouth. “Piper, you take the quarterback and lock down the bait freezers and the outboard racks! I’m going to secure the fuel mains!”
“Got it.” I looked toward the pallets beside the storage shed. The tarps sat folded on top, tie-down lines coiled beneath them. “We need the blue stack first. The larger covers are underneath.”
Skipper nodded, already backing toward the fuel dock. “Don’t let him decide he’s a boat captain now.”
“Trust me, I won’t.”
That earned a bark of laughter from him before the wind carried it away.
My attention went back to Nolan. Three years in the NFL had trained him to expect rooms to bend around him. Staff moved first. Drivers waited. Assistants handled inconvenience before it reached him. Even when he meant well, somebody else always carried the ugly end of the problem.
Skipper raised his voice across the yard. “Callahan! Drop the scraper and start hauling heavy tarps for Piper!”
Nolan’s head came up.
For a moment, I expected the old reflex: a question, a complaint about what made sense, maybe some attempt to take control because playing quarterback had taught him that being the loudest man in the room meant being in charge.
The wind pushed grit across the yard between us, and the scraper stayed in his hand.
“I’ll get them unrolled right now!” he shouted. “Piper, just tell me where you need the tie-downs!”
“Top stack first,” I called back. “And don’t unfold anything until I tell you where it’s going. If we mix the covers up, we’ll waste time sorting them in the rain.”
“Understood.”
He didn’t bristle. No argument came back across the yard, and he didn’t look toward Skipper for a better assignment.
The roof rattled again above me. I turned toward the shack doors and the freezers Skipper had trusted me to protect.
Whatever Nolan’s obedience meant could wait until the marina was safe.
Nolan dropped the scraper and ran for the tarps.
I stepped into the bait-shack doorway and set the radio on the shelf beside the door, far enough inside to keep the rain off it.
By the time I turned around, Nolan had dragged the first tarp off the stack and was fighting to keep the canvas from opening like a sail.
Rain crossed the yard sideways now, needling the water and slicking the dock boards.
“Leave that corner folded until we get it around the console,” I called.
Nolan gathered the loose canvas against his chest. “This one goes over the charter boat?”
“Yes. Keep hold of the stern side or the wind will take it.”
“I’ve got it. Tell me when you want me on the lines.”
We carried the tarp down the dock between us, though the wind did most of the arguing.
Every gust tried to tear the canvas out of our hands, and the charter boat tugged against the cleats.
Nolan kept his end low while I stepped aboard to work mine around the console, waiting each time I told him to stop rather than hauling ahead and forcing me to catch up.
“Hold there,” I said. “Don’t pull yet.”
He planted his feet and waited.
I fed the tie-down beneath the rail, checked that the canvas wasn’t caught against an antenna, then pointed toward the mooring line stretched along the dock. “Now leave this with me and double that line before the surge picks up.”
Nolan released the tarp only after I had both hands on it. He grabbed the rope and moved to the nearest cleat.
“Not that one,” I called, pointing. “Use the inside cleat.”
He looked where I pointed. “This one?”
“Yes. Give it more slack before you cinch it.”
There had been a time when correcting Nolan at all would have earned me a lecture about pressure, focus, or trusting him to know what he was doing. Instead, he unwrapped the line, reset it where I wanted it, and went back to work.
Headlights swung across the driveway.
Lawson’s truck came through the rain and stopped near the mechanic shop. He was out before the engine had gone quiet, crossing the yard with his shirt already soaked across the shoulders.
“Which side is giving you trouble?” he called as he reached us.
“The stern cover keeps lifting.”
Another gust ripped the tarp upward. Lawson caught the loose edge before it could wrench away from me.
“Give it here.”
“I can hold it.”
“You can also tell me where it goes while I hold it.”
That was irritating because he was right. I released the edge, pointed toward the stern rail, and stepped around him to check Nolan’s line.
Lawson hauled the canvas down over the back corner. “I secured my shop! Leave the stern lines to me, Piper, and get inside before you slip on the deck!”
“I’m not going inside until these boats are locked down!” I turned toward Nolan. “Make sure those lines are double-hitched on the cleats so the surge doesn’t work them free!”
“They’re locked in tight!” Nolan shouted. He pulled once against the nearest line, checking the knot, then looked toward me instead of Lawson. “Just step back from the edge so you don’t fall in!”
“I know where the edge is.”
“Great. Know it from farther away.”
Lawson barked a laugh and dragged the stern cover into place. “For once, quarterback said something useful.”
Nolan gave him one look, then bent over the next line. “I’ll treasure the compliment.”
No challenge followed. No chest-beating contest started in the middle of Skipper’s marina. Lawson worked the stern while Nolan moved from cleat to cleat, and both of them listened when I told them which boat needed attention next.
I checked the last cover, tugged the tie-down once, and stepped back toward the center of the dock as another gust came across the water. The perimeter was holding.
For once, neither man tried to turn the dock into a turf war.
I left Lawson checking the outer lines and headed for the bait shack. Nolan came behind me, water dripping from his hair and arms as we crossed the deck. The rain had strengthened into a deafening roar above us the moment I pushed through the door.
“Leave the doorway clear,” I said. “We may have to bring more gear inside.”
Nolan stopped beside the prep tables and looked toward the windows facing the water. “Which ones are you worried about?”
“Those two. If the shutters go, anything breakable near them becomes a problem.” I pointed toward the tackle displays. “Start with those cartons. Move them against the back wall.”
He picked up the first box without asking what was in it.
I took a smaller carton from beside the counter and shifted it away from the windows. The shack smelled of bait and brine now that every opening had been shut, and rainwater from our shoes pooled on the floor beneath us. Another gust pressed against the shutters, making one hinge chatter.
Nolan set his box down. “Point me at the stuff you don’t want to carry.”
“I can still move boxes.”
“I know.” He reached for another carton. “That wasn’t what I said.”
I gave him a look, but there was no challenge in his expression. He was already moving the next load.
“Fine. Put that one beside the receipt cabinet, not in front of it. I need access to the breaker box if we lose power.”
“Beside it. Got it.”
The simple obedience unsettled me more than an argument would have.
For years, I had arranged our life around Nolan without him noticing half of it.
Meals appeared between practices. Travel bags were packed before road games.
Sponsor schedules found their way onto the refrigerator because somebody had to know when my husband would actually be home.
Now he stood in my workspace waiting for instructions while I decided what mattered and where it went.
A hard gust slammed against the water-side wall.