13. Shifting the Weight #2
One of the display cases trembled.
“That settles it.” I put my carton down and pointed toward the overloaded rolling rack near the prep area. Lead sinkers, packaged weights, spare reels, and tackle filled the shelves. “We need a straight path from that rack to the walk-in.”
Nolan followed my gesture. “The rack is going through that doorway?”
“If we can make the turn.”
“We can. Just keep the corner clear.”
I moved two lighter boxes away from the freezer entrance, then dragged an empty bait tub back beneath the prep table. The aisle opened enough for the rack to pass, though the turn remained tight.
Nolan stepped up behind it and wrapped both hands around the side rails.
“The dock perimeter is locked down,” he said. “Point me toward whatever you need moved in here so you don’t have to lift anything.”
“I need this entire rack pushed into the walk-in. If the wind blows the shutters open, the glass displays are going to shatter everywhere.”
His gaze went from the rack to the freezer door.
“I’m on it. Just stay clear of the wheels while I pivot this thing around the corner.”
He pushed.
The casters squealed against the floor and barely moved.
Nolan stopped, changed his footing, and tried again. This time the rack rolled forward before one wheel caught against a seam in the floor.
“Back it up,” I said. “You’re coming in too straight.”
He pulled it toward him.
“Turn the front end toward the sink first.”
“Like this?”
“More. There. Now push.”
He followed the correction without a sigh or a joke about my directions. The rack turned through the narrow aisle, its shelves rattling as the storm battered the roof.
I walked ahead and held the freezer door open. “Watch the threshold. The front wheels stick there.”
Nolan slowed before the lip instead of trying to muscle through it. He tipped the rack enough to free the first casters, then drove it forward with both hands.
The rack rolled across the freezer threshold, and Nolan kept pushing until the aisle behind me was clear.
I let the door swing back toward its frame.
“Leave it there,” I said. “That’s far enough.”
Nolan took his hands off the rack and turned toward me. “Anything else before we—”
The storm door slammed inward so hard the wall beside it shuddered.
Rain burst through the gap and skated across the floor. The bottom corner of the door bowed away from the jamb, then snapped back during a brief lull before the hinge gave another ugly groan.
“The door, Nolan!”
He was moving before I finished the words.
Nolan crossed the shack and threw his shoulder into the panel. The wood shoved back against him, forcing his shoes to slide on the wet floor before he found purchase. Another blast of wind drove spray through the opening and across his face.
“Get the latch!” he called.
I went straight for the iron drop-bolt mounted along the inside edge. The bolt came down halfway, then stopped above the floor slot because the door had twisted out of line.
“It won’t line up.”
“Tell me which way.”
“The bottom isn’t flush. The lower edge is catching.”
Nolan shifted his stance and drove his shoulder harder against the wood. The gap narrowed, but not enough. Rain still threaded through beside his arm and ran toward the prep tables in thin streams.
“Try it now.”
I shoved the bolt downward.
Metal scraped against the rim of the slot and kicked back into my hand.
“Still off.” I grabbed the handle again. “Hold it there.”
“I am holding it.”
The next gust struck before I could answer.
The door bucked against Nolan’s shoulder. His shoes slipped a few inches, and he recovered before the panel could spring open. Water splashed over the threshold and spread beneath us.
“The wind is catching the bottom hinge! If it blows open, the storm is going to gut the entire prep area!”
“It’s flush!” Nolan shouted. “Drop the bolt into the slot before the next gust hits!”
I crouched beside the latch and focused on the slot instead of the storm battering the other side. The door shifted under his weight. The bolt aligned for a moment, then moved again.
“Push the bottom forward.”
Nolan changed the pressure against the panel. “Tell me when.”
“More. Right there.”
The wood came flush enough for the bolt to hover over the slot.
“Now. Don’t move.”
His answer came through his teeth. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
I drove the bolt down.
This time the iron slid into place with a clang that cut through the rain.
The door jerked once against Nolan, but the latch stayed seated.
“The bolt is secure! Step back in case another gust rips it open!”
Nolan pulled his hands away first, then eased his shoulder off the wood. He stayed close enough to catch it if the latch failed, watching the lower hinge while another gust hit the building.
The door held through the impact, so I kept one hand on the bolt and waited through the next burst of wind. It rattled in the slot but did not climb. Water continued creeping over the floor from what had already blown inside, yet no new spray came through the frame.
Nolan wiped rain from his eyes with his forearm. He was already favoring the shoulder that had taken the impact.
“You good?” he asked.
I looked from him to the secured door. “I’m fine. Check the bottom corner.”
He crouched, pressed two fingers against the seam, then stood again. “It’s seated. Hinge is still attached.”
“Good. Leave it alone.”
For years, that kind of strength had belonged to stadiums, highlight reels, and men paid to stop him from crossing a painted line. Here, there had been no cameras waiting for the hit. No trainer, no equipment staff, no applause.
Just my shack, my inventory, and a door that had needed somebody to hold it shut.
Nolan stepped away from the jamb and looked toward the puddled floor. “I’ll grab a mop.”
“Not yet. I want to make sure the latch survives another gust.”
He nodded and stayed where I could see him.
The roof took another pounding, and the door flexed once against the bolt. Metal scraped inside the slot, but the latch stayed seated.
The bolt held through another gust, so I took my hand off it and stepped away from the door.
“The latch is holding.”
“Good.” Nolan looked once around the shack. Water still pooled near the threshold, but the displays were safe, the rack was inside the freezer, and nothing else had come loose. “Then you’re covered in here.”
He reached into his pocket.
A set of rental-car keys appeared in his hand.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to town.”
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood him. Rain hammered the roof hard enough that we had spent the last hour shouting over it, and the wind still shoved at the walls in uneven bursts.
“You’re planning to drive in this?”
Nolan glanced toward the smaller back exit. “I’m not staying somewhere I wasn’t invited to.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“It’s why I’m leaving.”
He turned the keys once in his fingers, shifting his weight to leave.
The choice should have made things easier.
I had spent weeks demanding that he stop assuming he could walk into my life whenever he wanted.
Now he was doing exactly what I had asked—helping when Skipper needed him, staying out of my way when I told him to, and leaving without waiting for some reward.
Except the highway outside was already disappearing beneath sheets of rain.
“The shack is secure,” Nolan said. “So I’m going to head back to the motel for the night. I’ll be back at sunrise to help clean up the debris.”