17. Live on Stage
Live on Stage
Piper
The last charter slip refused to match the payroll sheet.
I ran my finger down the handwritten column again, checked the captain’s initials, then went back to the laptop and corrected the date beside the fuel charge.
The numbers made sense once I caught the duplicate entry, so I marked the paper and slid it onto the finished stack.
Outside the office wall, the bait aerators kept up their steady hum, giving me something useful to concentrate on besides Miami.
The NFL Honors were on tonight. Nolan would be there in a suit, under lights, surrounded by cameras and people who knew how to turn a smile into a contract.
I knew that much without opening a sports site to confirm it.
Keep working. The next log had three afternoon charters, two fuel slips, and a note from Skipper about an ice delivery entered under the wrong date.
I typed the correction and pulled the receipt pile closer. If I finished the quarterly ledgers tonight, the spring bait margins would stop hanging over us, and Skipper could order ahead without guessing.
The office door opened behind me. “You still working through those charter slips?” Skipper asked.
“I’m matching the last entries against payroll.” I kept my place with one finger while the cursor moved down the spreadsheet. “There are a few duplicate fuel charges from storm week, but I’ve almost got them cleaned up.”
Skipper came around the desk carrying a paper container and a soda. The smell of fried shrimp and hot oil cut through the bait-shop air as he aimed for the open space beside my logs.
“Not on that page,” I said. “I still need it.”
“Then move the page before dinner soaks through it.”
I shifted the log to the other side of the laptop. Skipper set the container down, followed it with the can, and pushed both toward me.
“You didn’t have to bring me food.”
“You weren’t coming out to get any.”
“I was going to eat.”
“When?”
I clicked into the next payroll line. “After this section.”
“That’s what you said before I went down to the fuel dock.”
“That was a different section.”
Skipper leaned against the desk. “You’ve been saying ‘one more section’ since sunset.”
The soda hissed when I opened it. The can was slick with condensation against my palm, and I took a drink before setting it away from the paperwork. I looked at the clock in the corner of the laptop longer than I should have.
Nolan would be at the arena by now. Reid would have him where the cameras could catch the suit, the smile, Sloane at his side. Maybe Nolan would win the MVP trophy. Maybe he would thank everyone who mattered to the life he had chosen.
The cursor blinked in an empty cell. I entered the next number.
Skipper tapped the top of the food container. “Eat the shrimp while they’re hot, Piper. You look exhausted.”
“Thank you, Skipper.” I pulled the container closer but kept the spreadsheet open. “I just want to finalize these quarterly ledgers tonight so we don’t have to stress about the bait margins going into the spring.”
“The bait will still cost money tomorrow.”
“And the supplier will still want an answer.”
“He always wants an answer.”
“That doesn’t mean I should give him a bad one.”
Skipper nodded toward the finished pile. “How far off are we?”
“Not far. I’m not inventing numbers until I reconcile the receipts, but the winter charters covered more of the storm repairs than I expected.
” I turned one of the logs around and pointed to the entries I had marked.
“Once I finish this batch, I can separate the fuel costs from the bait orders and give you something useful in the morning.”
“That sounds like work you can do in the morning.”
“It sounds like work I can finish tonight.”
Skipper pushed away from the desk. “The numbers can wait until tomorrow morning. I’m going to step out and lock the fuel pumps for the night, and then I’m driving you home.”
I paused, my hands hovering over the keyboard. “I can drive myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you making that face?”
“Because you’ll still be sitting here when I come back if I don’t make myself clear.” He pointed toward the food. “Eat. Close the computer when you’re done with that line.”
The cursor blinked inside the empty cell while Skipper turned toward the door.
“I mean it, Piper.” He reached for the knob. “I’m driving you home.”
Skipper kept his hand on the doorknob, but he didn’t leave.
I finished the entry already open on the screen, saved the sheet, and closed the logbook.
The receipts still sat in three piles beside the laptop, so I gathered them into one stack and tapped the edges against the desk until they lined up.
Then I separated the fuel slips from the bait invoices, even though I had already done it.
“You finished that page,” Skipper said.
“I’m putting the receipts in order.”
“They’re already in order.”
“Then I’m making sure they stay that way.”
He let go of the knob. The fried shrimp sat between us while the soda sweated a ring onto the desk. I moved the can onto a coaster and squared the receipts one more time.
Skipper crossed his arms. “You’ve been staring at that screen for an hour, Piper. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. If you need to cry because he left, you’re allowed to cry.”
The top receipt had a bent corner. I flattened it with my thumb.
“I’m tired, not falling apart.”
“You’ve moved those same receipts twice.”
“They needed sorting.”
“They needed sorting the first time.”
I set the stack down and reached for the container, more to occupy my hands than because I was hungry. The shrimp were getting cold. I picked one up, broke off a piece, and put it back without eating it.
Skipper waited. That was the problem with him. Reid had always filled silence with instructions. Nolan had filled it with promises. Skipper just stood there until I had nothing left to hide behind.
“I’m not going to waste a single tear on a man who chose a shoe campaign over his own child, Skipper.” I folded the paper liner over the food. “I have a baby to support, and grieving over Nolan Callahan isn’t going to pay for the new winch.”
Skipper’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t say you should take him back.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t say you should forgive him.”
“I know that too.”
“Then stop arguing with something I didn’t say.”
The spreadsheet sat where I had left it, neat rows and columns, every problem small enough to fit inside a cell.
Nolan had spent weeks out here scraping hulls, hauling rope, sleeping in that awful motel, taking whatever Skipper handed him without complaint.
After he saved Skipper in the dry dock, I let myself imagine that maybe the man I married was still underneath everything Reid had built around him.
Then three SUVs rolled into the marina. Reid called. Nolan went.
“You know what I keep thinking?” I asked.
Skipper pulled out the chair across from me and sat. “What?”
“He didn’t even fight for five more minutes.” I rubbed a smear of grease from the edge of the container. “He stood in front of those cameras, told me he had to go, and climbed into the car.”
“He got the cameras off you.”
“And went with them.”
“That happened too.”
I gave him a look. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to make it pretty.”
That almost made me laugh, which annoyed me enough that I looked back at the desk.
Skipper leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Fair enough. But don’t let his cowardice make you shut everybody out. You’ve got every right to be done with him. Just don’t hand him the rest of you on the way out.”
I stared at the closed logbook.
“I have work.”
“You have tomorrow.”
“The winch still needs replacing.”
“And I’ve owned this marina long enough to know one night won’t sink us.”
I pressed my lips into a line. “Go lock the pumps.”
“I’m going.” He stood and pointed at the food. “Eat something. Rest your eyes for a minute. I’ll be back in five, and then I’m taking you home.”
“Bossy.”
“Alive this long because of it.”
He opened the door and stepped out toward the docks. The humid night air drifted through the office before the door swung shut behind him.
For the first time since he brought dinner in, I left the laptop alone. The receipts stayed stacked. The food stayed where it was.
Nolan had made his choice in front of me. I had watched him leave with Reid and Sloane after weeks of telling me he wanted a different life. Whatever he meant by that goodbye, the result was the same.
He had gone back.
I rested my hands on the desk and looked at my reflection in the blank laptop screen.
You made your decision, Nolan. I made mine, and I knew it was right.
The office stayed quiet after Skipper left.
I stared at the screen for another moment, then reached for the soda.
I wiped the wet ring off the desk with a napkin before setting the drink back down.
Outside, the marina had settled into its nighttime rhythm—the bait aerators running, water knocking against the pilings, a distant engine fading toward the highway.
The door slammed open.
Skipper came through it so fast that the heat followed him inside. His phone was already in his hand, the screen bright against his weathered fingers, and he tossed his keys onto the desk beside my food.
I pushed my chair back. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes darted from the television mounted on the wall to the clutter around the desk as if he had forgotten where we kept the remote.
“Skipper?”
“Where’s that damn remote?”
“Beside the receipt box.” I stood. “Did something happen at the pumps?”
“Forget the pumps.”
That stopped me.
Skipper never forgot the pumps.
He snatched the remote from beside the box, catching the edge of the invoice stack with his wrist. Papers slid off the desk and scattered across the floor.
Usually, I would have bent down before the first sheet settled.
I left them there.
“What happened?” I asked again.