Chapter 6
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Fishing Cabin—Island Off the Coast of Chichagof Island, AK
Anya stirred the simmering pot of beans on the woodstove, steam curling upward with the heady aroma of garlic. She switched the spoon to her left hand. Her right shoulder throbbed with a persistent ache. She tugged the sleeve of her gray wool sweater down to cover the growing bruise on her arm.
“Come Sail Away” by Styx blared through the speakers. She turned up the boom box, swaying along to the song as she stirred.
She didn’t want the other fishermen asking any questions. They all seemed to respect him and would likely side with him in any case. The fire warmed her, and she inhaled slowly, welcoming the soothing steam from the pot into her lungs.
The little island cabin was a luxury. Most of the commercial fishermen stayed aboard their boats every night, tucked into various nooks and coves, anywhere they could find decent protection from the wind and waves of the Gulf of Alaska.
Having a place on dry land with easy access to the fishing grounds made Anya and her husband popular with the other guys in the fishing fleet, who were always offering bottles of booze and other favors for the privilege of spending a night there.
Anya had her own bunk—a small partition with a rollaway bed behind it—where she usually retired early while the men sat around drinking by the woodstove.
The one-room cabin was modest and cozy. Privacy was hard to come by, but she’d trade that any day for the protection of having other people around.
A few years ago, Anya’s husband had received an offer from a St. Louis real-estate company wanting to buy the whole island. She was glad he’d turned it down, claiming it made him feel connected to the dad he never knew.
Anya hoped he’d be out quickly tonight. The two fishermen staying over with them were tired from a long day, so she didn’t figure they’d last long either.
Anya sat quietly, eating her dinner, half listening to the endless banter and one-upmanship about who had the most absurd, nearest near-death experience fishing in the Gulf.
The truth was, none of them did. She’d heard that most of the bodies of drowned fishermen that washed up had their flies unzipped.
They just fell overboard while relieving themselves.
She didn’t know if it was true, but it sounded about right to her.
Stay quiet. Let the boys occupy him. Get to bed early. He won’t bother you while you’re sleeping.
She studied her husband’s movements. He seemed relaxed enough. Ignoring her for now, content to shoot the shit with his buddies. Good. Anya tugged her sleeve down again and looked in the cupboard for some aspirin.
The two guests excused themselves and began pitching their sleeping bags on the spare bunks built on the wall.
Already? Way too soon.
Her throat tightened. “Hey, have another drink, boys. It’s early yet.” She tried to sound calm and friendly.
They didn’t take the bait.
Anya opened the woodstove and added a log, stirring the embers and blowing the flames back to life.
She knew better than to try to change a fisherman’s mind. They had to be up early in the morning and looked exhausted already.
“Well then, I think I’ll get some rest as well.” Anya began preparing her bunk.
Her husband came toward her. She held her breath and buried her trembling hands in the blankets.
“Hey, babe, stay up with me for a bit. Let’s take a walk on the beach and let these two gents get some rest.”
Don’t turn around. Stay calm. Be cheerful.
Anya exhaled quietly. “Aww, honey, I’m really tired. It was a long day.” She fluffed her pillow and turned down her blanket. “Let’s both get some sleep.”
It seemed like his reply took forever. “Let’s go out for just a few minutes at least. I’d like to talk to you.”
His speech doesn’t sound slurred. No angry tone. Don’t push back.
“Sure.” Anya put on her jacket. She had trouble sliding her right arm into the sleeve, and he came closer to help. She stepped back and pulled it on with her other hand. The pain shot through her shoulder.
She hurried to the door and stepped into her fuzzy boots, walking ahead of him into the night.
They got to the beach, and a full moon was just cresting over the top of the mountains to the east. The moonlight reflected on the water, and the two anchored fishing boats were silhouetted against the shimmering glow. Picture perfect.
He took her arm, his touch gentle but unsettling, grazing the fresh bruise through her sleeve.
Anya flinched.
He nudged her around so she was facing him and put the other hand softly on her shoulder.
The moonlight brought a glow to his deep blue eyes and emphasized his strong jawline.
“I want to apologize for the way I acted out on the water today. I’d had a little too much booze, the downrigger was acting up, and the stress got the best of me.
I appreciate what you do out there. I think you’re the best boat driver in the fleet. ”
It’s the same every time. Don’t fall for it.
Still, his tone carried a sober sincerity, a rare warmth.
She realized she hadn’t seen him with a bottle since they got to the cabin.
He had actually praised her boat handling.
It took her back a decade to when they’d first met, before all the drinking and the fighting.
They’d been happy once, but it seemed like another lifetime, with a different person.
They stood awhile in silence looking out at the ripples on the sparkling water.
A seal chuffed nearby.
How long would this version of him last? She’d seen it before—a spell of warmth and repentance, a calm in the eye of the storm—only to be followed by another horrible outburst. It was a little worse each time, and she’d started to wonder when he’d go too far and kill her.