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Authors: Jean Reynolds Page
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competition?”
He shrugged. “I guess. But there are too many damn boats on the water this time of year. John, the guy who runs the shop over there, called and asked if I could get to it. We’re all backed up with more business than we can handle.”
I freed the line, steered out toward the middle of the channel.
“I thought you just worked security at night,” I said. “You put in time at the marina too?”
“Just since I finished up my graduate courses. I’ve had more time this summer.”
I remembered then. He was working at the marina while he built up his clip file. Wanted to work for a magazine. He’d stopped by the boat to ask me how I broke into freelancing with major publications. That’s how our afternoon had gotten started before. I felt myself go shy. What the hell was wrong with me? I tried to think of something to say, but he beat me to the next line.
“So, how have you been?” he asked. “I mean, other than last night.”
“About the same,” I said, whatever that meant.
Good job, Gina. You’re dazzling him with your wit.
Why did I care anyway? I didn’t want a repeat of what had happened before. “I’m working through a lot of things. I’m not nuts, honestly.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” he said. Maybe I’d fooled him, or maybe he just wanted to get laid again.
Alone together on the boat, it was hard to ignore the fact that we’d had sex just the week before. I wanted to think I’d been drinking at the time, but I was stone sober and desperate to feel halfway alive again; game for anything that didn’t feel
widowlike.
It hadn’t been my first encounter of that kind since Ben’s death. But it was the first one with someone who lived in my own backyard.
“Listen, Derek . . .” I decided I had to tackle it head-on. “What happened before . . . I’m at a weird place right now. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to let it go that far.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said, his eyes green and impossibly kind. “Last week . . . I mean, I’ve watched you ever since you moved in. I’ve wanted to ask you out, but I didn’t know if it was too soon; how you’d feel about it. I was working up the nerve when things just . . . happened. I know it’s ass backwards, but I’d like to go on a real old-fashioned date. It takes a lot of courage to move on after what you’ve been through.”
Courage. That was me. Braveheart with breasts. I didn’t know what to say. A motor cruiser passed us, heading out to open water at an impatient clip. The sound of the boat’s substantial engine precluded any response I might have made. After it had moved on ahead, I decided changing the subject would be my best option.
“So what was your graduate work again?”
Ask something you know. Try to avoid surprises.
He leaned back against the lifeline, putting a comfortable space between us.
“Contemporary lit,” he said. He pretended not to notice the abrupt transition of topics. “I wish that I could have gotten journalism, but I decided to stay around here and it wasn’t offered as a graduate program. The closest degree that I could get without moving somewhere else was in the English department. I’ve gotten a few assignments here and there with smaller publications.”
“That’s what matters, anyway,” I said. “Getting some articles to show around. Starting wages at newspapers and magazines are the same no matter what degree you get—barely enough to feed a cat.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I went for the big bucks—working two jobs at a marina.” He was grinning.
I could see Ray’s as we rounded a turn where the channel opened up into the Edisto River; was surprised to find that I felt disappointed.
“Your stop, sir.”
I maneuvered alongside the gas pumps. Derek moved up and off my boat in a fluid series of steps.
“Listen, maybe I’ll come by later this week,” he said, before I could head back out. “Is that okay?”
I nodded, unable to come up
He shrugged. “I guess. But there are too many damn boats on the water this time of year. John, the guy who runs the shop over there, called and asked if I could get to it. We’re all backed up with more business than we can handle.”
I freed the line, steered out toward the middle of the channel.
“I thought you just worked security at night,” I said. “You put in time at the marina too?”
“Just since I finished up my graduate courses. I’ve had more time this summer.”
I remembered then. He was working at the marina while he built up his clip file. Wanted to work for a magazine. He’d stopped by the boat to ask me how I broke into freelancing with major publications. That’s how our afternoon had gotten started before. I felt myself go shy. What the hell was wrong with me? I tried to think of something to say, but he beat me to the next line.
“So, how have you been?” he asked. “I mean, other than last night.”
“About the same,” I said, whatever that meant.
Good job, Gina. You’re dazzling him with your wit.
Why did I care anyway? I didn’t want a repeat of what had happened before. “I’m working through a lot of things. I’m not nuts, honestly.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” he said. Maybe I’d fooled him, or maybe he just wanted to get laid again.
Alone together on the boat, it was hard to ignore the fact that we’d had sex just the week before. I wanted to think I’d been drinking at the time, but I was stone sober and desperate to feel halfway alive again; game for anything that didn’t feel
widowlike.
It hadn’t been my first encounter of that kind since Ben’s death. But it was the first one with someone who lived in my own backyard.
“Listen, Derek . . .” I decided I had to tackle it head-on. “What happened before . . . I’m at a weird place right now. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to let it go that far.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said, his eyes green and impossibly kind. “Last week . . . I mean, I’ve watched you ever since you moved in. I’ve wanted to ask you out, but I didn’t know if it was too soon; how you’d feel about it. I was working up the nerve when things just . . . happened. I know it’s ass backwards, but I’d like to go on a real old-fashioned date. It takes a lot of courage to move on after what you’ve been through.”
Courage. That was me. Braveheart with breasts. I didn’t know what to say. A motor cruiser passed us, heading out to open water at an impatient clip. The sound of the boat’s substantial engine precluded any response I might have made. After it had moved on ahead, I decided changing the subject would be my best option.
“So what was your graduate work again?”
Ask something you know. Try to avoid surprises.
He leaned back against the lifeline, putting a comfortable space between us.
“Contemporary lit,” he said. He pretended not to notice the abrupt transition of topics. “I wish that I could have gotten journalism, but I decided to stay around here and it wasn’t offered as a graduate program. The closest degree that I could get without moving somewhere else was in the English department. I’ve gotten a few assignments here and there with smaller publications.”
“That’s what matters, anyway,” I said. “Getting some articles to show around. Starting wages at newspapers and magazines are the same no matter what degree you get—barely enough to feed a cat.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I went for the big bucks—working two jobs at a marina.” He was grinning.
I could see Ray’s as we rounded a turn where the channel opened up into the Edisto River; was surprised to find that I felt disappointed.
“Your stop, sir.”
I maneuvered alongside the gas pumps. Derek moved up and off my boat in a fluid series of steps.
“Listen, maybe I’ll come by later this week,” he said, before I could head back out. “Is that okay?”
I nodded, unable to come up
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