The Art of My Life Read online

  Fish held the Escape’s line, poised to toss it onto the deck at Cal’s feet. “You gave me one thing too many. I don’t want anything from you.”

  Cal swore. He hated being at odds with Fish.

  A voice spoke from behind him. “And to think I wasted my time looking up to you two.”

  Cal’s head swiveled to where Missy stood with her hands rooted to her hips. He hadn’t noticed her walking up the dock.

  Fish’s eyes flashed wide with surprise, then chagrin.

  She leveled her disgust on Fish. “Yeah, you sure need rescued. Good luck with that little project.”

  He was the one who needed rescued, not Fish. But it sure sounded like Missy took his side.

  She stared down Fish till he handed her the mooring line and strode off without a word.

  Missy’s eyes followed Fish until he disappeared into his boat. She turned toward Cal and her expression softened.

  “You get your driver’s license back today, right?”

  His mind scrambled for the date he’d been arrested and had his license suspended. “Yeah.”

  “I brought your car. Thanks for letting me use it. I sort of took it over when you went to jail.” Her eyes dropped to the dock as though she were embarrassed.

  “It’s fine. I would have suggested it if I’d thought of it.”

  Missy’s chin lifted. “Thanks. I washed, waxed, detailed, and filled it with gas. I bought the oil, but I didn’t know how to change it, and I knew you did. I really, really enjoyed having a car for six months.”

  Missy’s gratitude washed over him, dulling Fish’s digs and the disappointments of the day.

  He’d do better by her. Starting now. “I’m glad you enjoyed the Jeep. I couldn’t have used it anyway.”

  “Give me a ride to college—main campus, not the New Smyrna Beach extension?”

  He dropped from the bow to the dock and took the line out of Missy’s hands. “Sure.” He re-cleated the Escape to the dock. He could certainly spare an hour.

  Missy glanced at him as he walked down the pier beside her. “You were right the other day. I could have texted you, called if I wanted to hang out so badly.”

  He arched his brows.

  “And I wasn’t thinking about how you must have been feeling. I focused on my own feelings.”

  Cal held the gate open for her, and she stopped mid-way through.

  She met his eyes. “I care about you. I always will.” She said it on a sigh.

  One of the knots in his stomach unraveled. “Me, too.”

  Missy opened the Jeep door, and he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Thanks.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Your making peace, the car, everything. It comes at a good time.”

  Missy smiled up at him. “You’re welcome.”

  An hour and a half later, Cal cast off the rest of the lines, fired up the engine, and putted out of the slip three hundred and fifty feet into the river. The anchor line slithered through the chock till the anchor dug into the silt-covered river bottom.

  He climbed down the companionway into the gloom. Light from a porthole lit the Ziplock baggie of brown buds on the counter and left the sketch pad beside it in shadow. He could almost smell the sun-warmed weed through the plastic—Henna’s hybrid—hear the crackle of fresh paper as he rolled a joint, feel the pressure of the cigarette between his lips, taste the sweetness of the smoke before it warmed his chest with I-don’t-care.

  His hand halted over the baggie. Aly’s face, then Missy’s flashed in his mind. His hand closed around the sketchbook instead.

  Van Gogh’s toe nails clicked across the deck, stopping and starting again from bow to stern. The dog was trying to figure out why they were stuck in the middle of the Intercoastal.

  “Let me know if you get an answer, old boy,” he yelled through the hatch.

  Van Gogh answered with a single woof.

  He could blame the economy, his grandparents for spotty maintenance of the boat, too few tourists visiting New Smyrna Beach when Daytona Beach lay thirty miles north. But getting out of this mess was his responsibility.

  “What am I supposed to do?” The words blurted out before he thought about who he was talking to. So much God-think had stuck inside him from childhood—like a hairball in a cat’s throat. Ever so often he coughed it up when he least expected. Pissing him off.

  He’d made a run at God two years ago to win ultra-spiritual Raine—the girl he thought he’d fallen in love with—but he couldn’t even get faith right when he wanted to. Maybe he hadn’t really wanted to succeed. Raine had caught him mid-stride, running from his parents’ religion. Even she couldn’t stop the momentum.

  But Raine had turned out to be nothing more than a shaving nick. He stood to lose the Escape. And Aly. A slice to the jugular.

  His eyes focused on the mindless doodling on the sketch pad in his hands. In the center of the page was Aly’s face. All the designs on the page made Aly the focal point. A frisson of possibility rippled through him.

  Fish waded through the surf, and the cool October air raised gooseflesh on his upper body where he’d peeled away the top half of his wetsuit. His gaze caught on a girl running toward him on the hard sand at water’s edge.

  He readjusted his board under his arm and headed for shore. He should have enjoyed his first day off in two weeks, but surfing without Cal sucked. And knifing Cal when he’d been kicked out of the marina last week had felt like stabbing himself. Especially, after being caught by Missy—the moral police.

  As if thinking about Missy made a random runner look like her, he eyed a compact form in shades coming down the beach toward him. A knot of brown curls sprouted atop her visor. A swath of olive skin separated a sports bra from running shorts. No mistake, the girl was Missy. He watched the muscles in her legs lengthen and contract as she pummeled the sand. Beautiful.

  She didn’t slow as she approached him.

  “Whoa, Missy, hold up.”

  She stopped, breathing hard. Sweat glistened on her skin.

  His eyes swept over her. She had her father’s coloring and sturdy build, but the curves were all Missy. He cleared his throat. “Hey, about the other day. I was out of line. But you don’t know what went down between me and Cal.” He stared at her sunglasses, wishing he could see her eyes.

  “I know you two were like brothers, closer than he and Jesse ever were.”

  “Yeah, well, the thing is, it’s between me and Cal.” He measured the words carefully, not wanting to set her off all over again.

  Silence hung between them.

  Missy sighed. “I just want you guys to work it out.”

  “I’m sorry I called you annoying that night on the dock. You weren’t annoying as a kid, and you’re not annoying now. I was pissed because you got in my face about my family.”

  Missy smiled a little, and his gut relaxed.

  Her sunglasses reflected double images of his face. “I’m opinionated, and it gets me into trouble. A lot.”

  He shifted the board into his other arm. “Yeah. I remember.” He didn’t know how to talk to her now that she wasn’t a kid. “Cal got booted out of the marina the day you stopped by.”

  Missy swiped off her glasses, her eyes wide with fear. “What happened?”

  “No money for rent.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I had things out with Cal. We’re better. But it feels fragile. He could cut me out of his life again in a heartbeat…. He seems sincere, but I don’t understand why he blows cold, then hot.”

  “He’s sober at the moment. When he’s smoking constantly, he drops out of everybody’s life.” Fish set his board down and leaned it against his leg.

  She eyed him. “But it’s okay for you to smoke?”

  “There’s a difference between smoking on rare occasions and as a life. I have to study, work, go to class. Too much weed saps my drive to get anything done.”

  “My poster children-grandparents, Exhibit A, scared me straight.”

 
“Anyway, smoking weed could sabotage my running for office.”

  Missy shook her head. “I never understood why you wanted to go into politics.”

  “Maybe because I want to make a difference. You, better than a lot of people, know government has fascinated me since I started high school. Don’t you remember our arguing both sides of issues, then switching—the year I lived with your family?”

  “Ha! Why do you think I went out for the debate team?” She waved her comment away with her hand. “I mean your, um, sorta broody, introverted personality is more suited for—I don’t know—legal aid.”

  “Pro bono work for the indigent?”

  “Yeah, something like that. You always pull for the underdog. I think that’s why you were kind to me when I was a kid.”

  He felt flummoxed. For over ten years he’d planned on going into politics. But Missy’s idea sparked something to life inside.

  Missy dropped her shades back down on her nose. “So, I made up with Cal. Now, it’s your turn.”

  “I’m over his—”

  “You need to make peace—”

  “Whatever. When you’re one hundred percent okay with Cal, then come talk to me.”

  She touched her heart. “I’m working on it.”

  He squinted at the spot below her fingers for a beat too long. “Waste of time. Cal should kiss your feet, your whole family’s feet, for propping him up. He needs to learn to stand on his own two feet. Everything I have, I’ve worked for. It hasn’t been given to me by my family.”

  “I don’t have the option of exing him out of my life. I don’t think you do either.” She held up a hand. “Oh, wait. You didn’t even care when I disappeared from your orbit.”

  “Ouch.”

  Missy pressed the pads of three fingers into his damp chest. “Anyway, my point is, I think you have a heart under there somewhere and you won’t be able to stop caring about Cal any more than I will.”

  Her touch and her belief that he was a better man than he believed warmed the chill from his skin. “You want to grab a water, Gatorade, something from the 7-Eleven?”

  “Just leave it be. Go back to oblivious. I’ve always liked you. That’s not going to change. We’re good.” Missy jogged away.

  He didn’t want to go back. And he was going to find out what had her so PO’d at him.

  Chapter 6

  October 14 (second post)

  Oh, and to respond to a question I had yesterday—one that comes up every so often—the paintings on The Art of My Life are not my work. I’m more of an art lover than an artist. A friend did the paintings; but for reasons I’m not up for sharing, he shall remain anonymous.

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Cal slammed the door of his Jeep and pocketed his keys. Driving again fueled his optimism about inviting Aly to stop by the dock after work. He had thirty-five cents to his name after swinging by Winn Dixie for pumpernickel bread and Chunky Monkey. He could kiss Missy for washing his car and leaving him with a full tank of gas.

  He pushed open the dock gate and glanced at the darkening sky. If the storm would just hold off until he had a chance to show Aly the Escape’s refitting, feed her some supper, and enlist her help before she freaked out about the weather.

  Storms had terrified Aly since she was a little girl in Miami and a tree crashed through their roof during a hurricane. He could still feel Aly shaking in his arms when they holed up under her desk in the camp office during a waterspout the summer she interned at the camp. She’d curled up in a fetal position and buried her face in his chest for the duration. He smiled. Sometimes he liked her fear of storms.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  Cal’s head popped up. Evie, the last person he wanted to see right now. The last person Aly needed to see. “I’m kind of in a hurry. I’ll catch you later.”

  Evie jogged up the pier beside her boat in her daisy dukes and came alongside him as he walked up the dock. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fish step out of his cabin.

  “You lonely anchored out there all by yourself?” Evie said. “I could keep you company.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Cal set his bag of groceries in the stern of his dinghy, climbed into the boat, and untied the painter from the dock. “I don’t need any company.”

  Cal scanned the marina.

  Aly, in a mint pant suit, walked along the sidewalk toward the pier. She hadn’t seen him yet.

  Evie followed his gaze. “Oh, it’s her.”

  The tinge of hysteria in her voice clenched Cal’s stomach. He had to get rid of Evie before Aly saw them talking. Just Evie’s presence on the dock could sabotage everything.

  Aly picked her way up the pier, careful not to catch her high heels between the boards of the dock.

  “Evie, we haven’t gone out in at least six months. You don’t have any claim on me.”

  “Maybe I do. Starr and I are like BFFs these days.”

  “Then go out with Mom and leave me alone.”

  Cal’s eyes welded to Aly as she neared the Escape’s vacant slip. She spotted Evie first, and her pale complexion whitened another shade. Then, Aly’s eyes dropped to him where he bounced in the dinghy, chest-level with the dock.

  “Hey, Al. I’m anchored out—”

  Evie raised her voice. “What are you staring at?”

  Cal’s attention snapped to Evie.

  But Evie had shouted to Fish, who stood on the dock behind his boat.

  “I bet you want some of this.” She smacked her backside and the frayed edge of her shorts. “News flash. Ain’t happenin’. My heart belongs to Cal.”

  “Evie, let it go,” Cal ground out.

  “A dose of truth is just what the doctor ordered.” Evie flounced off toward her boat.

  Cal caught Aly with his eyes. “I’m sorry about the drama. Come on, let me take you out to the Escape.” He held his breath as she towered over him, her jaw clenched.

  Finally, she wilted to the edge of the finger pier, sat down, and kicked her shoes off. They clunked into the bottom of the boat one at a time. “It’s been over two years. Maybe I can be adult about this, and we can be friends. Maybe not best friends, but more than we have been lately,” Aly said.

  The breath rushed out of his lungs. “Okay then.” He gripped the dock and reached a hand toward Aly.

  Her fingers closed around his, and she slipped into the boat. Heat fanned through his body. Whoa. He’d touched Aly a thousand times and never felt this way.

  Aly’s hand detached from his, and she scooted onto the stern bench in the back of the boat. Her gaze searched the billowing clouds.

  Cal stared at Aly’s stocking-covered toes as he rowed. He looked up and caught Aly watching him.

  He sucked up his courage. “I know it’s time to call in the loan next week. I should have contacted you sooner. I kept thinking things would turn around.”

  “There’s not much I can do at this point. It’s out of my hands. If you’d kept in touch with the bank, they might have given you some leeway, but….”

  “Just let me show you the boat.”

  Aly’s eyes went soft, her voice gentle. “You taught me to sail on the Escape. I’ve been on her a dozen times over the years. I know what she looks like.”

  “Humor me.”

  “I am.”

  Van Gogh barked from the deck and raced from one end of the boat to the other at the sight of Aly.

  Cal swung them alongside the Escape, and Van Gogh went into a seizure of delight when Aly scooted aboard, hugged him and scratched his ears. At least he and his dog were in agreement. But, to be fair, Cal couldn’t remember anyone who didn’t enrapture the dog.

  “I hope you’re hungry because I’m grilling grouper I caught this afternoon.”

  Aly smiled, and his world righted. “Sounds amazing.”

  He handed her the grocery bag. “Warm up the beans, put the Chunky Monkey on ice, and I’ll get t
he hibachi going.”

  Thirty minutes later he passed Aly a plate of food—a quartered pumpernickel fish sandwich, perfect half-moon of black beans with a dollop of salsa on top.

  Aly grinned and shook her head. “You could always get a job at Riverview Charlie’s as a plater.”

  Cal slid into the dining nook at a right angle from her. “I’m an artist. It’s what I do. It’s all about color—chalk-white fish, obsidian bread and beans, garnet salsa.”

  Cal took a bite of the canned beans Henna had given him. “What did you do to these? They’re incredible.”

  Aly arched her brows. “Maybe it’s all about taste. I used the tail end of the onion that was about to go, found some garlic salt that hadn’t turned to rock, a pinch of red pepper.”

  The wind whistled outside the cabin and swung the boat west. Sun coming through the portholes dimmed, and Cal turned on the marine battery-powered light. “We make a good team.”

  Her eyes lowered.

  “I wish I would have asked for your help at the beginning,” he said. “You always wanted to run your own business. You’ve got the aptitude for it. I have the boat, the seven hundred and twenty sailing hours for my Coast Guard captain’s license.”

  He gave her the rundown on the repairs, catalogued the fourteen customers he’d had in three months of operation. “Help me, Al. Talk to your boss. Buy me some time. Think about taking over the business end of things. You could make the business fly. I know you could.”

  Rain pelted the cabin and decks. Van Gogh whined under the table.

  Aly’s brow wrinkled. She peered through the porthole.

  He picked up on her unease. “It’s just rain—no lightening. I can take you back. I’ve got a rain poncho.”

  “No. What if it started storming when we were half way between the Escape and the marina?”

  He could point out that land was less than five hundred yards away, but he didn’t want her to leave.

  She pushed away the empty carton of ice cream, shivered, and rubbed her arms.

  Cal headed for the bow. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  Thunder clapped.

  Aly launched from her seat and gripped the bulkhead, wild-eyed. Before the sound dissipated from the cabin, the color drained from her face.