Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Celia Jerome
low sides. Gunwales . There was a tiny deck up front. Fore . Where Martin thought I should sit to be lookout. Jackass.
The She Crab contained one other furnishing: a stained and scarred wooden table bolted to the deck. An old table, like my father warned me about. I eyed it warily.
Barry was so damn cheerful about leaving the dock I wanted to throw something at him, but I wasnât about to touch the bucket. Okay, so he wasnât a sensitive, but couldnât he see my hands shaking, my knees knocking? I was wearing shorts, for Peteâs sake.
I relaxed some when we got underway with no problem. Barry went forward for a better view, so I took out my sketch pad to capture him looking heroic in a black T-shirt and surfer baggies with the sea and the sky as background. If I concentrated on him enough, I wouldnât notice the distance from shore, or the doom-laden table.
About twenty minutes later, Marty announced we had to collect water and seaweed samples and whatever else we found in the shallows, for his studentsâ experiments. He turned the engine off, having more confidence than I did that it would start again. We were close enough to shore that I figured I could swim.
The boat drifted while he leaned over the side with a long net, directing a suddenly giggly Ellen to lean next to him with a pail.
Barry came back and started asking Martin about the shore and the village and the events of the summer.
âCan you point out where the drugs were stored? How many people came to watch? Where did that yacht blow up, and how did they rescue the kid?â
The She Crab was drifting sideways, rolling with the tide, roiling my stomach. Memories of those awful events werenât helping. Nor were Martinâs answers. He wasnât there, wasnât a sensitive, wasnât aware of the otherworldly actions. What he was doing was feeding Barryâs curiosity.
âIsnât it time for lunch?â I chirped, although food was the last thing I wanted. They ate the sandwiches Martin had packed. I ate some crackers. Then they went back to filling bottles and plastic bags for the science lab while I sketched some more.
âHey, look at that,â Martin said, calling Ellen and Barry to where he leaned over the rail.
Three passengers on one side? Were they crazy or just plain stupid? I held onto that old table as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did. They caught an eel.
If there is anything in the world worse than a writhing snake with slime, itâs knowing what Barry wanted to do with it.
âWhy donât we skin it, then slice it up for sushi?â While it was alive.
I lost my lunchâand my hero. Barry Jensen looked a lot better on paper than he did in person.
Being sick excused me from cleaning the boat and going out for beers and burgers after. What I did instead was go home, get the dogs, and head for a secluded, residents-only beach. The rocky shoreline kept it pretty empty, the way I liked it. We walked some, the big dogs played in the warm shallow water for a while, and Little Red barked at the seagulls. Then I spread an old blanket, set up an umbrella so the dogs didnât get hot, and contemplated the waves and life.
Thatâs what writers did: consider plots, characters, and the human condition.
Thatâs what fearful introverted idiots did: retreat and worry. All my efforts led to one conclusion. Maybe I could never be as comfortable with any man as I was with my dogs.
I still had to get through all day Sunday and the fireworks after dark.
Barry moved in with his new best friend Martin, having found Aunt Jasmine and Uncle Roger not as welcoming as he wished, and not as forthcoming with information for his story. Martin had no problem telling everything he knew, which, as seemed usual, wasnât as much as he thought he knew. Ellen thought I was being overcritical and old-maidish. I thought she was too eager.
Either way, Barry learned more about Paumanok
The She Crab contained one other furnishing: a stained and scarred wooden table bolted to the deck. An old table, like my father warned me about. I eyed it warily.
Barry was so damn cheerful about leaving the dock I wanted to throw something at him, but I wasnât about to touch the bucket. Okay, so he wasnât a sensitive, but couldnât he see my hands shaking, my knees knocking? I was wearing shorts, for Peteâs sake.
I relaxed some when we got underway with no problem. Barry went forward for a better view, so I took out my sketch pad to capture him looking heroic in a black T-shirt and surfer baggies with the sea and the sky as background. If I concentrated on him enough, I wouldnât notice the distance from shore, or the doom-laden table.
About twenty minutes later, Marty announced we had to collect water and seaweed samples and whatever else we found in the shallows, for his studentsâ experiments. He turned the engine off, having more confidence than I did that it would start again. We were close enough to shore that I figured I could swim.
The boat drifted while he leaned over the side with a long net, directing a suddenly giggly Ellen to lean next to him with a pail.
Barry came back and started asking Martin about the shore and the village and the events of the summer.
âCan you point out where the drugs were stored? How many people came to watch? Where did that yacht blow up, and how did they rescue the kid?â
The She Crab was drifting sideways, rolling with the tide, roiling my stomach. Memories of those awful events werenât helping. Nor were Martinâs answers. He wasnât there, wasnât a sensitive, wasnât aware of the otherworldly actions. What he was doing was feeding Barryâs curiosity.
âIsnât it time for lunch?â I chirped, although food was the last thing I wanted. They ate the sandwiches Martin had packed. I ate some crackers. Then they went back to filling bottles and plastic bags for the science lab while I sketched some more.
âHey, look at that,â Martin said, calling Ellen and Barry to where he leaned over the rail.
Three passengers on one side? Were they crazy or just plain stupid? I held onto that old table as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did. They caught an eel.
If there is anything in the world worse than a writhing snake with slime, itâs knowing what Barry wanted to do with it.
âWhy donât we skin it, then slice it up for sushi?â While it was alive.
I lost my lunchâand my hero. Barry Jensen looked a lot better on paper than he did in person.
Being sick excused me from cleaning the boat and going out for beers and burgers after. What I did instead was go home, get the dogs, and head for a secluded, residents-only beach. The rocky shoreline kept it pretty empty, the way I liked it. We walked some, the big dogs played in the warm shallow water for a while, and Little Red barked at the seagulls. Then I spread an old blanket, set up an umbrella so the dogs didnât get hot, and contemplated the waves and life.
Thatâs what writers did: consider plots, characters, and the human condition.
Thatâs what fearful introverted idiots did: retreat and worry. All my efforts led to one conclusion. Maybe I could never be as comfortable with any man as I was with my dogs.
I still had to get through all day Sunday and the fireworks after dark.
Barry moved in with his new best friend Martin, having found Aunt Jasmine and Uncle Roger not as welcoming as he wished, and not as forthcoming with information for his story. Martin had no problem telling everything he knew, which, as seemed usual, wasnât as much as he thought he knew. Ellen thought I was being overcritical and old-maidish. I thought she was too eager.
Either way, Barry learned more about Paumanok
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