Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jeanne Glidewell
According to Rip, Milo had sounded annoyed his friend wasn't adhering to the arrangement they'd agreed on. I had to wonder about the comment Rip told me Milo had muttered under his breath: "I figured he'd hold a grudge."
As Rip was sorting through his new tackle box, I was mentally going over all the items we'd purchased and trying to figure out which of them we might still be able to return to the tackle store after one day of use. I could make a ten-year-old skillet look unused, even untouched, if that's what it took to get my money refunded. Of course, it was merely wishful thinking that Rip would let me return any of the merchandise to begin with. It would, no doubt, all take up residence in our storage compartments until Rip developed a new fascination in another pastime.
When asked, Rip explained why he'd been expecting Milo's call. "Today is Sunday and Milo has the day off. Which would you prefer to do if you were him? Take your in-laws out on a fishing trip or stay home and listen to our daughter throwing a hissy-fit?"
"Good point!"
"Get dressed, dear. Milo will be here to pick us up in a few minutes."
Suddenly a sense of dread seeped through me. Why do I have this overwhelming premonition that this will not be a day I'll look back at with joy? I asked myself as I donned my ratty Texas Rangers shirt and a pair of my oldest holey blue jeans. If Rip hadn't appeared so elated, I'd have suggested we cancel the trip.
* * *
Sitting in the back seat of Milo's Dodge Ram, I watched as Rip helped Milo with the boat. Milo had backed the boat down the ramp into the water, and Rip was going to park the truck and trailer in the parking lot. After floating his boat off the trailer, Milo had tied the boat up to a wooden pole beside the concrete bulkhead, waiting for us to climb aboard. With his light green eyes, well-trimmed mustache, and medium-length sandy-colored hair, held in place by an embroidered Seaworthy Marine ball cap, my six-foot-three, lanky son-in-law looked like a natural mariner to me. He was definitely easy on the eyes but I wasn't sure yet how I felt about his personality. Or if he even had one.
If one were to judge Milo by his boat, one could only surmise the guy liked to be the center of attention. The shallow-hulled fishing boat had a custom paint job and a black bimini top to shade the passengers. It was painted bright purple with loud orange and red flames down both sides of the hull, and had a decal depicting a pastel yellow skull on each side at the bow of the boat. "Maverick" was painted across the aft in a glittery gold color. Milo's fishing vessel was quite gaudy, but definitely an eye catcher. Of course, who am I to talk? Our self-painted travel trailer could hardly be classified as inconspicuous either.
While we'd been traveling next to the banks of Little Bay in Milo's truck on our way to Rockport Beach, he'd told us the free boat ramp at Rockport Beach was the closest, most convenient place to launch the boat. As I mentioned before, I'm always game for anything that's free, whether I have a use for it or not. But in this instance, it was the only thing Rip and I didn't have to pay for all morning.
Earlier, at the Fleming Bait Shop, we'd paid for forty-two bucks worth of bait; two quarts of live shrimp, and three dozen finger mullet, along with a ten-dollar "bubbler" and batteries to supply the necessary oxygen to keep them alive. Milo had explained the aerator in the boat's bait well was not working properly and he hadn't had time to have it repaired.
After acquiring the bait, Milo had pulled the truck and boat trailer alongside a Valero gas station pump to fill the boat's fuel tank. At his request, I'd gone inside to purchase two large bags of ice to keep the fish we caught fresh in the large cooler under the bench seat in front of the helm. Not surprisingly, the boat's live well was not working properly either. Milo had also asked me to pick up two six-packs of beer to quench our thirst out
As Rip was sorting through his new tackle box, I was mentally going over all the items we'd purchased and trying to figure out which of them we might still be able to return to the tackle store after one day of use. I could make a ten-year-old skillet look unused, even untouched, if that's what it took to get my money refunded. Of course, it was merely wishful thinking that Rip would let me return any of the merchandise to begin with. It would, no doubt, all take up residence in our storage compartments until Rip developed a new fascination in another pastime.
When asked, Rip explained why he'd been expecting Milo's call. "Today is Sunday and Milo has the day off. Which would you prefer to do if you were him? Take your in-laws out on a fishing trip or stay home and listen to our daughter throwing a hissy-fit?"
"Good point!"
"Get dressed, dear. Milo will be here to pick us up in a few minutes."
Suddenly a sense of dread seeped through me. Why do I have this overwhelming premonition that this will not be a day I'll look back at with joy? I asked myself as I donned my ratty Texas Rangers shirt and a pair of my oldest holey blue jeans. If Rip hadn't appeared so elated, I'd have suggested we cancel the trip.
* * *
Sitting in the back seat of Milo's Dodge Ram, I watched as Rip helped Milo with the boat. Milo had backed the boat down the ramp into the water, and Rip was going to park the truck and trailer in the parking lot. After floating his boat off the trailer, Milo had tied the boat up to a wooden pole beside the concrete bulkhead, waiting for us to climb aboard. With his light green eyes, well-trimmed mustache, and medium-length sandy-colored hair, held in place by an embroidered Seaworthy Marine ball cap, my six-foot-three, lanky son-in-law looked like a natural mariner to me. He was definitely easy on the eyes but I wasn't sure yet how I felt about his personality. Or if he even had one.
If one were to judge Milo by his boat, one could only surmise the guy liked to be the center of attention. The shallow-hulled fishing boat had a custom paint job and a black bimini top to shade the passengers. It was painted bright purple with loud orange and red flames down both sides of the hull, and had a decal depicting a pastel yellow skull on each side at the bow of the boat. "Maverick" was painted across the aft in a glittery gold color. Milo's fishing vessel was quite gaudy, but definitely an eye catcher. Of course, who am I to talk? Our self-painted travel trailer could hardly be classified as inconspicuous either.
While we'd been traveling next to the banks of Little Bay in Milo's truck on our way to Rockport Beach, he'd told us the free boat ramp at Rockport Beach was the closest, most convenient place to launch the boat. As I mentioned before, I'm always game for anything that's free, whether I have a use for it or not. But in this instance, it was the only thing Rip and I didn't have to pay for all morning.
Earlier, at the Fleming Bait Shop, we'd paid for forty-two bucks worth of bait; two quarts of live shrimp, and three dozen finger mullet, along with a ten-dollar "bubbler" and batteries to supply the necessary oxygen to keep them alive. Milo had explained the aerator in the boat's bait well was not working properly and he hadn't had time to have it repaired.
After acquiring the bait, Milo had pulled the truck and boat trailer alongside a Valero gas station pump to fill the boat's fuel tank. At his request, I'd gone inside to purchase two large bags of ice to keep the fish we caught fresh in the large cooler under the bench seat in front of the helm. Not surprisingly, the boat's live well was not working properly either. Milo had also asked me to pick up two six-packs of beer to quench our thirst out
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