The Darkest Joy Read Online Free

Ya don’t like it?” he asks.
    The primer gray would have been perfect. I bite my lip and he waits.
    “It’s okay,” I say.
    “Hell, yeah!” Tucker enthuses and I smile wanly.
    “Okay, just let me unhitch her and you can take a look . . .”
    Tucker backs the bus off the trailer. He gets all four wheels on the bare stretch of pastured driveway and gives it a start while I move to the side of the house, out of the way. It’s then that I catch sight of the outhouse around the back of the small cabin for the first time, and a laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
    Tucker exits the bus and walks around to meet me. He gives another smile. “That’s the shitter?”
    I stare at it in disbelief. “The necessary,” I reply primly, and he belly laughs.
    “That too,” he winks.
    I step onto the broad porch as Tucker finishes tinkering with my new bus. It’s half as deep as the interior of the small cabin. Tucker notices me surveying the deep roof that covers the porch.
    “Snow load,” he responds automatically.
    I look above me, thinking about a seven-foot-deep porch and how much snow would accumulate to necessitate the size.
    Only for the summer, only for the summer , I chant in my mind like a mantra. I know the fishing job is temporary. I can figure out later where I’ll go next—who I’ll become.
    Tucker is almost to his Bronco when he turns, his instep on the chrome running board that still clings to the dilapidated body.
    “Heard you’re on Chance Taylor’s crew,” Tucker asks like a statement.
    I nod. “Yes, I’m a part-time deckhand.”
    It’s his turn to look me over. He shuts the door and slowly walks over to where I stand.
    I try not to let anxiety rule me. But I’ve never been the same since my family’s death.
    It’ll change a person. I’m no longer the free-floating and trusting girl of a few months ago.
    Tucker sees my wary expression. “Let me see your hands.”
    “My hands?” I ask, confused.
    He nods solemnly.
    I hold my hands out and he takes them, studying them.
    “What did you say you do?”
    I haven’t .
    I shrug a little, taking my hands back. I stuff them inside my low-rise jeans, shifting my weight on my feet.
    Tucker waits as I stare at the ground.
    “I was a student.”
    “Yup.” He gives me a level stare, waiting.
    I sigh. “I studied the piano.”
    “Ah,” he says, his dark eyes move to my hands, hidden inside the denim. “They look like hands that have worked . . . but . . .”
    I feel my brows rise.
    He gives me a steady look. “You’ll get beat up out there.”
    “I need the job,” I say. Though not for the reasons he’s thinking.
    Tucker looks at me again, shaking his head. “It’s tough work for a woman.”
    My chin kicks up. “Yeah . . . well, the pay’s good.” And the location—the distance. Not to mention that absolute divergence from classical music and everything that defined my life before, I mentally add.
    Tucker nods, saying nothing more.
    “How am I going to get beat up?” I can’t help but ask.
    He’s almost in his car. “If it isn’t the sea, then Chance Taylor will do a stand-up job.”
    Tucker slams his car door as my stomach knots.
    Translation: my new boss is a dick.
    He backs up, turning around in the large part of the driveway. I watch his Bronco jostle over the uneven driveway as his hand pops out the window in a one-wave salute.
    I lift my hand in return then slowly let it drop.
    I have one week before halibut season begins. One week to get this cabin in order and get the tools of the trade and—I look around the dingy space—cleaning supplies.
    And three months to forget , my mind whispers.

    I’m still dragging after the long journey to Alaska. My stomach grumbles, and I’m not surprised to discover that there are barely two crumbs within the four dim corners of the cabin. After Tucker leaves I decide it’s time to make a supply run. I unpack my first suitcase and take out the Garmin, a girl’s best