just thinking of your sister out with me on a fishing boat.”
“Yeah, well, I was just thinking about your mother.”
Gavin made a rude hand gesture at Al and resumed his task until the stone was firmly
in place.
He climbed down from the crane, ready to smack Al on the back of the head, when he
noticed Fred and Al arguing.
“Back off,” said Fred.
“Settle down, Shaky; I was just joking with you,” said Al.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“You never are, Shakes.”
“If you don’t stop calling me that, I’ll give you a shaking you won’t forget.”
“Oh, is that so?” said Al. Al looked at the men who’d gathered around and then back
at Fred. Then Al wiggled his hands at Fred.
Gavin grabbed Fred’s arm just as he was about to punch Al.
Al continued to laugh and shake his hands at Fred.
Fred yanked himself out of Gavin’s grip and stormed back to camp.
“Why do you have to be such an asshole?” said Gavin.
“I was just messing with him,” said Al. “Come on. I just told him I’d handle the stone
positioning, since we didn’t want a rumbling bridge.”
“This isn’t a schoolyard, and I don’t want to have to discipline you all like a bunch
of kids, so leave him alone unless you want me to get Sheeran involved.”
Al waved off Gavin and walked away. Gavin had an urge to follow him and punch Al himself.
He was always causing trouble, and Fred was an easy target. Instead he flexed his
fingers and thought he’d picture Al’s face in the boxing ring at his next fight.
Stock Island, north of Key West
All the abandoned, broken, battered boats left to rot in the sun depressed Gavin.
He ran his hand along the side of an ancient fishing boat and imagined the water lapping
against its side during happier days. He thought he felt the sadness in the wood,
and then laughed at himself for thinking like a damned fool.
He readjusted the bag of parts on his arm and nodded at the yardmaster—a hefty, toothless
man with tobacco running down his chin, which had left a sloppy line down the front
of his yellowed sleeveless shirt. The man grunted and went back to the girlie magazine
he took no trouble to conceal. Gavin looked forward to the day he wouldn’t have to
collect spare parts from that disgusting slob for his boss. He envied the fishermen
he knew. He wished he could make his living from a boat on the water, instead of dangling
over it from one hundred feet up.
Of course, they were all struggling. Plenty of fish, not enough people to buy them.
Most of the fishermen he knew had traded their fishing rods for hammers, wrenches,
or flasks. It was hard times for everyone.
He pushed all of that out of his head, though. He was just happy to be heading into
Key West for the weekend instead of staying up at camp. His buddy in town was glad
to have him down, and Gavin was happy he could help him out around the house.
A movement beside the skeleton of a brown fishing boat caught his attention. A girl
in rolled-up men’s slacks and an old shirt walked around the boat, looked it up and
down, and ran her fingers along the bow. As she turned away from the boat she met
his eyes and his heart lifted. It was the girl from the boxing match. He couldn’t
believe it.
She smiled and walked toward him. “Gavin Murray, a boxer and a fisherman,” she said.
“Not much of either,” he said.
She laughed. “I don’t know. You sure filled my pocket last Friday.”
“Glad I could help,” he said. “Are you a fisherwoman?”
“Yes, though in temporary retirement, unfortunately,” she said.
“You got a name, fisherwoman?”
“Mariella Bennet.”
“And how do you know Hemingway?”
“I’m his maid.”
Gavin was intrigued. Why would Hemingway go to a boxing match with his maid? Judging
by her long, dark lashes, full lips, and silky hair, he thought he knew why. An unpleasant
and surprising jealousy stirred in his belly. He judged her badly
“Yeah, well, I was just thinking about your mother.”
Gavin made a rude hand gesture at Al and resumed his task until the stone was firmly
in place.
He climbed down from the crane, ready to smack Al on the back of the head, when he
noticed Fred and Al arguing.
“Back off,” said Fred.
“Settle down, Shaky; I was just joking with you,” said Al.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“You never are, Shakes.”
“If you don’t stop calling me that, I’ll give you a shaking you won’t forget.”
“Oh, is that so?” said Al. Al looked at the men who’d gathered around and then back
at Fred. Then Al wiggled his hands at Fred.
Gavin grabbed Fred’s arm just as he was about to punch Al.
Al continued to laugh and shake his hands at Fred.
Fred yanked himself out of Gavin’s grip and stormed back to camp.
“Why do you have to be such an asshole?” said Gavin.
“I was just messing with him,” said Al. “Come on. I just told him I’d handle the stone
positioning, since we didn’t want a rumbling bridge.”
“This isn’t a schoolyard, and I don’t want to have to discipline you all like a bunch
of kids, so leave him alone unless you want me to get Sheeran involved.”
Al waved off Gavin and walked away. Gavin had an urge to follow him and punch Al himself.
He was always causing trouble, and Fred was an easy target. Instead he flexed his
fingers and thought he’d picture Al’s face in the boxing ring at his next fight.
Stock Island, north of Key West
All the abandoned, broken, battered boats left to rot in the sun depressed Gavin.
He ran his hand along the side of an ancient fishing boat and imagined the water lapping
against its side during happier days. He thought he felt the sadness in the wood,
and then laughed at himself for thinking like a damned fool.
He readjusted the bag of parts on his arm and nodded at the yardmaster—a hefty, toothless
man with tobacco running down his chin, which had left a sloppy line down the front
of his yellowed sleeveless shirt. The man grunted and went back to the girlie magazine
he took no trouble to conceal. Gavin looked forward to the day he wouldn’t have to
collect spare parts from that disgusting slob for his boss. He envied the fishermen
he knew. He wished he could make his living from a boat on the water, instead of dangling
over it from one hundred feet up.
Of course, they were all struggling. Plenty of fish, not enough people to buy them.
Most of the fishermen he knew had traded their fishing rods for hammers, wrenches,
or flasks. It was hard times for everyone.
He pushed all of that out of his head, though. He was just happy to be heading into
Key West for the weekend instead of staying up at camp. His buddy in town was glad
to have him down, and Gavin was happy he could help him out around the house.
A movement beside the skeleton of a brown fishing boat caught his attention. A girl
in rolled-up men’s slacks and an old shirt walked around the boat, looked it up and
down, and ran her fingers along the bow. As she turned away from the boat she met
his eyes and his heart lifted. It was the girl from the boxing match. He couldn’t
believe it.
She smiled and walked toward him. “Gavin Murray, a boxer and a fisherman,” she said.
“Not much of either,” he said.
She laughed. “I don’t know. You sure filled my pocket last Friday.”
“Glad I could help,” he said. “Are you a fisherwoman?”
“Yes, though in temporary retirement, unfortunately,” she said.
“You got a name, fisherwoman?”
“Mariella Bennet.”
“And how do you know Hemingway?”
“I’m his maid.”
Gavin was intrigued. Why would Hemingway go to a boxing match with his maid? Judging
by her long, dark lashes, full lips, and silky hair, he thought he knew why. An unpleasant
and surprising jealousy stirred in his belly. He judged her badly
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