you’re stuck with him, then.”
“Yeah.” Mike acknowledged that Mary Margaret and Kevin were his whole world, the reason he got up in the morning, the reason he took the next breath of air.
His immediate reaction to the divorce had been to secure his rights as a father. He’d spent pretty much all he had, fighting for time with the kids. But in the end, Angela dictated the visitation schedule. Married to a wealthy Newport restaurateur, repped by the hottest family law firm money could buy, she won it all—the house, the kids, her father’s stake in the construction firm. Mike had been granted limited visitation with the kids, and for now, his home was the old trawler his father used to take out fishing. Angela’s money and the right lawyer could tip the scales of justice, so that a mother’s indiscretion was considered insignificant, and the environment less harmful to his children than sleeping on a pair of bunks on his boat.
“So the Babcock job’s going to keep you busy?” Lenny asked.
“Maybe,” said Mike, “if she likes my proposal.”
“She better be damned grateful you’re willing to help her at all.”
“I can’t be picky about where the work comes from, not right now.”
Lenny tapped the bowl of his pipe on the heel of his shoe. “I better be going. Got to get an early start in the morning. See you around, Mikey.”
“See you.” Mike whistled through his teeth, and Zeke came running. It was warm in the galley of the trawler; at least that was what Mike told himself. He tried not to burn too much propane for heat. Except when the kids were with him. He’d set his own hair on fire if it would keep his kids warm.
Chapter
5
Journal Entry
—
January
5—
Saturday Afternoon
Ten Things to Eat Without Cooking
1. Carrot and celery sticks with nonfat ranch dressing.
2. A Macintosh apple.
3. A slice of melba toast.
4. A cup of nonfat cottage cheese.
5. A handful of dry-roasted peanuts.
6. Popcorn with no butter or salt.
7. Popcorn with a ton of butter and salt.
8. A bag of deep-fried pork rinds.
9. A quart of Cherry Garcia ice cream.
10. A pound of Godiva chocolate.
The blisters were healing. At twilight, Sandra stood over the kitchen sink, unraveled gauze trailing from her wrists as she inspected her palms. She was washing her hands when she heard a truck roll up.
A FedEx. Running very late.
It could mean anything. The ordeal of the past year had taught her to expect the worst.
Hurrying to the front door, she signed for the flat, nearly weightless envelope and thanked the bored-looking driver, who seemed relieved to have reached his last stop of the day.
Zipping through the seal, she opened the parcel to find a long, perforated business check from Claggett, Banks, Saunders & Lefkowitz, the firm she’d engaged after Victor’s death. The memo on the check stub noted succinctly that this was the first payment from the insurance settlement, less the firm’s fee for obtaining it. The insurance company had, of course, termed Sandra’s claim fraudulent because Victor’s body was never recovered. But the ME’s ruling of death, based on brutally clear circumstantial evidence, had brought the situation to a grim conclusion.
She stared, unblinking, at the check in her hand. So this was it. Victor’s life, reduced to a dollar amount.
An unsettled feeling stirred in her chest. Setting the check on the hall table, she stepped out onto the porch, into the cold evening. She walked down to the yard, haunted now by shadows of deepest indigo and by a breeze that still held the muscle of the afternoon storm.
She’d come to love the wild, isolated coast, the stark views and the clean-washed smell in the aftermath of a storm. Could she ever find a place like this again? Running her thumb along the peeling paint of the porch rail, she tried not to allow her heart to ache over having to go, but regrets kept pounding at her, relentless as the waves. She’d spent the past year trying not to
“Yeah.” Mike acknowledged that Mary Margaret and Kevin were his whole world, the reason he got up in the morning, the reason he took the next breath of air.
His immediate reaction to the divorce had been to secure his rights as a father. He’d spent pretty much all he had, fighting for time with the kids. But in the end, Angela dictated the visitation schedule. Married to a wealthy Newport restaurateur, repped by the hottest family law firm money could buy, she won it all—the house, the kids, her father’s stake in the construction firm. Mike had been granted limited visitation with the kids, and for now, his home was the old trawler his father used to take out fishing. Angela’s money and the right lawyer could tip the scales of justice, so that a mother’s indiscretion was considered insignificant, and the environment less harmful to his children than sleeping on a pair of bunks on his boat.
“So the Babcock job’s going to keep you busy?” Lenny asked.
“Maybe,” said Mike, “if she likes my proposal.”
“She better be damned grateful you’re willing to help her at all.”
“I can’t be picky about where the work comes from, not right now.”
Lenny tapped the bowl of his pipe on the heel of his shoe. “I better be going. Got to get an early start in the morning. See you around, Mikey.”
“See you.” Mike whistled through his teeth, and Zeke came running. It was warm in the galley of the trawler; at least that was what Mike told himself. He tried not to burn too much propane for heat. Except when the kids were with him. He’d set his own hair on fire if it would keep his kids warm.
Chapter
5
Journal Entry
—
January
5—
Saturday Afternoon
Ten Things to Eat Without Cooking
1. Carrot and celery sticks with nonfat ranch dressing.
2. A Macintosh apple.
3. A slice of melba toast.
4. A cup of nonfat cottage cheese.
5. A handful of dry-roasted peanuts.
6. Popcorn with no butter or salt.
7. Popcorn with a ton of butter and salt.
8. A bag of deep-fried pork rinds.
9. A quart of Cherry Garcia ice cream.
10. A pound of Godiva chocolate.
The blisters were healing. At twilight, Sandra stood over the kitchen sink, unraveled gauze trailing from her wrists as she inspected her palms. She was washing her hands when she heard a truck roll up.
A FedEx. Running very late.
It could mean anything. The ordeal of the past year had taught her to expect the worst.
Hurrying to the front door, she signed for the flat, nearly weightless envelope and thanked the bored-looking driver, who seemed relieved to have reached his last stop of the day.
Zipping through the seal, she opened the parcel to find a long, perforated business check from Claggett, Banks, Saunders & Lefkowitz, the firm she’d engaged after Victor’s death. The memo on the check stub noted succinctly that this was the first payment from the insurance settlement, less the firm’s fee for obtaining it. The insurance company had, of course, termed Sandra’s claim fraudulent because Victor’s body was never recovered. But the ME’s ruling of death, based on brutally clear circumstantial evidence, had brought the situation to a grim conclusion.
She stared, unblinking, at the check in her hand. So this was it. Victor’s life, reduced to a dollar amount.
An unsettled feeling stirred in her chest. Setting the check on the hall table, she stepped out onto the porch, into the cold evening. She walked down to the yard, haunted now by shadows of deepest indigo and by a breeze that still held the muscle of the afternoon storm.
She’d come to love the wild, isolated coast, the stark views and the clean-washed smell in the aftermath of a storm. Could she ever find a place like this again? Running her thumb along the peeling paint of the porch rail, she tried not to allow her heart to ache over having to go, but regrets kept pounding at her, relentless as the waves. She’d spent the past year trying not to
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