The Whiskey Sea by Ann Howard Creel Page A

come. She wondered if she was now immune to the lure of love. Her girlhood fantasies about romance had faded away over two years of grueling work. There was no room for daydreams when her mind was filled with everything about engines and building her business. Even as girls from her high school were marrying and having babies, she let her starry-eyed imaginings slide away and concentrated on learning her craft. Her focus had been on gleaning everything she could from Hicks, working beside him, and nothing else.
    “You’re in early,” she said.
    He tore off some ragged gloves. “Too rough out there in the bay. I’ve been fishing flounder and fluke in the river. Not much biting.”
    She shoved her chowder in front of him. “It’s still hot.”
    Picking up a spoon, he stared into the steaming chowder and then at her. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating?”
    She gazed around and then gathered her sweater across her chest. She cocked her head in the direction of Hawkeye, wearing a water-stained jacket and moth-eaten woolen cap and having sat down at a table nearby. She said, “I lost my appetite.”
    Hicks looked over at Hawkeye. “Never understood what you have against him.”
    “You don’t need to understand.”
    His eyes swam with a stricken look. Here it was again—another instance of him revealing his feelings for her. No! She could so easily hurt him. Damned if he didn’t still care in the wrong way. She had to be careful and tread lightly. She wished there was a kind way to flush his attachment to her out of his system. Quickly she said, “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I only meant that it’s personal. Between him and me. I’m not much for talking about it.”
    Hicks shrugged, then slurped down the chowder, and Florence Bahrs came by to ask if Hicks wanted more. He shook his head, and Florence left them alone. She was the maternal type, with a smile that warmed a round and fleshy face. She wore old-fashioned blouses and skirts, always covered by an apron, and her hair piled high on her head. An excellent cook, she fed the waterfront. Her husband, John, had bought the two-story boathouse and built bunks, filled the mattresses with straw and cornstalks, and made a living renting boats and selling bait, beds, and meals.
    Hicks asked Frieda, “What else is wrong?”
    “What makes you think something else is wrong?”
    “I can tell when you’re thinking hard on a matter. You start grinding your teeth.”
    She kept her eyes averted. “Do not.” Then she smiled.
    Their gazes met and held. Frieda had to look away.
    “So, come clean. Out with it.”
    She sighed and breathed in, then slowly exhaled. “I’ve been thinking. Come better weather we should go for the liquor, too.”
    “Oh no you don’t.”
    “I could work for you on the boat. We could do it together.”
    Hicks wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shook his head firmly. “It’s not for me.”
    Leaning forward, she inched closer, not bothering to lower her voice. Everyone knew about the business being conducted here. There was no need for secrecy. “Everybody’s doing it.”
    Hicks scraped the last of the chowder from the bottom of the bowl. “Not interested. And even if I was, the Wren ain’t big enough to bring back a large load.”
    “It could bring enough.”
    He sat back. “Enough for what?”
    She didn’t answer. She thought it was obvious.
    “What do you need that you don’t have?”
    “I have responsibilities. Bea’s in high school now, and she’s going to graduate in another couple of years. I want to send her to a real college, in the city. She’s been looking for a part-time job, but so far no luck. She has no practical skills, and I’m worried . . .”
    She didn’t say she feared Bea would fall into her mother’s footsteps someday, that she needed to get Bea away from the town’s memories and lasting gossip, but Hicks gazed at her as if he understood.
    She continued. “And Silver—well, you