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  THE PICKLE BOAT HOUSE

  Louise Gorday

  Copyright © 2012 by Louise Gorday

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Radoslaw Krawczyk

  photos on cover: fotolia.com. © Winzworks/Dreamstime.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  FOR MY FAMILY

  YOU MAKE ALL THINGS WONDERFUL

  Special thanks to Michael J. Carr (editor) and Michael Aschenbach (developmental editor). You are both amazing!

  I am indebted to the following friends who shared their time and gave me their unwavering support: Angela, Carol, Chris, Ellen, Liz, and Priya.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE FUGUE AND EXPOSITION

  CHAPTER TWO BECAUSE

  CHAPTER THREE NOT A LEG TO STAND ON

  CHAPTER FOUR YANKEE DIMES AND WOODEN NICKELS

  CHAPTER FIVE BRING IT

  CHAPTER SIX CLOSURE

  CHAPTER SEVEN ONE MAN’S TRASH

  CHAPTER EIGHT NO DEED GOES UNPUNISHED

  CHAPTER NINE I SAY YIN AND YOU SAY YANG

  CHAPTER TEN EPISODIC NIGHTMARES

  CHAPTER ELEVEN CUTTING THE MUSTARD

  CHAPTER TWELVE A BIGGER DOG

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN RECAPITULATION

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN CONSEQUENCES

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN A SHADE INSIDE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN EXPENDABLES

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ONE FOR THE TEAM

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN AN AFTERTHOUGHT

  CHAPTER NINETEEN A WILL, A WAY, AND SOME MONEY

  CHAPTER TWENTY DADDY ISSUES

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE BIRDS OF A FEATHER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CRYPT KEEPERS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR DARK AND DIRTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ALL THE WRONG BUTTONS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX KEEPING FRIENDS CLOSE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN DIGGING UP DETAILS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT MORNING LIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE RISE OF THE PHOENIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY FAVORS AND FATHERS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE MIND YOUR Ps AND Qs

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO SURVEYING THE SITUATION

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE A WHISPER BY NIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE KARMA’S A BITCH

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX FAITH

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CODA

  CHAPTER ONE

  FUGUE AND EXPOSITION

  As the orange passenger jet roared overhead, sinking toward the runway beyond, James loosened his grip on the wheel a little. But even the blare of Beethoven’s op. 123 Credo couldn’t put him in the zone. Pity—it was one of his favorites. Arrival time was 12:35 … right? It was important; he had a three o’clock meeting. James turned the radio off and pulled into short-term parking. Lucky day! An empty space, right up front. He whipped his car into the spot and headed for Terminal A.

  The airport was a sea of faces trailing wheeled appendages. “Sam, Sam, Sam,” James mumbled, spinning his key ring on his finger as he surveyed the moving mass. “Come out, come out, wherever you …”

  “Paging James Hardy. Paging James Hardy.”

  James whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice and spied Sam in the distance, hands cupped to his mouth. Khakis and a polo shirt—the guy was finally maturing.

  “Sam! Great to see ya, bud.” James pulled his friend into a bear-hug. “Glad you called. How long’s your layover?”

  “Let’s see, 12:50 … got about an hour to kill. I remember you every time I pass through Baltimore, but this is the first time I ever thought about calling. I’m surprised you squeezed me in, being a big-shot lawyer and all. Dressing for success, too,” he said, eyeing James’s navy suit and mirror-polished Florsheim wingtips. “Looking sharp for a twenty-four-year-old.”

  “Oh, please! Yours will be the first ass I sue when I get a real job.”

  “Let’s go get you a latte and me a strong cuppa joe, and I’ll tell you about the latest corporate shit-fest. You’ll soil your legal briefs when you hear what the assholes in my company are trying to do.” Sam grabbed James by the elbow and steered him toward the coffee kiosk. “Large dark roast, please.” He turned his attention back to James. “Talked to Mark and Jay a few weeks ago. They want us all to meet up in Myrtle Beach in August.”

  “Not sure about August—may have a job. Interview today,” James said, pulling on his lapels. The place has great credibility. I want this one bad. Small coffee,” he said to the barista. He followed Sam to a table at the entrance where they could people watch while keeping an eye on the digital clock on the arrival/departure board.

  “So, dressed to impress,” said Sam. “When’s your birthday, August? Expect a Baysox T-shirt. You’re gonna need me to keep you grounded.”

  “Acceptable,” James said, dumping sugar into his cup. “Sox are holding their own this year. Don’t even think about a United jersey—guys are stinking up the division. They traded everybody away. How are your parents?”

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Peas in a pod,” James replied. “Dad and I are going skydiving on my birthday. Mom’s seeing how long she can keep me tied to her apron strings. If she only knew how long ago I cut those!”

  Sam laughed. “So this job—you want it, eh?”

  “Yep, this is the one—small firm, populist minded. The big corporate offices don’t care. If I get this one, I can stay local. I might even be able to live in my great grandparents’ house in Nevis, rent free.”

  “The pickle boat house? Sweet! I loved summer vacations there. Nevis is like one of those fifties sitcom towns, you know? I swear the Beav lived around the corner. Dude, we used to get into such trouble.”

  “Hah! I remember. It was awesome. We were such idiots—climbing out the window at night. I don’t think they knew where we were half the time. Mom still goes down there quite a bit. She’s collected a lot of turn-of-the century memorabilia from when Nevis was a hopping resort. She has grand plans to open a museum one day.”

  “Dontcha miss those carefree days? Hey, check this guy.” Sam pointed across the concourse to a well-dressed man with an attaché case. In a hurry, he wove his way in and out of the human traffic on the people mover, with little regard for feet, shoulders, or even small children. “What a dick. If I was in front of him, I’d do my passive-aggressive best to box him in and not let him by.”

  James laughed. “Always looking for trouble.” People movers—they worked best when slowpokes stayed right and the type A’s could progress at will in the left lane, like the autobahn. But it took just one jerk like him to give all left-laners a bad name.” James watched with fascination as the man bullied a series of people in front of him to move right. He gave the guy the full once-over. “Cold eyes. Wouldn’t touch that dude with a ten-foot pole.”

  As they each reached the bottom of their cups, Sam said, quite out of the blue, “In all seriousness, James, promise me one thing: when you get your job with some hotshot firm, you won’t turn into that guy.” Don’t ever lose a sense of where you’ve come from or develop that sense of entitlement. Use your gifts for the good of people. In fact,” he said, pulling a pen out of his carry-on and scribbling on his napkin, “put this in your wallet, and when you suspect you
might be getting a fat head, read it.” He ripped the corner off the napkin and slid it into James’s shirt pocket.”

  “Okay, Mom, I promise. Y’know, the dude is probably just late and stressed. Wait until he spends an eternity waiting for his luggage. And speaking of late, Sam, I gotta roll. It’s one forty. No rest for the wicked.”

  Sam grinned. “Gotcha. Only slow down a little, okay? Smell the roses.”

  “Ah, I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

  “Not planning on dying young, are we?”

  James shrugged. “Definitely not in my plans, but time waits for no man.”

  Sam leaned forward. “Then don’t be a man for a while, bro,” he whispered, and raised his eyebrows as he extended his hand and gave James the super-secret handshake they had made up when they were kids.

  “Grow up, dumb-ass,” James said, laughing. “I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks for the company, and good luck today. I’ll let you know about August. Text me.” Sam watched James move out into the throng of travelers. For the briefest moment, he wanted to ditch his flight and spend the rest of the day with his best friend. Why was this good-bye so hard? He stood rooted, trying to freeze in time the retreating image before it disappeared into the crowd. Jeez, what was with this nostalgia thing?

  James hit the freeway with the Jeep’s pedal down, the road clear, and a lot of information floating around in his brain. Interview suit, check. Directions, check. Plenty of time still? He checked his watch: 1:55. A little close—maybe the visit wasn’t such a great idea. He pulled Sam’s limp folded napkin out of his pocket and flipped it open. Scrawled in small capital letters were three words: “pickle boat house.” He smiled and tucked it back into his pocket, then cranked up the radio to keep his mind occupied. It was almost two; he could catch the news.

  James’s eyes returned to the road just in time to see the rear end of a stalled car rapidly approaching. “Where’d you come from? Christ!” He jerked the wheel, and the car lurched right, hugging the edge of the asphalt. Hitting loose gravel there, the jeep zigzagged back and forth across the lanes as James fought to maintain control. Careening off the road on two wheels, the car hit an embankment and went airborne, doing a half roll before it came to rest upside down in a creek. It seemed to float on the surface for a brief moment before sinking into the sparkling, flowing water. Then all became strangely quiet.

  In those last moments, James had no sudden rush of life’s experiences. He just felt himself floating weightlessly, willingly, toward the brightest, warmest light he had ever seen. Confusion … somewhere a bus accident, humming lights, frantic medical personnel … and through it all, a strange sense of detachment overwhelmed him.

  Meanwhile, at the airport, Sam had grabbed a seat at his departure gate, the constant human flow had morphed in new shapes, and the man with the cold eyes had claimed his luggage. As he stepped off the curb toward the rental cars, supremely indifferent to those around him, he never saw the city bus, rounding the corner with its own kind of indifference. As the digital clock on the arrival/departure board changed to 2:00 p.m., the bus hit him and the woman three steps ahead. Floating weightlessly toward the lovely white radiance, in that eye blink, the summed experience of the man’s life passed before him. Ryan Llewellyn Thomas had been assessed the price for the life he lived.

  At two o’clock that day, the light at the end of the passageway shone for many people. It was certainly nothing unusual for more than one soul to traverse its length at exactly the same moment. But it was rare to have two men so very different in temperament and virtue traveling together. And it was almost unheard of for one soul to be cast back to Earth, into the body of his traveling companion, for a second chance in the world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BECAUSE

  The town overlooked the bay, the boom now a distant memory. Once city folk, eager for their summers at the bay’s edge, flocked by train to dip their toes in the surf and cool off in its breezes. Now seagulls and cormorants roosted in the pylons. It was quiet except for the lapping of the waves against the seawall and the hyenalike laugh of the gulls—a laugh that echoed off the weather-worn hulls of the few boats still moored along the bulkhead. Gone were the little white ticket booth, the great carousel, and First and Second Streets, claimed long ago by fifty-year storms that had consumed more than just the beaches. Only the bungalows remained, like mismatched seashells of faded pink, gray, and brown. The town of Nevis was a place still awaiting its renaissance.

  The moving van crested the hill, and the sparkling waters of the Chesapeake Bay stretched out below. The scene beckoned like an empty canvas yearning for the artist’s brush.

  The excitement Vanessa had always felt as a small child coming here to visit her grandparents now gave way to a sense of anxiety and vulnerability. She couldn’t remember the last time she had moved. It was probably better that way; remembering would dredge up other memories that were just too painful. Vanessa was going to get through this only if she shut out everything. Her life was blank like that artist’s canvas, ready to start a new story: her own personal renaissance—a second life.

  “Joe, you might want to slow down through here,” Vanessa said to the truck driver. “This is the stretch where they nail you for speeding.”

  “The last thing I need is a ticket, Ms. Hardy,” said Joe, slowing down. “Thanks. I’d get fired for sure. Zero-tolerance policy, you know?”

  “Call me Van. Seriously, this is the perfect spot for a cop to hide. My granddad swore the highway people designed it that way—had it ‘on good information.’ I can remember sitting in the front seat between Dad and Granddad, bouncing along with the ruts in the road. The hum of the engine would lull me to sleep, and then, bang, I’d jolt awake to the sound of Granddad cussing out a cop for trapping speeders from the perfect spot.” Van smiled. The old man had hated an uneven playing field. She loved that about him.

  Van mentally acknowledged each street as the truck lumbered through town to the bungalows sitting along the boardwalk. Good utilitarian names like Mill Swamp Avenue and Polling Place Road bespoke the long history of the place.

  “That George Washington, he got around, didn’t he?” The driver chuckled as they passed one of several historic markers. “This is a nice area. I’ve been trying to buy a house down here, but they’re sold and off the market almost before I can get a bid in.”

  “Really?” said Van. “I think you need a new real estate agent. It shouldn’t be that hard to get something down here.”

  “Maybe, but it’s happened to me enough times, I’d all but given up. Finally, I got wind of a house on Third Street that was going on the market. I called the owners directly, and we’re going to settle next week. It was a fair deal all the way around. I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Well, neighbor, I’m on Third Street. Whose house—”

  Joe frowned. “You smell something burning?” He checked his rearview mirror. “Not us.”

  Van sniffed deeply several times and shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t smell anything, but then, I’m just getting over a cold. Can you still smell it? Maybe we should pull over.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting stronger, but I don’t think it’s us. Maybe someone’s burning trash.”

  As they turned down Third Street, Joe suddenly slammed on his brakes. “Son of a bitch! That’s my house!” he wailed. Ahead of them smoldered the burned-out hull of a house, with a fire truck and a pumper parked in front, blocking most of the roadway.

  “Oh, my God, only one house? What about mine?” Van craned her neck to see past the emergency equipment. “If they let us through …”

  A fireman stepped out toward the truck and hailed them to stop. Before he could say anything Van jumped out of the truck, with Joe pelting out the other side.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “She went up so fast, we couldn’t do much except watch her burn. Pickle boat house is fine, though, Miz Hardy. That’s the first thing John asked about when we he
ard the address. We’re just watching for flare-ups now.”

  Joe stood frozen, watching his dreams turn to soot and cold ashes.

  “Faulty wiring?” Van asked the firefighter. “The house has been empty.”

  “No ma’am. The speed it went up—never seen anything like it. Somebody packed gasoline-soaked rags around the back section of the house. Arson,” he said, shaking his head. “Need you folks to move along now. Gotta keep the road clear.”

  “Sure. Come on, Joe,” said Van, pulling the shell-shocked driver back toward the truck. “It’s a good thing you hadn’t settled yet. This isn’t your problem now.”

  “Such a beautiful house,” Joe lamented, his eyes brimming with tears. “It’s like somebody just doesn’t want me to have a house. Who could hate me that bad?”

  “No, it wasn’t anything you did. Just bad luck—some kook that likes to watch things burn … You know, you could buy the lot and build a new house.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head sadly as a single tear broke free and rounded his cheek. “Let the kook have it. It’s bad luck now.”

  Van nodded. “Arson. This could be everyone’s problem.”

  Joe drove a stone’s throw farther down the street and pulled into a tiny driveway. Between two larger, more modern houses sat a small, well-kept bungalow, its empty rooms beckoning for a beating heart as it looked out across the bay. It hadn’t changed much since her great grandmother stood on the widow’s walk, waiting for the fishing fleet to return to shore. Humble in looks, it was a solid house that had endured every hurricane and nor’easter that nature threw its way over the years. A roofed porch, supported by green carved pillars and white bannisters, crossed the front of the long, narrow white house. A kitchen and parlor below and two bedrooms at the top of the stairs made a comfortable space for someone who wanted to be alone.