All That You Are (8 page)

“Construction…Really?” she asked, tearing off a paper towel and handing it to Mark.

“I thought you figured that out already.” He wiped his hands clean, a motion that fascinated her for reasons she couldn't fathom. Maybe because his hands were very masculine. Or the way he went between his fingers, slow and drawn out…that she imagined those hands working over her…slow and drawn out.

Dana blinked, trying to capture her composure. “I didn't look you up on the computer.”

“Well, if you had, you would have found out that your white lie to your high school buddy wasn't a lie at all. I'm your all-American construction worker.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It's your attitude. I would have bet you did something inside. Desk. Chair. Office with a view.”

He laughed. “I've got a chair and a desk. It's a beat-up piece of metal crap that my sister tries to keep clean, but that only makes me wonder where everything is. And the chair, the wheels fall off and it gets old putting them back on. The only view I have is through the dusty mini-blinds covering the trailer windows on the construction office.”

Dana didn't quite know what to say.

Turns out, she didn't have to say anything. He shut the door to her truck, reaching inside to push down the old-style lock on the frame. Peering through the barely open window, he commanded, “Do me a favor, drive straight home. It's too late for you to be out, Cinderella.”

The uneven purr of the Chevy's motor idled in the night, the exhaust misting from the tailpipe. In spite of everything, she had a difficult time drafting the words she knew she must say. But to be indebted to him, of all
men. The one who could turn her stomach inside out, make her light-headed, cause her the most grief—it was nothing short of warped irony.

“So…uh, thanks, Moretti.”

She was rewarded with an intimate smile as he backed away from the truck. “Anytime.”

M
ARK
M
ORETTI WAS A
natural-born charmer.

In elementary school, he had worn his hair too long, like a surfer's, dressed in board shorts year-round, and never cared that girls were always trailing him. At ten, he had better things than chicks on his mind.

Skateboarding rocked his world.

The quarter-pipe plywood ramp his father had built him occupied half their double garage—something his mother disapproved of. But she didn't have to park her car in the driveway—Giovanni's truck had that spot.

His father's goodwill gesture hadn't been forgotten by Mark. In later years when their relationship changed, he reminded himself that his father had built something for him. The boss ramp became a sanctuary, and Mark's posse of friends were always over perfecting tricks on their banana boards.

Teachers liked Mark, but rarely took him too seriously. He got moderate grades—ask him if he cared. Life revolved around various sports—mostly football, but he'd liked baseball season, too. But in the sixth grade, he decided not to re-sign for Optimist football. That summer, he'd settled in on skateboarding, and a dream he had to become the next Ty Page.

Too bad that year he took a face-plant that resulted in a closed fracture of his radius. His arm had hurt so bad when the bone was set that, in spite of telling himself not to, he'd cried. His mother lost it during the procedure, vowing she'd insist his father disassemble that death ramp.

But over dinner, when Mark's two brothers and sister wrote “get well” and “you stink like bugger” on his cast, Giovanni had told his wife to forget it. A boy needed some form of athletics in his life. It could have been worse—he could have landed on his head.

His bone healed, and life went back to normal. Except he no longer had the determination to be a freestyle skater. In junior high, he considered himself fairly uncomplicated and pretty simple. He gave a modest attempt at garnering straight C's—something he felt was a reasonable goal. He attained a little more on his final report card and was rewarded with a ten-dollar bill. He'd blown it on candy and a
Playboy
he'd paid a kid at school to give to him. Known as the family clown, he always joked or played pranks and teased his peers.

Wanting to be taken more seriously, he entered high school and strove to mirror his father's ethics: disciplined in what he did, and doing it the best he could.

Throughout his twenties and thirties, he'd dated a parade of model-type women. Unable to stick around for long in a relationship, he attributed it to the fact that the ladies he involved himself with rarely challenged his intellect. Probably because he never felt as if he had much of his own.

He knew he needed help in the communication department. Practically every girlfriend he'd ever had told him
he just didn't understand what they were feeling, and when they asked him how he felt, he said he was fine with how things were. After that, things went south and the relationships ended.

To Mark, it seemed as if he'd set himself up to be treated as nothing beyond the funny guy, and the squirt of the Moretti boys. There was no turning back the clock, but even when he grew more serious about life, nothing felt as if it had changed.

When he'd taken over Giovanni's respected role at Moretti Construction, Mark hoped it would give him satisfaction and the sense of accomplishment he sought.

It hadn't.

The time had come for him to accept responsibility for himself rather than try so hard to fill the big-man shadow his father had vacated.

Sitting on the rain-soaked deck of Bud's Bait and Beer, Mark lit a cigar and let his memories fade. He waved the match to snuff it, thinking the last time he'd enjoyed a cigar had been at his sister's wedding a couple of years ago. He'd never been a cigarette smoker, but sometimes the taste of tobacco appealed to him.

Rain ran down the gutters, into the mud, creating mini-ravines along the tackle shop's decking. Monday had been marginally sunny, but in the three days since then, it'd been raining almost nonstop.

Most people didn't realize Ketchikan was part of a rain forest. The town's lush beauty and that of its surrounding area came from the density of moisture in the air nearly every day.

Rain fell in a nail-pounding sound, the tackle shop's roof awning being buffeted in the late afternoon. Mark
sat alone, Jeff having gone inside the shop to buy some beers. They'd driven fifteen miles north of Ketchikan this week to Elk Cove, and had been staying in a rustic cabin here. Yesterday, nearly two inches of rain had fallen, but they'd still headed out in charter boats and hauled in plenty of cohos and kings.

The day before, Mark had thrown on a slicker and hiked in the nearby woods. He'd walked along the river, spotted roaring waterfalls and smelled the pungent mossy banks and regional wildflowers. Not necessarily a great photographer, he'd taken quite a few pictures.

Today, he and Jeff agreed to sit and do not much of anything. Two old men played cards at the far table. Even though it was a hell of a day, sitting outside was a lot better than staying cooped up inside.

Taking a few puffs on the cigar, Mark let his reflections drift once more to Boise.

Kyle's suggestion that the company take a new direction had merit, but Mark questioned if he wanted to go into management. It would be entirely different from what he'd been doing—foreign to what he knew.

After the magnitude of the Grove Marketplace, paring down and taking on smaller projects seemed more attractive to him than throwing himself into something big again.

“Two cold ones, bro,” Jeff said, setting beers onto the wooden table situated between their chairs. “Beer nuts, king-size Snickers and two copies of the
Ketchikan Daily News.
”

“Thanks,” Mark replied, Jeff's gesture considerate.

Jeff Grisham had moments when he could be affable, and it was nice to be in a town with someone to chill with
and who wanted to do the same things. Jeff proved to be a veteran fisherman, and he'd taught Mark a thing or two.

They would return to Ketchikan tomorrow, then Jeff planned on flying back to Seattle on Saturday. Mark thought he'd have to find another place to stay, but Jeff called the leasing agent and had been given the okay to transfer the rental into Mark's name through August.

At this point, Mark had no immediate plans. He didn't have to be back in Boise until September. He'd already told his family he'd be gone for a large chunk of the summer. His sister was taking care of his house and handling his mail. About all he got was utility bills. He had zero debt. With commonsense investing, he'd managed his money well. And after his father's passing, the family had equally divided Giovanni's stock options in the company.

Leaning into his Adirondack chair, Jeff twisted the cap off his beer and immersed himself in the newspaper. Their chairs backed onto the tackle shop's rough-hewn wall, and Mark stared at the deep blue water.

Mark enjoyed his beer, not necessarily thinking about anything as Jeff thumbed through the newspaper and talked under his breath, a comment here and there about something he'd read.

A full-size SUV pulled onto the gravel lot, its tires crunching as the driver manipulated it close to the building. Behind the SUV was a long-bed trailer covered with black visqueen, anchored down with rachet straps. The uneven lump underneath was large and curious.

Getting out of the rig, a big guy made his way over to the deck in a half run, half walk to beat the pelting rain. He wore an oilskin hat that had water dripping off the brim. A charcoal raincoat constructed from heavy fabric
parted open in the middle to show his stomach paunch and silver belt buckle the size of an oyster shell.

“Whoo-wee! It's raining buckets at the falls.” Under the awning, he removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh to get the water off. His canvas trousers were a beige color that was stained pink lower on the legs. Work boots, worn leather and scuffed, carried the same crimson markings. “I almost couldn't see where I was goin'. S'pose neither could that spankin' new Ford Expee-dition. Didn't even have the plates on her yet. Dang shame.”

The geezers looked up from their card game. “Howdy, Bear. You got a fresh one called in?”

“Was home and heard it on the scanner. Miz Rathbone was next on the list, and that seventy-two-year-old broad couldn't never quarter up a moose, much less load it out. Bony as she is, she don't have the strength. I called her and said, ‘Ma'am, I'll go get that roadkill for you.”

“Right neighborly of you, Bear.”

Bear nodded. “That ain't the half of it. Then that old gal told me sumpthin' that I'm passin' along to y'all in case one of you lugheads takes the notion to pay her a call. She told me she just redone her will and left instructions for no male pallbearers. Ever since Wilber went to his reward, no men have come to ask her out when she was alive, so she swears no men will take her out when she's dead.”

“I don't get it,” one of the men mumbled.

“Take her out—carry the casket,” Bear clarified. “Dang sorry shame, that widow woman is a lonely old bird. One of these days, I'm buildin' a retiree home for geezers to live in so's they never have to be worryin' about who's heftin' the load on their departed bones. I
be thinkin' it be a fishin' hut, too.” Working his jaw, Bear added, “Anyway, I saw your Chev-ro-lay in the lot and reckoned I'd swing in for a quick hand of rummy.”

The two elderly men welcomed him as Bear pulled out a chair as if it were homecoming week.

Almost immediately, Mark recognized the grizzled man in the long coat. He'd been at the Blue Note. Meatpacker physique.

Roaming his gaze over Bear, Mark internally congratulated himself on his initial summary. He'd thought this guy could heft carcasses for a living. Looks like he'd been dead-on.

“Bear, you ever fix to butcher one of them dead animals and have it come back alive on you?” A man wearing a Skoal brand ball cap and sporting a stubby white beard questioned Bear. “You know, like in that movie
Tommy Boy.
That deer was only stunned when they put it inside their car.”

“No, Merrit.” Bear settled a thin toothpick in between his lips. “That's only sumpthin' made up in them Holly-weird movies. It ain't never happened to me. I know when sumpthin's dead.”

Tilting on his chair legs, Bear glanced over his shoulder at Mark. His craggy eyes focused in, recognition dawning. “I believe we've sat along the same bar.” Then he stretched his gaze to Jeff, his mouth souring. “And your partner was with you.”

“We're not gay,” Jeff shot over the newpaper's edge.

Bear grunted. “I didn't mean it like that.” Taking his cards in hand, he fanned them out, then added, “Cardelle was dang fired up that night. You ought be glad you didn't get a full dose of his Off!.”

Rolling his eyes, Jeff gathered his newspaper and snacks, then snagged his beer. “Later, bro. I'm heading back to the room.”

“Okay.” Mark remained, deciding it would benefit him to visit more with Bear. “You guys mind an extra player?”

Only after giving Bear questioning glances did Merrit address him. “It's okay with Bear, so it's okay with us.”

Since there was no ashtray available, Mark knocked the ash off his cigar, snuffing it and setting it by his Snickers.

Sliding out a seat at the weather-faded table, Mark positioned himself next to Bear. The solid man was built like an elevator shaft. Something about sitting beside a guy with animal blood on his pant legs disturbed Mark. But this was Alaska. New rules up here made for an interesting perspective.

“So you help people get meat.” Mark made a statement rather than ask a question.

“I do.”

“You butcher it?”

“Not usually.” Bear needed a shave and a bath, but overall, the guy didn't seem overly barbaric.

“I'm Harvey,” said one of the geezers. He wore his hair in a comb-over and sported a gray Clark Gable-style mustache.

The Skoal cap responded, “And I'm Merrit—like the cigarettes but with two
Rs.
”

Mark acknowledged them with a nod. “Mark Moretti.”

“Where you be from, Moretti?” Bear asked.

“Boise.”

“That north or south from Des Moines?” With a
studious eye, Bear arranged his cards, shifting them from spot to spot. “Got me a great-aunt who lives there.”

“You're thinking Iowa. I live in Idaho.”

Confirming the location, Bear enunciated it in his own way. “Aye-Deh-Hoe. They got a lot of taters.”

“We grow them, but the best ones are exported for the fine folks such as yourself in Alaska.”

Bear chuckled. “You be jerkin' our chains.”

Actually, Mark wasn't. But he didn't counter the point.

“What ship are you from?” Harvey asked, but Bear answered for him.

“He ain't from a cruise ship. He flew in like a bird. Deal them cards, Harvey, or do you aim to jaw all afternoon?”