Distracted (18 page)

“What did you do to that old man?” Patricia asked
after reading the inscription.

“I whacked him with a ruler,” she replied.

“You should have used it earlier,” Patricia said, a
sarcastic commentary on Erin’s strange affair with Stephen Spence.
Erin winced at the cheap shot.

Patricia ignored her pain. “Did you receive our
invitation? Did you note that it’s formal?” As Erin nodded,
Patricia continued. “And will you be attending?”

“Yes. I’ve already sent my R.S.V.P.”

“I’m just double checking. You realize it’s a gallery
opening?”

Erin waved dismissively. “Yes. I’ll be there and I’ll
leave my sweatshirt at home. Do you have anything interesting in
the basket? Now that my groping genius is finished, I’m on the
market again.”

Patricia gave her a large envelope. “Read these
queries and let me know what you think. Maybe there is something
we’d like to publish.”

“Are you asking me to be an acquisitions editor?”
Erin felt dazed. Here was a chance to choose her work, to help new
writers. There could be an amazing book in this stack of
letters.

Patricia smiled fondly. She really did care for Erin,
despite the Stephen Spence catastrophe.

* * *

“If you’re not coming here, then you’ll have to spend
Christmas in Florida with Mom and Dad.”

Erin sighed. “Forget it, Mariah. I’m just going to
spend a quiet holiday at home.”

“Too late; I already called them and they’re
expecting you. They’ve even redecorated the spare room since Mom
has kept it filled with fishing tackle and poles.”

“You didn’t!”

“That’s right. They’ve even bought you a
non-refundable plane ticket so you can’t worm out. You’re going to
have to face them sooner or later. Anyway, I’ve got to go now.
Ben’s at the door,” Mariah said quickly and hung up.

Enraged, Erin stared at her cell phone. She wanted to
fling it against the wall, but she had already lost two phones that
way in the past four months.

The small phone vibrated in her hand and she noted
the readout: “Mom.” She rolled her eyes and punched the green
handset icon.

“Yes, Mom?”

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Erin peered out the plane window at
the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Soon she recognized features
and spotted glowing green retention ponds, then the moonscape of
exhausted phosphate pits. She watched ant-sized cars crawl along
I-275. As the plane circled to make its landing, she spotted the
Howard Frankland Bridge and shuddered. She wasn’t a fan of bridges
or tunnels, or airplanes for that matter.

Although her parents lived in Bradenton, the closest
large airport was Tampa International. They didn’t mind the drive
over the Sunshine Skyway but Erin did. She hated the thought of
driving on the bridge with the world’s longest cable-stayed main
span. It frightened her to know that it had replaced an earlier
bridge that had been destroyed when a tanker – the Summit Venture –
collided with a pier during a storm. Much of that bridge collapsed
into Tampa Bay taking automobiles and a bus. Thirty-five people
died. Only one man survived the fall when his pickup truck landed
on the deck of the Summit Venture.

It was a horror story that ran through her mind each
time she visited. She couldn’t hold her breath while crossing the
long bridge; instead she panted and gritted her teeth.

“Relax, sweetie,” her mom said, reaching into the
back seat to pat Erin’s arm. “We’re almost there.”

Erin closed her eyes. The trip to her parent’s house
was cramped and uncomfortable since her mother sold their car and
purchased a pickup truck. “It’s easier since my poles fit nicely in
the back,” she explained. Erin’s father shrugged and smiled. He had
always tolerated his wife’s life-long obsession with fishing and
was compiling a cookbook based upon seafood recipes he had created
during their 42-year marriage. Without her contributions, he
reasoned, the cookbook wouldn’t exist.

Riding high in a truck cab meant Erin could see over
the sides of the bridge, something she couldn’t appreciate.

“Oh my, you should see this,” her mother said as she
looked through the window. “There are several large sharks
following that barge. That reminds me, you should have seen the
Mako shark we caught in May. We went out to the fishing grounds and
set a few lines. When it hit, I thought it was an amberjack, it
fought so hard. Your father had to help me with that one, didn’t
you Jake?”

He nodded and smiled at the memory of shark fin soup
and Cajun shark steak.

Erin tried to get her mind off the idea of being on
the bridge. “Well, have you two ever seen a manta ray up close?
Well I ...” Erin’s voice trailed off at the flood of memories.

“Never saw a manta, but I did hook a ...” her father
was cut off mid-sentence with a hand from her mother on his thigh.
They shared a glance that said, “Just let it go,” and rode in
silence the rest of the way.

Finally, the truck rolled down the crushed shell
driveway that ended at Jake and Beth Andersen’s retirement home.
The small stucco-covered concrete house had weathered thirty years
of Gulf Coast hurricanes and while it wasn’t the attractive condo
on the golf course that Jake had envisioned, its location on the
Intracoastal Waterway meant they could keep their Luhrs
sportfishing boat ready at the dock. The thirty-eight foot vessel
cost twice as much as the squat house, but the Andersens were
happy. They spent most of their time on the boat anyway since
living in Bradenton gave them easy access to the back bays and the
open Gulf of Mexico.

A small dog zipped around the corner of the house and
made a beeline for the truck. Yapping and standing on its hind
legs, it frantically greeted the Andersens. “Hello baby; come to
daddy,” Jake said, holding out his arms. The little dog leapt into
his arms and licked his face. “That’s my girl. Cookie loves her
daddy.”

Beth Andersen made a face. “Don’t let that dog kiss
you. I swear – you spoil her rotten.”

Once inside, Erin opened the door to the spare
bedroom and learned that Mariah had lied: no redecoration had
occurred. Fishing poles of all sizes lined one wall and tackle
boxes stuffed with lures and spoons and floats and fishing line
crowded the top of the dresser. Old life preservers were piled in
one corner while a bait box dominated the other. The room reeked of
fish and salt and mildew.

“Gag, Mom! You expect me to sleep in here?”

Bewildered, her mother asked, “Why? What’s wrong with
it?” She glanced around and saw the bait box. “Oh, that. Don’t
worry about that. I’ll have Jake move it outside.”

Erin made her way to the sliding glass doors at the
back of the room and slid them open. “Don’t you ever lock the
house?”

“What for? We’re out here on the fringe. I worry more
about the boat than the house, anyway,” her mother replied. “Jake!
Come help me clear this room.”

The three of them heaved and shoved until the most
offensive smelling of the fishing gear was stored on the patio.
Erin rummaged for air freshener in the hall closet, then saturated
the room with the aroma of lilacs.

Her mother’s nose crinkled as she returned with clean
sheets. “Ew; what’s that smell?”

“Not fish, thank god. Mom, how can you live like
this?”

“What are you talking about? Jake and I have a
perfectly fine home and a great boat. Now, don’t get too
comfortable. We have to leave here in twenty minutes to make the
Christmas boat parade.”

Erin enjoyed the parade more than she realized.
Hundreds of small and large boats, power and sail, with twinkling
lights and colorful Christmas decorations circled around the
harbor.

Her father relaxed in the captain’s chair, a cocktail
in his hand and his little dog on his lap. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is pretty,” she said. “I’m glad we
came.”

Her mother stepped out of the cabin. “Honey, where’s
that bottle of rum? Sorry, Erin, we’re out of vodka.”

“That’s okay, Mom. I don’t need anything.”

“Well, how about a glass of wine? I’ve got some
crackers and cheese spread, and there are some pretzels in the
locker.”

Erin smiled as her mother fished – unsuccessfully for
once – for party food. Beth could bait a hook faster than she could
spread Cheese Whiz on a cracker and filet a fish more easily than
fry an egg. With a husband who fancied himself a chef, why should
she care?

“Sure; a glass of wine would be fine.”

A couple of hours later both Erin and her father were
loopy and laughing. Cookie timidly made her way into Erin’s lap and
closed her eyes contentedly as her ears were stroked.

Beth, back at her helm, started the massive diesel
engine and turned the bow homeward. She smiled to herself, enjoying
the alcohol-induced camaraderie between father and daughter. Jake
always knew what to say to the girls, she thought. Her own careless
fumbling had only frustrated her daughters as they moved through
puberty and into their teens.

“Boys I understand,” Beth thought. As the little
sister of four older brothers she had learned quickly to toughen
up. Her tomboy ways had barely subsided when she met Jake Andersen
in high school. She fell head-over-heels in love with the shy farm
boy and after graduating from school they married.

She knew her daughter needed to find her own way. But
that didn’t mean a little fatherly advice couldn’t help.

Jake waited until the giggling stopped.

“Remember when we were crossing the Skyway Bridge
today?”

“My eyes were closed the whole time, but yes, I
remember.”

“Well, that’s fine, because I was driving. Your mom
is driving now, because I’m too impaired to helm the boat. We’re a
team that way.”

“You’re a great team.” Erin wondered where this was
going.

“Yes we are. But she’s just as afraid of bridges as
you.”

“Really?” Erin never noticed.

Her father took another sip of beer.

“Over time, she grew to trust me to get her across.
There are all kinds of dangers out there but if you have someone to
help, you can learn to live with them. You become one person after
a while.”

Erin thought about Spence and how protected she felt
with him, even sailing a thousand miles and back. But she would
never have what her parents have. Spence was gone forever.

Chapter Fourteen

The gallery opening was on the first day of spring --
the vernal equinox. Well, it was a good thing she didn’t have plans
or she would have had to decline despite Patricia’s personal
invite.

Not that she had plans lately. Her personal life
consisted of the occasional letter from Aidan and Sunday morning
telephone chats with her sister.

It was boring, really, but she wasn't complaining.
She would lounge in her nightgown, sip coffee and listen to Mariah
chat folks at home. About East of Eaton, the new bookstore in town
and about the murder trial of the surgeon who killed his wife and
almost got away. Erin heard about Tom’s mid-term exam woes, Ben’s
latest skateboarding accident, and how the baseball team lost its
batting coach when Mike Wolfson returned to the major leagues.
Turns out Alec Boone and Bridget Cormac really are more than just
friends and Mr. Jinks, Sammy’s cat, is a female. In fact, Jinks was
a mommy.

“Want a kitten? We’ve got four and they’re climbing
the curtains.”

“That’s hardly an endorsement.”

“Well, they are cute. But darn it, I’m not keeping
them. I don’t care what Jerry says.”

“Jerry,” Erin echoed. “Why does he care?”

“Oh, he says they’re great mousers. The truth is he
loves the little demons. He’ll walk around the farmyard with them
clawing their way up his jeans. He has one that he carries around
on his shoulder. He thinks they’re ‘clever’ like the talking
animals in a ‘Peter Rabbit’ book.”

Erin eagerly read Aidan’s letters. He had settled
into a loft, most of his time taken up with reading, class
discussions and research.

“If you change your mind, you can come live with me,”
he wrote. “Freelance from here if you like or I can take care of
you. I’ve received a grant from the National Science Foundation and
it provides me with housing and a generous stipend.”

When she wrote back, her letters were brief and
cheery, wishing him well and encouraging him with his research. She
ignored his repeated offers.

“I think your latest paper on coastal aquifers and
salinity balances was fascinating and I’m thrilled that your
laboratory has been funded for another year ….”

Strangely, she found herself anticipating the gala.
Being picked up in a limousine and whisked away to a party would be
a nice diversion.

She spent Thursday afternoon shopping for the Friday
night affair. She settled on a stunning strapless gown by Darius
Cordell. Form fitting, the gown ended in a puddle around her feet.
The bodice was studded with diamonds. Okay, rhinestones, but at
$1,500 they darn well should have been diamonds.

On Friday, she treated herself to a day at the spa,
first in a mud bath, then wearing an organic algae mask while one
person gave her a manicure and another a pedicure. During the
Swedish massage, Erin had a flashback to a summer morning at the
lake. A rush of blood flooded her face at the memory and she could
swear that she smelled cucumber. She peered across the salon and
saw a row of women relaxing on chaises, cucumber slices on their
eyelids.

What a waste, she thought, then giggled. It was the
first time she had been able to think of him without hurting.

Later than evening, Erin waited in her apartment
building doorway for the limo. She was afraid to step out; afraid
someone would trample her gown, spill something on the beautiful,
faux fur wrap. Her mother’s diamond pendants swung from her ears
and she clutched her white satin evening bag to her chest.