Chapter 12: What I Didn't Tell You

The Marigold was back in Slip Fourteen when we got off the evening ferry.

Gus Philbrick sat on her stern in his yellow slicker, stirring a pot on the little propane burner, and he didn't even look up.

"You're late. I made chowder for two."

"There's three of us," I said.

"Then somebody's eating less."

Cora had stayed on the island for the ferry after ours.

She had asked for a few hours alone, and I'd said yes, because I could not bear to say anything else.

Ansel stepped over the rail behind me in his city shoes, holding his phone.

"Every card's gone," he said. "The company account, the truck, the fuel line."

"Congratulations," said Gus. "You're a deckhand."

"I own the wharf."

"You own the idea of the wharf. The bank owns the rest."

"You're enjoying this."

"I am enjoying this very much. Sit."

Ansel sat on an overturned bucket with his bandaged hand on his knee.

He looked like a man who had never in his life eaten dinner on a bucket.

Gus handed him a tin bowl and a spoon.

"Careful," Gus said. "It's hot, and you've got your mother's manners."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you'll put it down and say, thank you, and wait for somebody to refill it."

"Eat it, boy."

Ansel ate.

After a minute, he said, with real surprise, "This is good."

"My wife's recipe. She'd be thrilled to hear a Rooke say so."

I laughed, and it surprised me, and it hurt in my chest.

Gus looked at me over the pot.

Then he put the spoon down.

"Wynne," he said. "I owe you something."

"Gus, you don't."

"In April Beatrice Rooke came down to the dock and asked me who darned your scarf."

"She said she was knitting something for the church fair and wanted to match the stitch."

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