Chapter 7: My Pier

Lance stood in the doorway of my wheelhouse with his bandage and his good navy suit.

His face was the color of a stop sign.

Rem didn't take his hands off me.

He took them out from under my shirt, slowly, and put them on my waist instead.

"Morning," he said to his brother.

"Are you kidding me?" Lance's voice cracked. "Her? You're doing this to me with her?"

"I'm not doing anything to you. You're not in the room."

"I'm standing right here."

"Then knock."

I pulled my jacket straight and picked my cap off the hook.

"Out of my wheelhouse, Lance. Passengers aren't allowed up here."

"I'm not a passenger. Liza called me crying. You threw her off a public ferry."

"I asked her to leave. A full car deck helped."

"Outside," he snapped. "Now. We're talking."

"We're done talking. I told you that with a bottle."

But he was already clattering down the stairs, shouting my name, and the whole dock could hear him.

I looked at Rem.

He shrugged. "Your boat."

So I went down.

The Salt Pier at half past eight on a Monday was all noise and ice.

The fish market had its shutters up. Gulls screamed on the net sheds. Men in rubber aprons were hosing down the boards.

Lance stood in the middle of it all in his loafers.

"You want to humiliate my wife on camera?" he said loudly. "Fine. Let's talk about your job."

"Let's not."

"I talked to some people at Conway Ferries this morning. You know what they think about captains who assault their passengers?"

"I didn't touch her."

"You touched me." He pointed at his bandage. "Eleven stitches. That's assault, Etta. That's a police report."

The hosing stopped.

Down the row, the fish market lady put her hands on her hips.

She'd been selling me crab since I was a little girl in a yellow raincoat.

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