After leaving a vague message requesting an interview, Anders turned his attention to Hector, who was towering over his desk, his T-shirt taut over his ridiculously bulging biceps (“Grass-fed New Zealand whey protein, man,” Hector had whispered to him once, as though he were offering him the secret to the universe, though Anders had never asked) and half tucked into the waist of his khaki shorts, which would look haphazard if the hem of his shirt weren’t tucked in at the exact same spot (two inches to the right of his pants button) every single day.
“Dude, ever hear of sunscreen?” Hector asked, his lip turned up in disgust.
Ping!
Anders glanced down at his arms, where the skin had begun to scale and peel off in thin white crumbles. He sighed again. “What do you need, Hector?”
“The camera. Log says you checked it out yesterday. I got a game tonight.”
Ping! Ping!
Anders dug in the shoulder bag beside his chair and produced the camera for Hector.
“Thanks, man.”
Ping!
“You gonna get that?” Hector nodded toward Anders’s computer screen. Anders glanced at the message box, even though he already knew it was his sister. He’d been so busy, he hadn’t spoken to her since missing Labor Day weekend, and if her last text messages were any indication, she was pissed. He moved the mouse and clicked on the X to minimize the box.
“Porn chat room?” Hector gave him a knowing grin.
“No,” Anders replied indignantly.
“Sure,” Hector said, still grinning, then his squirrel attention span got distracted by the five-inch stack of papers on Anders’s typically spotless and organized desk. “What’s all that?”
“Research.” Anders had decided if he was going to keep up this climate change story ruse, he should probably start digging into the studies Piper had given him, particularly in case she ever asked about them. But they were dense academic files and it took him most of the previous night to get through just two of them.
The one-word answer was enough to satisfy Hector’s limited curiosity. He turned and sauntered back to his desk across the office, his leather flip-flops slapping the industrial carpet with each step, causing Anders to roll his eyes at Hector’s ridiculous attire—this was a workplace, for Pete’s sake.
But on the other hand—Anders paused and gave his head a shake. God damn it, he muttered to himself. He knew he was going to regret what he was about to say. “Hey, Hector, wait up.”
Hector stopped and turned his head.
“Where do you get your . . .” Anders gestured his hand at his own shirt and pants. “You know . . .”
Hector cocked his eyebrows and grinned. Anders could see the gray gum squeezing out between his clenched teeth. “My effortless ability to be cool?”
Anders closed his eyes. He regretted it already.
Chapter 13
Two Months Before the Storm
January on Frick Island, everyone agreed, was the worst month. Until February, anyway. And then February was definitely the worst. It was so cold, so wet, so miserable that only fifty-five or so of the ninety-ish people left on the island stayed for the entire winter, living in their battened-down houses like grizzly bears hibernating until spring. To make matters worse, this particular first week of February, a body-wracking cough was winding its way through the island, showing up like an unwanted houseguest and keeping everyone indoors, under blankets.
Piper had somehow been able to avoid it thus far, but looking at Tom’s pallor where he sat at the kitchen table, intently repairing a scrape net, she thought he might not have been so lucky.
“Tom, you feeling OK?” She cringed immediately when she said it. It was the third time she had asked him that in as many hours. And she knew he wasn’t. February was the hardest month for most watermen on the island. Tired of being cooped up and docile, they were ready to be back on the water. Not just because they were eager to start making money again but because, like German shepherds, they were most content when there was hard work to be done. For Tom, who mostly felt ambivalent about crabbing, fishing, and oystering, February was difficult for a different reason: It was the month he lost his father six years earlier.
Tom grunted, all his concentration on the mending task at hand, and Piper turned her gaze back to the menagerie of puzzle pieces in front of her, squinting at the swirls of purple for the one piece she currently needed. “Aha!” She spied it, up toward the corner of the table, plucked it up in her pincer grasp, and slotted it into the perfectly sized hole in the middle of the irises.
She glanced over at Tom again. He often teased her for her overenthusiasm in doing puzzles—her small shouts of victory or glee after completing the rectangular edge at the beginning or when discovering a particularly elusive piece. He at least jovially rolled his eyes or cocked a brow in her direction, a grin turning up one corner of his mouth. But today he just sat with his overly long needle, his brows furrowed, face solemn.
Piper frowned. Though he did often get this way around the anniversary of his father’s death, her gut told her something else was eating at him. Something more. Maybe it was the visit with his mom two nights earlier, where it was impossible to ignore how much she was slurring her words over dinner (though they did ignore it) and how she nodded off in the middle of a bite of squash pie. And of course, there was the matter of the worms he had just discovered in his hull, leaving it looking like a tatted lace doily—and the fact that they didn’t really have the money to fix it. Or maybe it was his shoulder—he had mentioned last night that it was acting up again. It hadn’t really been right since he dislocated it last spring hauling in an overloaded net of snapper at a bad angle.
But at least he hadn’t brought up that other thing. Not in weeks. After their last big fight about it, Piper hoped he’d put it to bed for good.
She stood up, as if to distance herself from the thought, and walked over to the two-burner stove to turn on the kettle. When the water was ready she poured two cups of tea and took one to Tom. “Here you go,” she said, sliding it onto the table in front of him. He paused, holding on to the needle and net with one hand, and used his free one to gently squeeze Piper’s elbow in gratitude.
“Oh my god,” Piper exclaimed, when she felt the searing heat from Tom’s palm. She touched the back of her fingers to his forehead. “Tom, you are burning up!”
As if on cue, Tom sneezed. “You need to be in bed,” she said. He just shook his head, pulling a handkerchief out of his back pocket and dabbing at his nose. “I’m fine,” he said. “I need to finish this and then I’ve got to get down to the docks to help BobDan pull the boat out of the water.”
“No, absolutely not. I’ll call Steve and he can help. You need to rest,” she said in her best firm voice. “Come on. All of that can wait.”