Page 41 of Haunted Ever After

When Nick first took over the café, he found something unexpected in the back room that made him smile. Old and weathered, it was a relic from Elmer’s day, but still relevant. Especially on days like today: a random Wednesday in early June, during the calm before the metaphorical storm. Tourist season was about to begin in earnest, so today was a great day to take time off and hang that old weathered sign on the door. CLOSED. GONE FISHING.

Nick was a terrible fisherman, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to wake up before the sun and amble to the pier in the predawn light. Vince was busy getting his boat in the water, and Nick’s job was to get the bait. Thankfully, Jimmy’s opened early.

Jimmy’s—the bait shack and kayak rental shop by the pier—looked like it was fashioned out of driftwood and held together with duct tape and a prayer. It had looked like that for as long as Nick could remember, and had somehow maintained that same appearance of “about to collapse” through several decades and at least four hurricanes. Jimmy himself didn’t look much better: with a cracked and aggressively tanned face that showed every minute of decades spent in the sun, he was usually barefoot in board shorts with a regular rotation of stained and faded Hawaiian shirts. But his eyes were alert, twinkling beneath his battered Vietnam Veteran hat, and he gave Nick a smile when he approached.

“How’s that girlie of yours?” Jimmy got down a battered five-gallon bucket and started scooping minnows out of the tank. He hadn’t charged Nick a deposit in years; he always remembered to bring the bucket back.

Nick shook his head. “Not my girlie, I’m afraid.” He’d never had a chance, had he? Sure, he thought they’d been building toward something. Cassie had been a breath of fresh air in a life that had become stale, and he’d been looking forward to finding out what would develop between them.

Jimmy shook his head in sympathy. “You fuck it up already, boy?”

“In record time,” he said wryly. If only this conversation would end in record time.

But Jimmy barked out a laugh that was more like a wheeze and reached for his can of beer, cracking it open with one deft hand while handing Nick his bait bucket with the other. “Been there,” he said. “The trick is in how you apologize.”

“I dunno.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think this is something I can fix with ‘sorry.’ ” It had been almost two weeks now since that day at her house when he’d lost his mind, and they hadn’t spoken since. He’d seen her, of course—this town was microscopic. But Cassie was impressive, the way she could avoid him like they had all the space in the world. If they were at the grocery store at the same time, she’d linger in the frozen food aisle until he was done with produce. She’d even managed to keep the entire pier between them during the town’s Memorial Day picnic.

“Then don’t make it about sorry.” Jimmy took a swig from his Miller High Life, the gold can glistening in the morning sun. It was noon somewhere, right? “Sometimes it’s gotta be more than that.” He pointed at Nick with his beer. “If she’s worth it, you’ll figure out what that is.”

It was very, very early in the morning, and Nick was getting life advice from a borderline alcoholic who probably didn’t own shoes. But thankfully the sound of Vince’s boat cut through the early morning quiet, and Nick was able to escape, hauling the bait bucket to the boat slips adjacent to the pier. He took a deep breath of salt air and looked out over the water at the sky, pink with dawn. He needed this.

Not that he ever caught anything. But it was an excuse for Vince to get his boat out: a vintage teak Chris-Craft that he’d bought when one of his old songs was used for a commercial, then licensed for a film. There was a cooler full of sandwiches and beer, kept very separate from the bait bucket after one disastrous afternoon a couple years ago. Sometimes they talked, but not always. More often than not Vince sang under his breath as he cast out his line, a hand tapping out the rhythm of one of his old hits against the hull. These days were about enjoying the sunrise: watching the dark indigo of the barely-still-night sky transform slowly to deep pink and finally the blue sky of morning. It was about relishing the quiet morning, the soft lapping of the water against the boat, before the heat set in and ruined everything.

Nick didn’t want to talk, as Vince was well aware. They’d already been through everything, over a couple longneck Buds at The Cold Spot one afternoon. No need to hash it all out again. Instead, they cast out their lines and settled down for a leisurely morning.

“Finally saw those guitars that Jo wanted me to look at. She only rescheduled on me twice.” Vince took a sip from his travel mug of coffee—not quite time for that first beer of the day yet.

“Yeah?” Nick didn’t have anything to say to that, so he just made the appropriate sound, letting Vince keep going.

“Yeah. They’re good. The Strat’s in amazing shape—I told her she should sell that one online. She’ll get more for it than just letting it collect dust in the back of her shop.” He fell silent, squinting as he scanned the water, and there was something about his face in the early morning light that reminded Nick that Vince was a lot older than he was. He sometimes forgot that Vince had lived a whole life before moving to this town.

Finally, Vince let out a long breath. “Anyway. None of them were the right one.”

“The right one?” That was a new one on Nick. “I thought you were just helping her appraise them. I didn’t know you were looking for one yourself.” He didn’t know shit about music, but that could make sense. Didn’t guitarists have collections of favorite instruments?

“You never know.” Vince kept his eyes out on the water. “Good to keep your eyes open for the right one. You never know when it’s going to come into your life.”

Nick made a noncommittal sound and reached for the cooler. Screw it. If Jimmy could have a beer this early, so could he.

After an hour or so of catching nothing, they reeled their lines in and Vince started up the boat again, steering them toward the causeway. The bridge formed an arc over the water, leading away from Boneyard Key and to the highway. Early morning sunlight reflected off tall buildings in the distance. It was getting close to rush hour, and Nick could picture the highway packed with cars, on their way to offices and chain stores. Life and bustle that Nick knew nothing about. That had never been his life.

But it had been Cassie’s. A life that she clearly missed. She’d made that clear when she’d started talking about selling her house. Recouping some of her losses.

“You ever miss it?” Nick jerked his head toward the mainland. “City life, bright lights, all that stuff?”

Vince scoffed. “Nah. I mean, I got some good memories, but I like where I am now. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“Yeah. Not my thing, either.” But his gaze lingered. If she chose to return to the life she’d left behind, he wasn’t going to try and stop her. He’d forfeited that right on that Tuesday in her kitchen.

Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep at night he’d hear himself lashing out, saying shit he’d never meant to say. Stuff he didn’t even really believe. He had no idea where any of it had come from; all he could remember was the anger he felt. The angry bees in his chest, the buzzing in his head.

Maybe it had come from her talking about leaving. He looked out toward the bridge again. Just like his family had left. Just like Madison had left. It must have pushed a particular button inside of him. A button that he didn’t even know he had.

The morning grew hotter and neither of them had caught anything worth keeping; eventually Vince pointed the boat toward home. As Nick helped him tie it up, a breeze cut across the back of his neck, cold and startling. He looked up sharply at the dark clouds that had gathered just offshore.

Vince saw them too. “Storm’s coming. I thought it might. It was getting too damn hot out there today.” In contrast, the temperature was now dropping steadily. Time for an afternoon thunderstorm.

It was a good one. Nick had just enough time to return the empty bucket to Jimmy’s and get to his apartment over the café before the deluge. While the rain fell, it looked like Armageddon outside, or at least the back half of a hurricane. But within a half hour it was gone; the sun blazed down, drying the puddles from the sidewalks in a matter of minutes. Soon the only remnants of the storm were the remaining clouds that were more of a dirty gray than a fluffy white.

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