Page 10 of The Woodcarver's Model
Boyfriend. Of course he has a boyfriend. Why would anybody that perfect not have a boyfriend?
A few moments later Kyle returned dragging a buff twenty-something porn star/gymnast with him. Rob wasn’t sure which would be his next move—throwing himself or the porn star off the ship.
* * * *
When the ship docked, Rob got into his Jeep and headed off. He had plenty of time to catch the 3:50 ferry departing from Nanaimo to Gabriola Island. Then it was a short ten-minute private ferry ride to Marsh Island.
On the ferry from Nanaimo, Rob asked around to see if anyone knew anything about Marsh Island. He found one talkative passenger who didn’t know much about the island itself, but did know a bit about the married couple that ran the ferry, in spite of the powerful BC Ferries Services’ regional monopoly. She explained the rumour was that the only way the McKinnons had managed to hold on to the Marsh Island licence was due to the self-serving influence of their local Member of the Legislative Assembly, Hugh McCutcheon. Frances and Francis McKinnon’s opinions were respected by the islanders and a word from them could win or lose him a good number of votes.
Rob pulled up to the Marsh Island ferry dock in good time for the next crossing. A large, not-so-pleasant woman sauntered up to the driver’s window. Her nametag identified her as Frances. She put her foot on the running board and leaned her two-hundred-and-ten-pound bulk towards Rob. The Jeep heeled noticeably to one side.
“Ye-ah?” she said.
“One passage to Marsh Island,” Rob replied.
“You not coming back?” she countered. Her jaw kept moving after the question which confused Rob until he realised she had a plug of chewing tobacco tucked in her cheek.
“Well, yeah. In a few days if all goes well.”
“You comin’ back, you gotta pay for a return trip.”
“Oh. Okay. One return ticket, please. How much will that be?”
She pondered this complex question a moment.
“Well…return for a car’s fifty dollars. That’s Canadian dollars.”
“Fifty Canadian it is,” he said in as friendly a manner as he could muster and started to reach for his wallet.
“You goin’ with it?”
“Well…that’s kinda the way it works, isn’t it?”
“Usually, but I ain’t no mind reader.” She just stood there staring at him. Rob wasn’t sure if she was putting him on, or if her problem ran deeper.
“How much for a car and driver, then?” he offered back.
“You don’t live there, do you?”
“No.” What he wanted to say was,If I lived there, would I have to ask these stupid questions?
“Carwithdriver…non-resident driver’d be”—she did the math in her head—“sixty bucks.”
“Sixty bucks it is. Do you take credit?”
“Prefer cash.”
“But youdotake credit if I don’t have the cash, right?”
She chewed her plug of tobacco and pondered. “No. Not set up for cards.”
“Okay, cash it is.” Rob reached into his wallet and pulled out three twenties and handed them to her. She took the bills and carefully counted them out.
“Git on.” She pointed to the small, flat-decked scow called theFrances 2that lay in front of him. He wondered if renting the pontoon boat would have been a safer choice.
When the small ferry fired up its engines, Rob fired up his courage and approached Frances, who was standing at the bow.
“Since I’ve invested so much in this voyage, I was wondering if you would answer a question?” he asked.
