Page 82 of The Oscar Escape
He bit back a grin as he removed his camera from the bag.
“Do you think I’mcrazierthan usual?” she asked, modifying her question. “Are you capturing the crazy?”
He held up the camera, pointed it at her face, and snapped a pic. “I think you’re doing a good thing for these people.”
“And for myself,” she admitted. An uneasiness came over her that had nothing to do with the water as another click pierced the air.
He lowered the camera. “It’s not bad to look out for yourself. You and I have lives beyond this place, right?”
What a strange reply.
She didn’t have a second to spend on Oscar’s word choice. The boat slowed, and she surveyed a line of scarlet-colored buoys bobbing in the water. They extended a decent way out.
“Mrs. Elliott,” Del called, abandoning the cab to attend to the pulley device.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said, tacking on a jaunty salute.
Del shook his head. “Put on some gloves and oil pants, then get the gaffe. Oscar can show you where to find the gear.”
“Gaffe?” she asked as Oscar handed her a pair of rubbery red overalls.
Del pointed to a long stick with a hook on the end that was secured to the outside wall of the boat’s cab. “The gaffe.”
“That’s a hook,” she corrected, wiggling into the rubber pants.
“It’s a gaffe on the Etta’s Escape,” Del insisted.
She caught Oscar’s eye.
“That’s the name of the boat,” he supplied and handed her a pair of gloves.
“Aw,” she cooed, “that’s so sweet that you named your boat after Etta. How long have you guys been together? And did I see your names carved into the driftwood bench?”
Del looked like he’d just sucked a lemon or several lemons. Nope, more like a bushel of lemons. “There’s no time for chitchat on a lobster boat.”
“Just trying to be nice,” she murmured, then procured the gaffe, which was a hook on a long stick. She held the fishing tool like she was prepared to do battle. “I’m gaffed. Let’s get gaffing!”
Del rolled his eyes. “See that first red buoy? Hook it with the gaffe and bring it in.”
She swung the gaffe like a cowgirl, roping calves at a rodeo.
“Easy now. Aim for the buoy,” Del instructed.
She couldn’t mess around—and she didn’t want to. Zeroing in on the target, she exhaled a slow breath. “Come on, water gods or sea sirens or mermaids or whatever dwells in these waters, help a gal out,” she whispered, then dipped the gaffe beneath the buoy. She gave a little tug and shrieked when she felt it catch. “I got it. I gaffed. I’m a gaffer.” She glanced over her shoulder and spied Oscar recording a few paces away.
“You’re not done yet. Now you’ve got to haul it in,” Del instructed.
She could hear the smile in his voice.
She doubled her resolve. Deadly set on being the best goddamned gaffer in the state of Maine, she coaxed that red buoy toward the boat like . . . “I’msternmanning,” she called to Oscar, running on a stream of pure adrenaline.
“Like a boss,” he cheered.
The exertion of guiding the buoy from the ocean’s grip and into her control sent her body buzzing.
Perhaps there was something to this lobstering life.
Del took over and hauled in the red braided rope. “I’ll land the trap. Take a step back,” he ordered, feeding the rope into the pulley thing. A motor kicked on, and the pulley wheel spun into action, grumbling and grinding as it wound in the line. Seconds later, a wooden dome-shaped object with some kind of netting broke through the surface like it was gasping for air.
