Page 7 of Stony Point Summer
“This is my favorite time of year, late summer,” Shane says. “Lobstering this past week, the seas were so calm. The boat skimmed like a stone across the smooth bay.”
“Did you and the boys bring in a good catch?”
“We did. But you know …” Shane sits back now while clasping his hands behind his head. “It’s not like it used to be. The environment dictates a disturbing trend.”
“The environment does?”
“Warming waters. They keep the lobsters moving north toward Canada, to thecolderwaters they like. And lately, the captains have to either take a hit on their numbers, or work even harder to trap the same amount of lobsters they did only a few years ago.”
“So wouldn’t that affectyourjob, too?”
“Absolutely. It’s one of the reasons I leftConnecticutfifteen years ago. Lobstering was drying up here. At the time, Maine was the place to be. The fleets were riding high on the northern coast.”
“Boom times?”
“In Maine, for sure. Us fishermen could work with no worries, practicallylivingout at sea—pickings were that good. But no more. The signs are there that those good times, they are a-changin’.”
Celia stands and stacks their empty plates. “You still have enough work, though, right?”
“I do. But I’m paying attention to the numbers, something the boys up north don’t really care to talk much about.” Shane stands then, too. “Here, let me help,” he says, picking up their glasses.
Celia puts her hand on his. Her touch is soft, but insistent. “I won’t hear of it. You’re tired. So please, relax. Go sit,” she says, waving him off. “Put your feet up. I’ll just be a few minutes.”
Leaving a kiss on Celia’s cheek, first, he then walks to the living room. But he doesn’t sit, doesn’t rest. Instead, he walks from the sofa lined with pillows and a knitted throw, to the seashell vase on a painted end table, to a pine shelf on the board-and-batten walls. There, he picks up a large clear Mason jar filled with money. There are dollar bills, fives, even a few tens loosely folded into the jar. Shane takes it to the kitchen, where Celia’s finishing up at the sink.
“Question for you,” Shane says from the doorway. He waits as Celia grabs a towel, dries her hands and turns to him. “Your happiness jar?” he asks. “Seriously? It’s filled with … money?”
Celia laughs. Laughs and sets down her towel before crossing the kitchen and taking the jar from him. “This,” she says, shaking the money inside, “is myswearjar.”
“Swear jar?”
“Oh, you betcha. I’m telling you, there are lots of sailors’ mouths here at Stony Point. I don’t know if it’s living near the sea that does it or what. But I’d just about had it with some of the language around the baby. So now? For any swear said in front of Aria, the guilty party must pay up.”
“Ah. And from the looks of it, you’ve got part of her college tuition covered.”
“No kidding.” Celia sets the jar on the counter, then turns back, taking Shane’s hands in hers. “And hey, I’m really glad you came early and surprised me. Now I wonder if you can help me out with a teeny-tiny something,” she adds, tugging him across the room toward an enclosed back porch.
“I am at your disposal,” Shane tells her—not resisting, not for one second, the pull of Celia Gray.
* * *
“Elsareallyneeds these first thing tomorrow, for decorations on the terrace,” Celia says as they walk onto a screened-in porch. There are painted wicker chairs there, along with a large Boston fern on a wooden plant stand. A ceiling fan turns; a basket of shells sits on a wicker trunk. But Celia leads him past all that to a long painted table abutting the back wall. Bunches of marsh grasses and wildflowers are laid out beside a line of vintage Mason jars. “Can I put you to work?” Celia asks, motioning to the table.
“You know what they say.” Shane pulls out a chair and sits at that table. “Many hands make light work. It’s as true here as on the boats, hauling traps. Just tell me what to do.”
What happens next is simply this. Celia leans close, her arm brushing his as she shows him how to fill each jar. Her voice nearly whispers as she divvies up the grasses and flowers. She sits beside him then, stuffing jars, arranging twigs and flowers and blades of grass.
And there’s more. On the still evening air, the sound of distant waves lapping at shore carries to them. Over and over. Seagulls cry, their calls plaintive.
Something else happens, too.
Shane feels oddly vulnerable. He’s felt this way before, when the two of them settle in together quietly like this. It’s what got him nervous at that little seafood shack, Lobsterland, when he took Celia there for dinner not long ago. The quiet between them leaves him feeling somehow exposed. Like she knows a different side of him, one no one has in years.
Celia doesn’t appear to notice this vulnerability as she fusses with the wildflowers on the table. “Are you unpacked yet?” she casually asks.
“No.” Shane arranges tall dried grasses in another jar. “I pretty much parked my truck, tossed my duffels inside and came straight to your place.”
“You didn’t!”
