Page 75 of For a Goode Time Call…
“I just…I care about her. And I felt like she was…using me, I guess, as a way of avoiding it. And I didn’t want that for her.”
Liv nodded. “I understand. And, like I said, as much as she didn’t like it, it did work, in that it has her really thinking about things.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Some advice from her mother?”
“Please,” I said.
“Give her time. Once her temper is up, it’s slow coming down, and she’s not always very quick to listen to reason, or be rational when she’s angry. But once she comes down and has gotten her anger out, she works things through in her head. So just…give her time.” She tilted her head, eying me. “You care about her?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You love her?”
I sighed. “Don’t know that I’ve ever really been in love. So I ain’t sure I can…wrap it up in those terms. What I told her is, I don’t believe in falling in love. I believe in intentionally growing love. So I can say I want to be with her, to grow a relationship with her. And that’s why I wanted to see her not use me as an avoidance mechanism—’cause if she’s doing that, any relationship we have wouldn’t be…what it could be or should be. Because she wouldn’t be who she could be. I don’t know how to put it any better than that.”
She nodded. “Well, I understand your meaning perfectly, and I agree. I just know that she’s going to need time to work this through.” A pause, a look at me. “It may take a while. She has a lot to work through.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is, politely, she don’t want to see me.”
A shrug. “She didn’t say so, but that was the subtext to much of her ranting last night and this morning. But it’s also clear to me that she has feelings for you, or she wouldn’t be so upset. So my advice comes from wanting her to be happy. If that includes being with you, she’s going to need time to dig through all this, and if I can get her to agree, perhaps even see a therapist.”
I sat, and thought, and came to a decision. “Well, Mrs. Goode. I appreciate your time and your advice. I think I’ll take it.” I stood up. “How and when you tell her you saw me is up to you. I know myself well enough to know if I’m around town, I’m gonna go nuts wanting to see her, talk to her, bug her, make things better, go back on what I said just to be around her. So if she really does just need time to get this shit in her head and heart worked out, then I gotta give her that time and space.” I scuffed my foot on the step. “I got a cabin up north of Anchorage a ways. I’m due for a hiatus from things anyway, so I guess I’ll just head up there and stay scarce. If and when she wants to see me, tell her my cousin Juneau will know how to find me.”
She frowned. “Won’t you have a cell phone or something?”
I just laughed. “Well, for one thing, where my cabin is, there ain’t even any roads, not so much as a two-track. It’s several hours’ hike in from the nearest two-track. So, cell phones, even if I was to bring mine, which I won’t, sure as shit don’t work. Not within fifty-some miles of where I’ll be.”
Liv nodded. “I understand. Lucas and Ramsey specialize in places like that.”
I smiled. “Well, Lucas and Ramsey specialize in getting there, in showing people how to get there. I grew up there.” A shrug. “Well, not in that cabin specifically, but a place a lot like it.”
She watched me descend the steps. “Ink, I know she’s upset right now, and I do think perhaps you could have been a bit more politic but, overall, I think Cassandra is very lucky to have found you.”
I shook my head. “Mrs. Goode, ma’am, I’m the lucky one.”
She just rested her chin in her hand, smiling. “Good answer. Which means it’s mutual.” She slid a cell phone out of her purse, glanced at the screen, and put it back. “I have to go, I have an early client meeting.”
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Goode.”
“Call me Liv, please.”
Another wave, and I walked away, bare feet padding through the dew-damp grass, leaving footprints on the sidewalk.
About thirty minutes later, I was paying a call to Brock Badd—I found him at the slip where he parked his seaplane—tinkering in the engine compartment. He didn’t hear me at first, having a small Bluetooth speaker perched on the strut nearby, classic rock blaring from it.
Not wanting to cause him to bump his head, I sat cross-legged on the dock, watching him crank a wrench while cursing floridly and continuously. Finally, he pulled out, frustrated, smacking the wrench against his open palm with one last vicious curse.
“Problem?” I asked.
He glanced over at me, blinking in surprise. “Ink. Didn’t know you were there.” He wiggled the wrench. “Damn bolt is stuck like a motherfucker. I like to think I’m pretty strong, but that bitch is on there.”
“I don’t know much about fixin’ shit like that, but I got more bulk to put behind a pull. So I can try, if you like.”
He reached in, fit the wrench on the bolt, and waved at it. “Go to town, buddy.”
I leaned in, peering at the engine compartment—part of the issue was that the bolt he was trying to loosen was in very tight quarters without much room to maneuver. I didn’t think much of my chances, but I grabbed the wrench and pulled, straining as hard as I could.
Nothing.
I tried again, and this time with one hand while smacking at my fist with the other, growling through the strain. I felt it begin to give, just a tiny bit. So I paused, sucked in a deep breath, held it, gritted my teeth, and then put all my strength into pulling at the long-handled socket wrench. Growling through gritted teeth, I felt the bolt give a bit more, and then a bit more, and I renewed my effort until I felt light-headed, and this time I added all my weight.
