Changing Tides, page 14
He knocked again, and Rachel swung the door open, greeted with the sight of his back. His hands were clasped, and when he turned around, his hair was windblown, and his cheeks pink from the cold.
“Hey.” He grinned. “Ready?”
“Definitely.”
Rachel stepped out, but as she turned to lock the door behind her, Joe said, “I like the paintings.”
“You noticed?” she asked even as her heart skipped a beat.
“Of course.”
Rachel hid her smile as she locked the door. She had a feeling Joe was the type that noticed everything. “I bought some paint too. With any luck, I’ll have beautiful smoky-blue walls instead of puke green. I can hardly wait.”
Joe placed a hand on his chest and mock-gasped. “How dare you cover that beautiful green with ordinary white. That green has grown fine with age. You can’t just buy that color anywhere.”
“That green makes me nauseated every time I look at it,” she said, and he laughed.
They made their way to his car, which turned out to be a big white pickup truck. Without hesitation, he followed her to the passenger side, opened her door, and helped her in before rounding the front and taking his own seat.
Sinking down into the upholstery, she closed her eyes and inhaled. A man’s vehicle said a lot about himself, and Joe’s truck smelled faintly of soap, coffee, and peppermint gum—an oddly intoxicating combination. There were no frills or bells and whistles, but it was clean and well cared for, and when he turned the key in the ignition, the engine roared to life.
They headed south through town. He kept one hand on the wheel while he drove with his other arm slung casually over the center console, and it took everything inside her not to reach out and grab his hand in her own.
“So . . .” She pushed down the butterflies wreaking havoc in her chest. “Where are you taking me?” All day, she wondered. Seeing as how the majority of nice restaurants were closed for the winter, there weren’t a ton of options.
“Do you like lobster?” He glanced over at her.
“Do I like Christmas?” When he laughed, she added, “Of course. I love it.”
“Well, this place happens to have the best lobster in town. Their crab dip is pretty phenomenal too.”
Her brow creased as she wracked her brain for where he could be taking her. The most popular place for lobster tail was The Breakwater, but their high-end menu didn’t garner a ton of business from locals, especially in the off-season, which is why they shuddered their doors until May.
Not five minutes later, she noticed they’d entered a residential part of town, just yards from the sound, and it wasn’t until Joe pulled into the driveway of a small, cedar-shingled Cape Cod that she realized where he’d taken her.
“Is this your place?”
“Best lobster in town.” His dimple winked as he shut off the ignition, then turned to her. “Is this okay?” He nodded toward the house.
Rachel’s stomach squeezed at the intimacy of it. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
Before she could say anything else, he exited the truck and came around to open her door and help her down.
“So you cook?”
“I do.” Joe’s hand gripped hers. It was warm and strong, slightly rough and calloused from years of manual labor. And when he guided her toward the front door, Rachel thought with him leading, she just might follow him anywhere.
From what Rachel could see, the house was just as he described. Though it was small, it was quaint and well kept. The decking appeared to be relatively new, and the yard well kept. Lights illuminated the windows from within, rendering a welcoming ambient glow.
“Growing up, we didn’t have much, but food, particularly seafood, was the one thing we never went without. My father prided himself on filling our table with the best, and he was a great cook, too, always preparing the day’s catch and experimenting with different things and ingredients.”
He unlocked the door and swung it open, then tugged Rachel inside.
“Wait a minute. So, you caught our dinner yourself?” Rachel said in disbelief. Though he was a fisherman, to think that he’d spent his time, first catching their dinner, then preparing it made her feel oddly special.
“Of course,” he said like it was no big deal, then hung his keys on a hook by the door. Without saying anything, he reached for her coat, which she shook off her arms and handed to him. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Love some.”
Rachel moved through a small foyer and into a living room that expanded into an open concept kitchen with high ceilings and a small dining room. The cottage was quaint, and it was obvious he’d paid attention to the details, with thick white molding and pale gray cabinets that perfectly contrasted with the black stone countertops. In the center of the kitchen, an island held a large bowl of fruit, and a newspaper sat folded beside it as if he’d read it that morning and left it there.
In the living room, a dark blue couch and chairs with plush cushions faced a small stone fireplace where bright orange flames devoured the wood inside. The place was minimalist but cozy and warm. Everything about it made her want to curl up on the couch with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and talk for hours.
While Joe uncorked the wine at the island, Rachel headed for a bookcase with dozens of worn paperbacks and framed photographs. On closer inspection, they all involved fishing of some form—old fishing boats and men displaying the days’ catch, some in black and white and others in color.
Her gaze drifted to one in particular. A man about their age, standing beside a young boy she recognized as Joe. His hand was on his shoulder, and he gazed down at him with a twinkle in his eyes.
“My Dad and I.” Joe appeared beside her, offering a glass of white wine, which she took with a smile.
“He was proud of you.”
The corners of Joe’s lips lifted, and he nodded as Rachel’s gaze drifted over him. He wore jeans and a soft blue flannel, rolled at the sleeves, and slightly open at the neck to reveal a triangle of the smooth, tan skin beneath.
“That was a good day,” he said, staring at the photo. “It was the height of the season and he let me pick where we went. That day, we scored more flounder in the short time we were out on the water than he’d caught in a year. He said it was beginner’s luck.”
“Was it?”
He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, still staring at the photo as though he were reliving that day. “When he told me I could choose . . . I had this gut feeling.” He moved his hand to the place just below his diaphragm. “Right here. Some basic instinct, like the water calling to me.”
“Does that happen often?”
Joe blinked and glanced down at her. “Not all the time, but, yeah. The times when I listen, it always works out.”
“And when you don’t?”
“Then you make a mistake. Sometimes, it means nothing. You have a crappy day or don’t make your quota. And other times . . .” His eyes darkened as he continued, “Mistakes on the water aren’t like ones on dry land. They cost lives.”
He went quiet, and wherever his mind had gone, Rachel sensed it was a painful place, so she gave into the silence until the darkness in his eyes dissipated, and she cleared her throat, asking, “Do most fishermen have that . . . ,” she hesitated, unsure of how to say it, “gut instinct?”
“Some, but not all.” He smiled at her, then headed back into the kitchen, her cue it was time to shift the conversation.
Joe strolled over to the oven, where he removed a dish. Curls of steam rose from the porcelain as he sat it on the island, and Rachel’s mouth watered.
“Can I help?” she asked when he began slicing a baguette with deft movements.
“I’ve got it.” He placed everything on a platter, then grabbed a slice of the bread and loaded it with a spoonful of the creamy concoction. “Try this,” he said, handing it over. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Rachel took it, keeping her eyes on him, mesmerized by the way his eyes turned a misty blue under the pendant lights.
She took a bite while he waited, then closed her eyes and stifled a moan. Her tastebuds came alive at the flavor. It was easily one of the most delicious things she had eaten in a long time. Full of plump crab meat, cheese, and cream, that melted in her mouth.
“Well?” Joe asked, as Rachel blinked her eyes open, realizing she had yet to say anything.
“Do you have a spoon?”
When Joe tipped his head back and laughed, Rachel thought it might be the best sound she’d ever heard. So much so, she wanted to hear it again.
She nudged the dish her way. “No, seriously. Where’s yours?” she asked, which made him laugh even harder, bolstering her confidence.
“Do you cook?” Joe asked, pulling her gaze to him.
“Me? No. When you grow up in a house with a private chef and have everything handed to you, you don’t really learn how to do things for yourself. I can pour a mean bowl of cereal and manage not to burn toast.” Then she wiped her hands on a napkin and shook her head. “Pathetic, I know, but my upbringing wasn’t exactly conducive to finding your independence.”
“Hey,” Joe reached out and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes, “you can always learn, you know? It’s not too late.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Yeah, I know.”
His gaze flickered to her lips, and Rachel held her breath.
The air crackled between them, and right when she thought he might kiss her, he pulled away and dropped his hand.
A wave of regret washed through her as he grabbed a lemon off the counter and began slicing it. “Do you miss it?”
“What? Having money?”
Joe’s cheeks reddened, and she regretted her candor. But she didn’t rush to answer. Instead, she thought about it a moment because the truth was, in the last few weeks, there had been nights where she prayed to wake the next morning and have this all be nothing more than a nightmare. She wanted her car back, her condo, the comfort of her old lifestyle. And who could blame her? It was a life free from worry. One Rachel realized more than ever was a life of luxury. And a part of her did still want that back. However, by doing so, she’d have to dismiss everything she learned these past weeks. Like how helpless she was when she’d always thought of herself as strong. Or how she thought she was independent, but as it turned out, she’d been blindly reliant on her father and her family’s wealth. She knew nothing of what it meant to pave her own way.
And though it had been hard, learning to waitress, finding an apartment, and providing for herself had been one of the most rewarding things she’d done.
She toyed with the stem of her wine glass and said, “The truth is, I don’t know what I want now. I mean, I loved my life before, and if it all returned to me tomorrow, I’d probably go back to the way things were with open arms. I’d be crazy not to. But also . . .” She bit her lip and thought carefully about her next words. “Maybe I wouldn’t. I don’t know that I could ever feel secure again, knowing that my life is dependent on wealth that’s been inherited and not my own. If we lost it all once, we could lose it all again. I need something for myself. At the very least, something to fall back on that’s my own. I don’t know that that’s waitressing.” She chuckled. “But I know it’ll come to me. It’s just hard to find your thing when you’ve never been told you should go looking.”
Joe nodded, his gaze on the island.
It killed her not knowing what he was thinking. For all she knew, he thought that was a stupid answer. Or maybe he didn’t believe her. Or maybe . . .
“I can understand that.”
“You can?”
He nodded. “I don’t know what I’d do without a life on the water. I love running my boat.”
“Tell me,” she said, desperately wanting to know more. “Tell me what it was like growing up and why you decided to be a fisherman.”
“No one’s ever cared before.” He flashed her a shy smile, then scrubbed a hand over his jaw where the speckling of dark stubble hinted at a five o’clock shadow. “It was probably the complete opposite of your life.”
“You mean you didn’t spend your Christmas breaks vacationing in Maui? But surely you were gifted a soundfront condo when you turned seventeen.”
A slow grin spread over Joe’s face, and she was rewarded with his dimples.
“Were you really gifted that condo at seventeen?”
Rachel nodded, lifting her wine glass to her lips. “A brand new Corvette at sixteen and a condominium a year later in preparation for my eighteenth birthday.”
“I remember that car.”
“The Vette? Yeah, it was pretty sweet.”
“It was gold, the color of your hair.”
Rachel lowered her glass and blushed, while Joe shook his head. “I can’t imagine that life. It’s so far removed from what I knew.”
“I’d like to hear what it was like. If you’d let me . . .” Rachel said again, softer this time, and an image of that young man by the roadside stand flashed in her head.
“Alright.” Joe glanced up at her, then out the window, his gaze lost on the sea oats outside and whatever memories danced in his head. “I remember when I was just a boy, before I could really help, my father would show me the boat. From the time I could walk, he taught me everything I needed to know about fishing and what it took to make a living off the water. He showed me all the varying tools for harvesting. The nets, crab pots, lobster traps, and different fishing line and bait. All I remember was thinking how cool it all was. That there was something magical and almost romantic about launching into the water, having nothing between you and the sea. Man versus nature, a conflict as old as time.”
He ran a hand through his hair as he turned back to her. “Then I grew a little older, and I realized the downside to being a small boat fisherman was the money.” He chuckled. “It’s not easy to make a good living, especially if you need to support a family. There are other drawbacks as well, which I saw firsthand, like waking early to get out on the water and being so exhausted you can hardly stay awake for supper. Or smelling like the sea. It’s not really something kids let you forget, and it’s definitely not a turn-on for women.”
A memory flickered to life. Carter, standing face-to-face with Joe at the Oasis, sticking his nose in the air. Do you smell fish? he asked her.
Rachel’s stomach dropped. “I remember you used to work your family’s stand in high school.”
The muscle in Joe’s jaw flickered. “Back then, selling seafood to tourists was how we made our money. My dad didn’t have much. He came from a generation of fishermen. He didn’t have the money or the know-how to do anything other than sell roadside. My sister and I, we grew up wearing shoes two sizes too small because we couldn’t afford new. Our clothes were all free from the local church clothing drives. We had no medical insurance, and I remember every winter, my mom being petrified when one of us got sick because she knew if she had to take us to the doctor, it’d be forever digging us out of medical bills. At eighteen, I went to Northshore Community College and took two years’ worth of business courses while I worked for my father. And then he had a heart attack, and Mom made him retire.” Joe shrugged. “And just like that, the boat, the business—everything—became mine.”
“What about your sister?”
“Ah, Sara wanted nothing to do with fishing. To this day, she’s stubborn about even eating seafood. She says we ate enough of it growing up to last a lifetime. Funnily enough, she fell in love with a fisherman. Her husband was one of the men I hired when I took over. When they married, she was nineteen, and he was twenty.”
“So young.”
“Yeah. My mom was livid. She wanted her to wait, to try and get out of Bayshore since it’s what Sara said she always wanted.”
“Does he still work for you?”
“No,” Joe said, placing the lemons in a small dish, then wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “No, he doesn’t.”
“And the stand? Do you guys still have it? I never see it anymore.”
“When I took over, I knew we needed a change. We couldn’t go on making a living selling by the side of the road. Not only because it sucked,” he smirked, “but also because it was seasonal. So, I struck deals with the restaurants in town. At first, it took some convincing that they’d need to have a rotational menu and go with the catch of the day. But afterward, once they saw I was reliable and delivered an excellent product, fresher than half the seafood on the coastline, they conceded. I also bartered with Fresh Market. I undercut the competition and scored a contract. Instead of selling my product roadside, they sell it for me.
“Essentially, I changed the business model.” He shook his head. “My father was always scared to go into restaurants. He never thought they’d buy from us over the big guys. But, as I suspected, price only plays a small part when you’re talking about a tourist town. Vacationers don’t come to Bayshore and dine at their restaurants expecting cheap seafood. They do, however, expect quality.”
“I wish I had something I loved that much,” Rachel said, realizing how true it was. She could hear the passion in his voice, could tell just how much he loved his work. What would it be like to have that much passion for something and actually earn a living from it?
“You’ll find something.”
“Will I? It’s hard to find something when you have no idea where to start.”
“Well, you already know it’s not waitressing.”
Rachel snorted. “I do know that.”
“What do you enjoy?”
Rachel tipped her head to the ceiling, having no idea how to respond to that. How was she thirty-seven with no hobbies, nothing she liked to do in her spare time other than dining out, shopping, or spending time on the beach?
