music was loud and fast. Even those who weren’t dancing were swaying and tapping their feet. It was a convivial group, just as Sally Ann had said. Ready for a good time. Beer was served by the pitcher and everything on the seafood platter was fried. And so far, Molly had enjoyed everything except the beer.
But dancing? “I’m not very good at this,” she protested breathlessly while Jeffy twisted and snapped his fingers. She wasn’t dressed for it, either. Some women weren’t built for snug jeans and T-shirts. She was getting there, but she still had a long way to go.
“Just shake it, honey. That’s all you have to do.”
She slid out of the booth and tried her best to “shake it” without actually shaking it. The music was mostly beat with no discernible melody, but the rhythm was contagious. She was actually beginning to enjoy herself when one of the men at the bar yelled, “Hey, Jeffy, what happened to that gold ring you usually wear?”
Without answering, Jeffy managed to twist around until he was between her and the men at the bar. “Ignore ’em. They’re drunk.”
They weren’t drunk, but neither were they sober. She asked breathlessly, “What ring is he talking about? Did you lose one at the beach?”
“I never wear a ring when I’m fishing.”
And then, just like that, it hit her. It was written all over those bedroom eyes of his. Guilt. She should have recognized it, having seen so much of it in the past. “What ring? Jeffy, are you married?”
“Aw, c’mon, honey, do I look married?”
“Not to me, you don’t,” she said, and he could take that any way he wanted to. She headed for the table, where she’d left her damp, sandy embroidered denim jacket and her shoulder bag. She would pay for her own darned supper. She was going to be paying for it in other ways, she might as well go all the way.
“Come on, Moll, be a sport.” She dug into her bag and came up with her wallet.
Jeffy shook his head. “No way—put your money back. When a gentleman invites a lady out to supper, she don’t have to pay her way.”
“Then thank you.”
“Aw, come on, sugar, be a sport.” He was whining. If there was one thing she hated in a man, it was whining.
“You could have told me.” She headed toward the door, with Jeffy right on her heels. People were staring, some of them grinning, a few calling out comments.
“You tell him, sugar!”
“Go get ’er, tiger!”
Feeling her face burning, Molly was glad for the dim lights.
“I was going to tell you, honest. See, me and Shirl, we been having a little trouble and I figured on getting to know you better and then maybe asking how you’d handle it if you was me. I mean, a woman like you, I could tell right off you were the understanding type.”
“No you couldn’t, because I’m not,” Molly said flatly. She had done all the understanding she intended to do, and it had gotten her nowhere. She might be a slow learner, but eventually the message got through.
It was dark. The rain was coming down in solid sheets, blowing across the highway. She hesitated, trying to get her bearings, and then Jeffy opened the door of his truck. “I’ll drive you home. I owe you that much.”
She was tempted to refuse, but even the old Molly had better sense. It was pitch dark and pouring rain. Given her track record she would probably walk right off the edge of the island and drown.
Jeffy drove her home. He was a sullen companion, but then, so was she. She didn’t know whom she was angrier with, Jeffy or herself. She should never have gotten into the truck in the first place. So she’d met him once before on the ferry—he was still a stranger. He’d seemed friendly and likable, but he was a man—a married man. She couldn’t afford another of those in her life. Her bank balance hadn’t recovered from the last one.
His fishing buddies had stood at the bar all evening, drinking beer, laughing, talking. It hadn’t struck her at the time, but not once had any of them come over to the table to be introduced. That had to mean something…didn’t it?
Feeling more miserable by the minute, Molly wondered if he had done the whole thing on a dare. Five bucks says you won’t pick up the fat girl. Ten says you won’t show up with her at Delroy’s. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been the butt of a joke.
She wasn’t all that fat, she thought defensively. She had measurements. She might use up a few more inches on the measuring tape than some other women but she had a shape.
Jeff double-parked outside the cottage, blocking the street. The yard light was on, and for the life of her, she couldn’t recall if it was automatic or not. There was a beach buggy wedged in next to her own ten-year-old sedan, the two vehicles squeezed between a picket fence and a massive live oak tree. Sally Ann had warned her that parking was a haphazard affair at best, and once the season got underway, it was next to impossible.
“Thank you for supper and bringing me home,” she muttered, all in one breath.
“Hey, Moll, I’m sorry. Really.”
“Why me?” There was obviously something about her that attracted lying, conniving losers.
“’Cause you’re nice? ’Cause you looked sort of lonesome on the ferry, and I just decided, what the hell? You know how it is.”
“No, not really.”
“Most women—you know, like they expect a man to blow his paycheck on ’em, and then they cut him dead if he wants a little fun.”
“And you wanted a little fun, right?” Sally Ann had warned her about that, too, but she hadn’t listened.
“If it had worked out that way.” He shrugged. “I wish now I’d told you about Shirl—my wife. Like I said, we’re having some problems. She wanted me to skip the tournament just so I could go to this reunion thing, and we sorta had us some words before I left. You’re a real good listener. You prob’ly could’ve given me some tips on how to handle situations like that.”
Oh, yes, she was a grand listener. She had listened to a description of every fish the man had caught in last year’s tournament, legal or otherwise, including the weight and length, and what type of tackle he had used. She had listened three times to the description of his game-winning touchdown against Marcus P. Struthers High in the regional play-offs.
Just as she had listened to another man explaining earnestly why he could never hold a job, or why he needed to dress for success, and what he was going to do for her once his ship came in.
Kenny’s ship had never left harbor. The last thing she needed was a man whose only ship was a smelly old ferryboat. And what’s more, she didn’t care if he never caught another fish in his entire life, she was tired of trying to solve problems for men who didn’t have the gumption to solve their own.
“Thanks again for supper.” She opened her door and dropped to the ground before he could come around and help her out, not that he made a move to get out of the vehicle. It was raining hard, after all. Head down, she jogged
