One
Nikki
I did not blow up the Mona Lisa. Not only did I not blow up the Mona Lisa—an old leaker of a boat whose blowing up could be construed as a favor to the aptly named Rusty Cook—I did not blow up any part of Rusty’s marina. My brothers will, of course, say otherwise. They had quite the laugh at my expense over coffee at Ella’s Place.
Rusty had been on the lookout for a boat for me. It had taken a lot of gumption and crow-eating to get to a place where I could consider buying a boat. I needed a cheap one, because God only knew how much money I’d be able to squeeze out of the Massachusetts Bay Commission via the research grant proposal I’d spent three long months laboring to produce. The head of the commission was Ned Anderson. Ned, a brilliant shark researcher in his own right, had tumbled a long way: to full time administrator of a bullshit state commission. Though to hear Ned say it, it wasn’t a tumble but a reward for all the years he’d spent roughing it on a California channel island—an island that only had electricity every other day— in order to unlock the mystery of white shark feeding behavior. I had spent five years on that island with Ned. We were married at the time.
One divorce and one un-granted California grant later, I was back on Cape Cod, in Provincetown, living just off Bradford Street with my father and in dire need of a job. I wrote the proposal. Then I revved up my resolve, packed away my pride, and called Ned. He agreed to a meeting at the Long Wharf Marriott in Boston. It wasn’t supposed to get personal. Really. I had every intention of sticking to business.
I had my only dress dry-cleaned. I put my hair up and put on my gray suede shoes. My pop actually looked up from the TV.
“Where you off to, all done up?”
“Job interview.”
“No kidding? Max Groper hiring you on?”
Max Groper was head of Coastal Studies here in Provincetown. I had asked Max for a job when I first got home, but Coastal is a small budget operation with limited funds for another researcher. The only other jobs around were fishing, which two of my brothers did, and working at Dairy Queen, which my baby brother was just shy of doing. As was I, come to think of it.
“The Bay Commission,” I said, as breezily as I could manage.
“Ned’s commission?” My father raised his eyebrows. I must say, he looked as though he didn’t quite believe it
“It’s a job, not a reconciliation,” I said, not quite sure I believed it myself.
~ * ~
Ned and I met in the bar of the Marriot. He’d already ordered a glass of Pinot for me, knowing that would be what I wanted. The sad truth is that was what I wanted. I hated that he knew me as well as he did.
“You look great,” said Ned, handing me the wine. I wish he’d said something snide, like ‘your hair looks better down’ or ‘you’ve got poppy seeds in your teeth.’ Either of those would have unleashed a little fury, which might have led to him wearing the Pinot instead of me drinking it. Then again, that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. Not that I got anywhere except to a room on the fifth floor.
I’m not proud of myself and it pains me to even mention it. All that I can offer in my defense is that Ned is six four, blonde, and was probably a Viking in a former life. He looked good in a suit. We had a fairly passionate history, a history I could not easily forget, and after half an hour and two wines, it felt as though we’d never left that island. One thing led to another. Ned said something to the effect of ‘I’ve missed you,’ and I said something likewise, which led to hand holding and a little light kissing. Then Ned said that he thought about us a lot and recounted those nights without electricity when we’d found other ways to stay warm and he said he missed those nights. And I said I missed them too and thus the whole train wreck was set into motion.
