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  MRS. MARSHALL pulled up in front of the small house he’d grown up in, the paint cracking in the Florida heat, but the yard was cared for the way it always had been. Arty’s mother had loved her garden, and his dad kept it up in her memory. “Thank you for everything,” Arty said as he got out and pulled his bags out of the back. He reached across and took her hand. “I appreciate it.”

  “It’s a pleasure, sweetheart. I’ll bring over some dinner for the two of you tonight.” She smiled and waved, and Arty closed the door, then turned toward the house and took a deep breath before going inside.

  “Dad!”

  He entered the kitchen. Nothing had changed. The old Formica table stood where it always had. The yellow-painted cabinets, now faded with age, were the color his mother had chosen. Arty could see into the small living room, the furniture the same, his dad’s recliner, maybe a little more worn than it had been when he left, but still the same. The house was a time capsule.

  “You came, huh, boy?” his dad said as he slowly wheeled himself in and went to the refrigerator to grab a beer. Arty would have expected to see his father using crutches, so the injury had to be worse than Arty had imagined. His dad set the beer on the table, then got another and handed it to Arty. As his dad took a gulp, Arty twisted off the top and tossed it in the trash, then took a seat. He looked at his dad, who had wheeled over to turn on the television and then settled himself in his chair, staring at the somewhat fuzzy picture on the screen.

  Arty waited, wondering if his dad was going to say anything at all. Not that Arty was surprised; his dad never said a great deal to anyone. When Arty had been growing up, his dad had worked and was gone for weeks at a time on the boat. It had been Arty’s mother who had done most of the job of raising him. He finished his beer and put the bottle in the recycling before grabbing his bags and taking them to his room. After he’d unpacked, he went back out to the living room. His dad hadn’t moved, and Arty wasn’t sure how to get the information out of him that he needed. Experience told him that his dad wasn’t going to just open up. “I’m going to go out and look around.”

  His dad nodded and continued watching television. The nod may have been reflex and his dad could have been asleep—Arty wasn’t sure. But he left the house, stepping out into the sunshine, walking toward the water a block and a half away.

  The scent of salt water and fish tickled his nose the closer he got to the docks. The White Pelican sat at the edge of the docks where it had been since Arty’s first memory of the place, when his mom had brought him there and told him to stay at the table in the corner while she worked her shift as a server. It hadn’t changed in all that time.

  “Arty, how’s your dad?” Milton asked from behind the bar. Arty went over, shaking his hand, and then shrugged.

  “Yeah, he’s come in a few times, sits at one of the tables with a beer and watches the water. Doesn’t say much,” Milton said. The bartender used to help watch him while his mother worked.

  “Yup,” Arty agreed. That was his dad. Never the talker.

  “Word is that he’s in trouble,” Milton added quietly and then offered a beer. Arty sighed and nodded, thanking his friend.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Arty said.

  Milton leaned over the bar. “I wish I could tell you. I know things aren’t good. The run he was on when he got hurt was cut way short because of his injury, so it was pretty much a total loss from what I heard.” Milton heard just about everything that went on.

  Arty nodded and turned to look out at the bay. He had grown up here and had fished the waters off the coast since he was old enough to bait the leaders. “Hopefully Dad will open up and I can figure out exactly where things stand.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Milton said and handed Arty a menu. Arty ordered the shrimp and settled on the stool. He and Milton talked about things as he served, and people Arty had known since childhood came up to say hello and tell him they hoped his dad got better real soon.

  After he’d eaten and talked for a while, Arty walked back to the house. The television was off, and his dad was asleep in his recliner with his legs up, the wheelchair close at hand. Arty remained quiet and returned to his room. That had changed. It looked as if his dad was using it as an office of sorts—there was a small desk against the wall. The bed was the same one Arty had grown up sleeping in, and the curtains were the ones his mom had made. He pulled out the chair at the cluttered desk and started going through some of the papers.

  What he found was ugly, really ugly. The bills were piling up, and his dad was in debt to the fishery to the tune of thousands of dollars. And Arty knew that in order to go out again, his dad would have to take on more debt.

  Most fishermen lived close to the edge and needed what they made on an outing to make the bill. So they borrowed to outfit the boat—with fuel, food, and things for each trip—then paid it back when they returned, hopefully with their fish lockers nearly overflowing. He remembered that his father was usually at least five thousand dollars in debt at the start of a run.

  The amount of money his father owed would wipe out at least one fishing run completely, and probably two, before his dad could even hope to make a dime to start in on the personal bills. This was pretty bad, and Arty knew it was only part of the picture. He had no idea if the mortgage was up to date. Mrs. Marshall had said the phone was shut off, so Arty got on his phone, gave them a credit card, and got the service reestablished. A few minutes after he hung up, the house phone rang, and his dad groaned and answered it.

  “Boy, what did you do?” his dad called down the hall and then grew quiet. Arty didn’t answer because it was pretty obvious. Leaving the bedroom, he found his dad still in his chair, now watching television.

  “How bad is it, Dad?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Nothing I can’t handle, boy,” his dad grumbled. “You just do whatever it is you do. I’ll be just fine once I can walk again. You ain’t got to worry about nothin’.” He lowered his legs and sat up. “I don’t even know why you came. I been fine for years without you.” He sat back, putting his feet up again.

  “You can’t walk, your leg is infected, they turned off your phone because you couldn’t pay the bill….”

  “I didn’t want to talk into that damn thing anymore. They can take it for all I care.” Of course, that was the one thing he chose to argue about.

  “What about the boat? Who’s looking after it? How are you going to go out with your leg like that?” Arty tried not to sound too demanding, but it was hard. Burying his head in the sand wasn’t going to help anyone.

  “Evelyn sure has a big mouth,” his dad groused, half under his breath.

  “Don’t you say anything against Mrs. Marshall. She cares about you,” Arty snapped back.

  “Which is more than I can say about you.” His dad groaned and sat up. “I’m going to go to bed for a while.” He muscled himself toward his chair, and Arty tried to help him, but his dad batted him away. Once his dad was in his chair after nearly toppling it, he wheeled himself to his room and closed the door.

  The house was quiet, and Arty didn’t know what else to do. Outside, the sun had set. He was about to leave again when Mrs. Marshall knocked on the door. He opened it and let her inside.

  “Where is Byron?” she asked, setting down a dish of pasta and sauce that any New Yorker would drool over. Mrs. Marshall was an amazing cook, and Arty’s stomach rumbled.

  “He was tired and went to lie down.” Arty wasn’t going to argue with his father, so he simply put the dish in the refrigerator. “I’ll make sure he gets some when he gets up. Thank you.”

  She nodded and patted Arty on the shoulder. “You’re a good boy for doing this.” She smiled and stepped outside.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, sweetheart. I need to get back home, but thank you. You have a good night.” She stepped out in the darkness, walking down the street toward her house. Arty watched her go, standing in the do
orway, breathing sea air with a slight chill around the edge. He didn’t quite know what to do and stepped outside.

  A lone figure walked slowly down the street. Arty leaned against the house, watching the well-built young man as he ambled toward the water. He should simply look away and go back to figuring out what he was going to do, but he couldn’t seem to look away. The man had wide shoulders and narrow hips, and when he passed under the streetlight, Arty got a good enough look that he almost whistled. Wavy brown hair, a butt encased in jeans that molded to him—this wasn’t someone he’d ever seen around here before. The guy stopped and turned and looked both ways, facing Arty for only a few seconds. Their gazes met and a flutter of instant attraction bubbled in Arty’s belly. He actually gasped at how strong it hit him. Arty watched the guy as he stopped and pulled something out of his pocket. It looked like a few bills, but he couldn’t be sure. He counted, then folded them and put the bills back in his pocket. The man’s shoulders rose and fell, and then he turned around, treating Arty to an amazing view of his chest and a glimpse of his young but beautiful face. Wow, what is this guy doing here? Arty blinked to make sure the man wasn’t some sort of imagining his lonely mind had cooked up. But no, he was real and looking back at him.

  Arty saw beautiful people all the time. It was part of the business he was in, but this guy went beyond that. Arty even thought of taking the few steps through the yard to talk to him. If nothing else, he could find out what a guy like him was doing here, maybe see why he seemed so intent on counting a few bills. Shrugging, Arty needed a second to screw up his courage, then took a step forward. A dull thud from inside the house drew his attention, and he peeked inside to see what it was. When Arty turned back, the guy had gone back the way he’d come, his shoulders a little hunched and his stride less sure. The vision in tight denim passed behind the hedge, and Arty lost sight of him.

  Arty ended up wandering down to the docks and out to where his dad’s boat sat bobbing in the surf. He climbed aboard and looked around. It needed some cleanup after the rains, but was otherwise in good shape. One thing his dad understood was that he needed to take good care of his equipment.

  “Who’s on board?” a rough, deep voice called.

  “It’s me, Reginald,” Arty said as he turned around from the door to the pilothouse. “I was just checking on the boat for my father.” Arty couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known Reginald. He and his father used to fish together before Reginald ostensibly retired a few years ago.

  “Arty?” he said, his weathered face breaking into a grin. “Boy, it’s so good to see you.” Arty stepped forward and was engulfed in a hug, the kind that he might have wished to receive from his father, but knew better than to hope for. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” He took a step back to look Arty over. “You look like you’re doing good.”

  “Things are okay.” Arty smiled. It was good to see the old family friend. “I did a few commercials and things when I was in New York. I like it there.” Or at least he did most of the time.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Arty smiled as Reginald stepped back. “I’m here to see to Dad and….” He didn’t want to talk about his father’s business. But then, Reginald was sure to know what was going on. “I’m here to see how bad things are.”

  Reginald hesitated and then just seemed to come out with it. “They’re bad. And I don’t think he’s going to make it this time. The last two trips out haven’t been good. He had a run going and then got hurt, and you know it may be the twenty-first century, but we’re still people of the sea and very suspicious. Your dad’s crew has already moved on, and you can’t blame them. They need to make a living, and they can’t sitting on shore.”

  Arty knew that was true. “So what the hell do I do?” Arty stepped toward the dock. Reginald had been around long enough that Arty knew he could ask his advice and get something solid.

  “Take the boat out and fish like the devil is after you.”

  “How in the hell can I do that?” Arty asked.

  “You’ll have to find a way to equip the boat. Your dad has a quota that he hasn’t fulfilled, so go out and make a dent in it. There is the potential to help pay down the debt with a few good runs. If your dad was in this position and had fulfilled his quota, then he’d be done for. But as it is, there’s still a chance to make it up. I’ll come with you, and my son-in-law, Beck, might too. He fished before he got a job in Tampa. He’s laid off this month and is looking to pick up some extra money. I’ll see if he’ll come. Then all we need is one more man.”

  “Why don’t you take out the boat?” Arty asked.

  “Because you’re his son, you can use your father’s quota. I can’t, and we can’t grouper fish without a quota.”

  Right. Arty had forgotten that. The IFQ was his father’s most valuable asset, even more valuable than the boat. But it was attached to his father and not the boat. As his son, Arty could use his father’s quota, but nobody else could. And it was the only way they might make enough money to save his dad.

  “So, just find another man to go and then work on equipping the boat. We’ll go out in two days. It will be tough, and you’re going to have to find the money to equip the boat yourself because the fishery isn’t going to loan you any money….” His voice trailed off as Arty’s leg began to shake. He hadn’t come down here to take his father’s boat out and spend the entire time fishing. This was exactly why he had left in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to spend his life near the bay putting lines in the water and praying that he actually caught something worthwhile.

  “I’ll have to think about it.” And he had plenty to think about. He didn’t know Beck and for a second wondered if he’d have a problem working with a gay man. Not that it mattered all that much. Arty needed to help his dad. That was what mattered.

  “Of course,” Reginald said. “Call me in the morning with your decision so I can make arrangements at home if you want me to go out with you.” If Arty did decide to take the boat out, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have on his crew than Reginald. The older man patted Arty on the shoulder and stepped off the boat. Arty followed him, intending to walk down the dock and back to the house. Then he looked up to the night sky with its curtain of stars. Without thinking, Arty lay down on the dock, staring upward as the waves lapped at the shore and a lonely bell tolled softly in the distance. The sounds, and even the strong, pungent aroma of the fishery, were familiar. Arty was thankful for the breeze that kept the worst of the smell away. But regardless, all of it reminded him of New York, and he let it lull him into a sort of daze.

  Arty sighed and continued staring, wishing the answers would come to him. His dad didn’t want him here. He’d said so. And it would be so easy to turn around and go home. It was what Arty wanted to do… go back to New York and his life. But Arty couldn’t leave his dad with the way things were. He banged the wood slats with his fist and clenched his teeth. Hell, he wanted to shout at the sky, but he didn’t need to create a spectacle of himself.

  “I figured I’d find you here,” a female voice said, and Arty sat up.

  “Rosie.” He stood and smiled, coming to her, both of them falling into a deep hug. “It’s so good to see you.” He stepped back. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” She rubbed her prodigious belly. “Carter is about to bust a gut, he’s so happy we’re having a boy.” She grinned and then it faded. “I stopped at the house, but it was dark and I figured your dad was resting. So I took a chance.” He and Rosie had gone to high school together and hung out quite a bit when they were younger. He should have expected that he’d run into everyone sooner or later. It was a small community.

  “You hungry?” Arty asked.

  “Lord, I look like I swallowed a basketball. Of course I’m hungry,” Rosie answered sarcastically, and Arty smiled. Some things never changed. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  “Then let’s go back to the house. I have Evelyn Marsh
all’s pasta there.” That was enough to entice just about anybody.

  “Okay.” She turned, and they slowly made their way back to the house. “I heard about your dad. It’s pretty much all over town. What are you going to do?”

  Arty had hoped for some time to ruminate on the options open to him. “Reginald says I should take Dad’s boat out. He said he’d go with me, and his son-in-law might too.” The thought had Arty’s stomach in knots. “I haven’t been out fishing in years, and I was never the captain. Dad was always in command, and I was only one of the hands. He made the decisions and knew what he was doing. What if I get out there and can’t find any fish?” He sighed softly. “I want to help Dad, but what if I can’t do it and end up making things worse?” Arty slowed his pace when he began to pull ahead. “Dad is the one who knows these waters.”

  “And so does Reginald. You know that. He knows almost as much as your father.” Rosie took his hand, and they walked quietly for a little bit.

  “I could write him a check to cover everything,” he offered. “Not that Dad would take it.”

  Rosie stopped. “Do you have that kind of money?” She hummed. “Rich star that you are.”

  “It would take most of what I’ve saved.” And it didn’t look like there would be more of that kind of money coming in soon. Arty liked knowing the cash was there if he needed it. He hated living hand to mouth. Arty knew what that was like all too well. His dad and mom both worked hard and long to put food on the table. Hell, his mother had worked almost until the day she died. And they never seemed to get ahead. Even after all these years, his dad still pretty much lived on the edge. Arty had wanted more from his life. He wanted the chance to be more and have more. Arty wanted his version of the American dream, and he wasn’t going to find it here.