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  “You could try, but your dad would never cash the check. He’s too proud, and….” She turned to him. “He would never mortgage your future for his troubles. You dad is proud of you.”

  Arty scoffed. He certainly had never heard it.

  “He is. It’s clear when he talks about you.” She tugged at his arm. “But be that as it may, you have to do what’s best for you.”

  Arty wasn’t sure if that was true. “I almost never saw my dad when I was growing up. He was out to sea or working in the fishery… or off somewhere. I barely know him.” He swallowed hard. “I bet I’ve spent less than… I don’t know, a week or so, all told, with him, in all those years, that wasn’t working on a boat.” The thing was that Arty was getting a pretty clear picture of what he should do. He just didn’t want to do it. Spending days at sea was not his idea of fun. He sighed. “I spent my entire life trying to get away from this so I could have a chance at a different life. So I could maybe make something of myself that didn’t leave me smelling like fish, or covered in a saltwater crust.”

  She nodded as they stood in the glow of one of the streetlights. “Life isn’t fair.”

  “It sure as fuck isn’t,” Arty muttered. “I told Reginald that I’d think about it and tell him in the morning.” He motioned her forward, and they continued to the house.

  A light was on in the living room, and Arty held the door for Rosie. His father was on the phone and hung up as soon as Arty came inside. “Why’d you have that damn thing reconnected? The thing rang nonstop.” He smacked the top of the table, and Arty could just imagine the kind of calls that were coming in.

  Arty shared a knowing look with Rosie and did his best to ignore his father’s frustration. “Come on. I’ll heat up some of the pasta, and we can have something to eat.” She sat at the table, and Arty got out the pasta, then filled some plates. “Dad, are you hungry?”

  “No.” Arty heard him mumbling and grousing, and then his chair rolled down the hall and into his room. The door closed with a bang, and Arty shook his head. He tried to understand what his dad was feeling about the situation he found himself in, then shivered, nearly dropping the plate before slipping it into the microwave. “I don’t know what he expects.” Rosie just looked at him, apparently at a loss as well. But one thing was clear—something needed to be done, or his father was going to find himself out in the warm Florida sun without a roof over his head.

  Chapter 3

  “ALL RIGHT, let’s do it,” Arty told Reginald the following morning. “This isn’t the kind of thing I expected to be doing, but it looks like I don’t have much choice.” He sighed as they sat across from each other at one of the White Pelican’s scarred tables, the real version of the restaurant’s namesake perched a few feet away on the pilings. Reginald nodded. “I can get us outfitted,” Arty added. “I have enough to get started, so at least we aren’t going to need the processing plant to front the cost.” Usually the processing plant would loan them the money to go out, with the stipulation that their catch be sold back to them. Arty suspected that often the fishermen didn’t get the best price out of this arrangement, but he didn’t have proof of that.

  “Excellent, because there was no way they were going to do that.” Reginald leaned over the table. “That also means you can sell your catch wherever you want.” He glanced around, but no one was listening. “It can be riskier, but grouper prices have been real good, so maybe you can squeeze some extra cash out of the catch.” There had always been an uneasy relationship between the fish processors and the fishermen. They needed each other, but the tension around price, and the fact that they tended to keep the fishermen on a leash by lending them the money to go out, chafed. It was the way things were done, but it didn’t change the fact that a yoke was still a yoke.

  And speak of the devil… Gerald Price, the grandson of the plant owner, strode up to where they were sitting, joining their table as though he had a right. He wore a light shirt and jacket, and acted as if he thought he was above everyone else. “I hear you’re thinking of taking the boat out.” Gerald turned to where Arty’s dad’s boat was moored. Arty didn’t shift his gaze away from the weasel he remembered from high school. He’d hoped Gerald had grown up. It didn’t look like it.

  “That’s the plan. I need to help Dad.” Arty figured it was best if he didn’t antagonize Gerald. But he wasn’t going to back down either.

  Gerald motioned toward the counter, and a cup of coffee was brought over and placed in front of him. Man, he was playing the king. The shit. “You know the plant can’t loan you any more money.” He sipped his coffee, the undertone that things were very dire sitting in the air like thick morning fog.

  “I’m aware of that,” Arty said. “It isn’t an issue. The purpose of my trip is to get my family out of trouble, not in deeper.” He held Gerald’s gaze, staring until Gerald broke eye contact. “I’d also like a detailed accounting of what Dad owes, and what for, so I can go over all of it.”

  Gerald stood quickly, nearly toppling his chair. “How dare you…,” Gerald growled.

  Arty stayed still even as Reginald shifted uncomfortably. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, and Arty seemed to have pressed just the right buttons. “I just want to see what I’m dealing with. It’s that simple.” Only it wasn’t and Arty knew it. Even as a kid, he had remembered asking his dad why their fuel cost more than at other places. But his dad had waved it away. Other supplies cost more, as well, but Arty had always been told to mind his own business. Now the company-store-type picture started coming into focus. But he needed to play it down. “Are you drinking too much coffee? You’re jumpy.”

  Gerald cleared his throat and sat back down. “So, you’re doing this on your own.”

  “Yup.” He turned to Reginald, who went back to his breakfast. Arty did the same.

  “You know very little changes around here,” Gerald said softly, his gaze sweeping over the docks and even the restaurant, which were primarily on property his family owned. Gerald’s own little fiefdom. Too bad it stank to high heaven most of the time.

  “Tell me about it,” Arty said, trying to add some lightness to his voice. “I suppose everyone still goes to the games on Friday night, sitting on those bleachers, watching the Manatees play.” He grinned. “And mostly lose.”

  “Yeah. Things don’t change much,” Gerald said with a slight sneer and got to his feet once again. “Come to the office this afternoon and I’ll have the papers you asked for.”

  “Thanks, Gerald. I appreciate it.” Arty grinned. “And be sure to say hello to your mom for me. Tell her that maybe if I have a chance, I’ll try to stop by.” Gerald paled, just as Arty expected. He said nothing more, and Gerald stalked away with a little less cock-of-the-walk in his step. Gerald’s mother was a grand lady, and they both knew that she wouldn’t stand for any games or shady dealings. She was his kryptonite.

  “Boy, what are you thinking, poking the bear like that?” Reginald grunted once Gerald was out of earshot. “We gotta sell our catch somewhere, and—”

  Arty didn’t look away. “He’ll buy our catch… if we decide to sell to him.” Arty turned his attention to his breakfast, his appetite suddenly returning. “I’ll arrange for the supplies and get the boat stocked.”

  “I made a list of what I thought we would need,” Reginald said absently. “And you’ll need to get some notices up for our open position.”

  “Thanks.” Arty took the list and shoved it into his pocket. “Listen, would you mind talking to Dad? Get his numbers and any information you think he’ll share. You’ll have a better shot at convincing the stubborn ass that this is for his own good. Dad guards that information as if it’s gold. You’re about the only man alive he’ll trust with his treasured fishing spots.”

  “Won’t he give them to you?” Reginald asked. “You’re his son.”

  Arty shrugged. “Dad hasn’t said more than two sentences to me since I got here, unless it’s to yell about something.” Arty wi
shed, once again, that he and his father had developed a way to speak with one another. “It’s his way.” At least, that’s the way it was with Arty.

  “And what if he doesn’t want to talk to me?” Reginald asked.

  “Then I’ll put myself in the line of fire.” There was little else he could do.

  JAMIE WAS about to give up. He had been looking for a job of some sort for days and was getting nowhere. Fear stabbed at him. If he didn’t find something soon…. Failure was looking him right in the face. All he had wanted was a chance to try to build a life away from the farm and his father. And maybe find an ounce of independence. Instead, Jamie was down to his last few dollars and ounces of hope. He had been eating cheap noodles for days. His aunt was nice and probably would have given him some money if he’d asked for it, but Jamie didn’t want to. Jamie’s aunt barely had enough to take care of herself, and Jamie was determined to build his own life. Besides, his aunt would encourage him to go home. And returning home to his father and living the life his father wanted for him was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d be damned if he’d go crawling back to Iowa and live under his father’s thumb. Jamie wanted to make his own way and have his own dreams, and they didn’t include spending the rest of his life on his father’s farm.

  Jamie walked toward the dock and stopped when he saw a man—the one he’d seen watching him the other night—tack a piece of paper up on one of the telephone poles.

  Wow, he was handsome in the daylight, with hair that shone in the sun and clothes a lot nicer than the ones Jamie was wearing. Jamie found himself heading over as the other man walked closer to the docks. He was stunning—sort of like the people you saw on television and wondered if they were real or not. This guy looked like one of those people. Tall, but not huge, and as his shape retreated, Jamie caught his wide shoulders and narrow waist.

  Hurrying to see what the guy had posted, Jamie grabbed and read the flier. It was for a job, thank God. Maybe this was his chance! Jamie looked around and pulled down the paper, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Then he followed the man, telling himself he wanted to ask him about the job. But really, he just wanted to see him one more time.

  Jamie had been to the White Pelican before and figured that was where the guy was heading. He put up another flier and continued on, walking around toward the front of the restaurant. Jamie checked the money in his pocket—he had enough for a hamburger. He’d been down to his last few dollars but had managed to get a day job spreading mulch for a lady down the street from his aunt, and she had been generous.

  The tables were full, with only an empty stool at the tiny bar area. He sat down, looking over the people having lunch, their conversations overlapping one another, and watching as pelicans darted around, swooping over the water to land on the pilings.

  “Gerald,” the guy said in a rather sultry voice that sent a ripple through him. God, even his voice was stunning. “Is it okay if I put up a few fliers? I need a crew member.” He leaned right next to Jamie, and as he inhaled, the scent of his subtle cologne, combined with manly musk, tickled the back of Jamie’s nose.

  “Sure, Arty, go ahead. I don’t know how much luck you’re going to have, but you’re more than welcome.” He smiled and Jamie glanced around. As soon as he did, he found Arty looking back at him.

  Jamie was a little stunned and stared back until he realized he was being rude and lowered his gaze.

  “Arty,” Gerald said, turning away. “Was there something else you wanted?” Gerald tapped the top of the bar. “I am a little busy here.” There was no heat in his voice.

  “Sorry. Thanks, I appreciate it.” Arty moved away, and Jamie picked up a menu and watched him go from around the side.

  “What can I get you?” Gerald asked him, and Jamie put in his order, wishing he’d had the courage to actually say something to Arty. But even now, he wasn’t sure the guy could possibly be real.

  ARTY SPENT the next day getting the supplies they needed and the boat ready to go. He found the GPS and backup GPS equipment along with the primary and backup bottom sonar. Both were essential systems, and the complete failure of either would leave them in the dark, so backups were essential. The boat was fueled and the water tanks filled. Arty also tested out all the boat’s systems, including its ability to make ice—another point of failure that could spell doom and send them back to port. By the end of the day, Arty was exhausted, but he was on track to be finished the following day, when he’d talk to people about a fourth on their expedition.

  Tired and nearly worn out, he returned to the house, where he was met by his father. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?”

  “I’m equipping the boat to take it out. You can’t do it, and if we’re going to eat, we have to work.” He threw one of his father’s sayings back at him. “Did Reginald talk to you?”

  “Yes.” The glare was enough to freeze water in an instant.

  “Did you give him your numbers? We’re going to need them.” Those were the coordinates that his father used to place his lines. They were a distillation of his years of fishing and should get them in the ballpark of good locations.

  “You should know better than that.” He turned, gliding away. “What are you, dumb? You never give your numbers to nobody.”

  “Then give them to me. And I need you to sign this.” Arty handed his father a sheet of paper. “It’s authorization for me to use your IFQ.” It would allow him, as a family member, to fish in his father’s place.

  His dad batted Arty’s hand away. “What makes you think I’m going to let you go out on your own? You ain’t been here in years, and you don’t know nothing about being captain.”

  “Maybe. But I know enough. And I have to go out so you don’t lose your house and the boat and everything else, you stubborn mule.” Arty was his father’s son, after all. Part of him came from the same damned animal.

  “I ain’t going to sign it.” His dad wheeled himself down the hall.

  “Then you’re a fool. A complete and total fool. I have the boat stocked and loaded. All I need is one more man and I’ll be ready to go.” Arty strode down the hall.

  “I didn’t ask you to do none of it.” His dad glared with all the angry fires of hell.

  “Give it a rest. I’m doing this for you. A couple of runs and you’ll be square again, your leg healed, and ready to go. You can go back to being the most pigheaded man in the state of Florida if you want. But you aren’t going to get that chance if I don’t take the boat out and catch some damn fish.”

  His father sat still, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I don’t ask for shit.” He went into his room and closed the door. Arty sighed and opened the refrigerator to get a beer. It was growing dark outside, and Arty stepped into the night air. He didn’t know how he was going to convince his dad to give him the bearings he needed.

  His phone rang, and he answered it. “You still alive?” Ryan asked.

  “Yeah. I’m going to take the boat out, so I’m not going to have cell service for a while.” Arty was determined to do this, somehow. “I’ll still be on land tomorrow, but after that I’ll be leaving.” At least that was the plan. “How is everything in New York?”

  “Cold and snowy. We’re all gearing up for a real blizzard tonight.” Ryan even sounded cold.

  Arty lifted his gaze to the night sky, taking note of the chill in the air. “It’s really nice here.”

  “Bitch,” Ryan teased. “You don’t need to rub it in.” He chuckled. “How are things otherwise? Do you have any idea how long you’re going to be there? Is there any interesting eye candy?”

  God, Ryan’s mind went in a million directions at once. “Maybe a month. I’m hoping two fishing runs will get Dad off the precipice. By then he should be better, and I can come back.” Arty wished it could be sooner, but it was what it was. “I still need one more man. And my dad is being stubborn about giving me the information I need.”

  “Why?” Ryan asked. “You’re doing all this for hi
m. If he doesn’t want you there, then get on the next plane and come home. It may be frigid here, but we miss you.”

  “I think he’s proud. Dad has never had to take help from anyone else before, and he certainly never wanted anything from me. But I can’t do anything about it if he won’t talk to me.”

  “You are two peas in a pod, then. You insist on taking care of everything yourself and feel it’s some kind of personal failure when you can’t.” Ryan had this ability to see to the heart of things. “Imagine how it must be for a guy like your dad to feel helpless, because that’s pretty much what he has to be feeling. You come in, and yeah, you’re trying to help, but to him, it looks like you’re taking over.” Ryan sighed. “If I were to give you advice…. But I won’t, because advice is like cheap toilet paper. It does no good and leaves you with crap on your hands.”

  “Thanks for that image,” Arty groaned.

  “Give your dad some time.” Arty wasn’t sure what that was going to get him. His father wasn’t exactly known for changing his mind. If that was the case, then Arty needed to figure out another way.

  “Now the important question, the eye candy? Everyone is so bundled up here. You have to give me something to keep me warm.”

  Arty laughed and it felt good. “It’s winter here, so guys aren’t exactly running around in bathing suits. But….”

  “Oh, I love a good butt,” Ryan teased, and Arty rolled his eyes.

  “Very punny,” Arty said with a slight smile. “Seriously, there is this guy I keep seeing around. First just walking, and then hanging around the dock today. Man….” That afternoon while he was loading supplies, he’d seen the guy from the other night, and in the light of day, he was even more good-looking. “He’s muscular, not too tall, great eyes, and has this wavy hair.”