“What are ya doin’ to the place?” Bev asked, steering the conversation back to the house.
“It’s been vacant for so long. We’ve had to fix up almost everything. Painting. Carpentry. Replacing rotted wood. Jimmy’s been tearing out some of the sheetrock. There’s original shiplap underneath in some places. Travis is doing all the plumbing. And another man is doing whatever needs doing inside.”
“All your father’s stuff is gone?”
As she nodded, she caught a movement from Mick. He had somehow managed to sit upright on the pliable couch, balancing himself on the hard edge of the frame. “You’re going to live there?”
“That’s the plan,” Pippin said. “We’re going to open it as an inn.”
“Is that so?” Bev’s voice rose an octave with her excitement. “Devil’s Cove could sure use that. We’ve had the same ol’, same ol’ for so long. The tourists keep us afloat, so new accommodations’ll be a draw.”
“I’ve watched your progress,” Mick said. “Looks good.”
“Thank you,” Pippin said. “But listen. The reason I’m here is that we need to do something with my dad’s boat. Can you recommend someone to come take a look at it and maybe help us figure out the next steps?”
Bev’s face lit up. She pointed to a photo of a young seaman standing proudly in front of a boat. “That boat’s the Old Salty G,” she said, “And that’s Old Salty.” She circled back to the other side of the counter and sat on her stool again. She stared at Pippin again as if she were studying her. “You really are the spittin’ image of Cassie,” she said, then she rifled through an old Rolodex, finally landing on the card she was searching for. She scribbled on a Post-it note and slid it to Pippin.
Salty
Shannon
His phone number was written beneath. “You call old Salty.”
Mick chuckled from his couch. “Oh Salty, he loved your mama. He’ll be out to help you in a flash.”
Chapter 5
“The Universe doesn't like secrets. It conspires to reveal the truth, to lead you to it.”
~ Lisa Unger, Beautiful Lies
Pippin stood next to Grey as they stared at their father’s fishing boat. He had his hands deep in the pockets of his cargo shorts, socks slouched down to the ankles under his work boots, his arms and his light blue t-shirt dingy from sweat and sawdust. From the look on his face, Pippin knew he was just as apprehensive about seeing their father’s fishing vessel as she was.
Something rustled the remaining pampas grass and a nose poked through. A dog’s nose. The rest of its body emerged. Pippin started. She’d caught glimpses of the pup several times. She’d tried to call it to her, but anytime she drew close, the dog—a girl, she thought—turned and trotted off. She wasn’t exactly skittish, but she wouldn’t ever stick around. Now Pippin whistled, calling to her. “Come on, pup. Come here.”
The honey colored dog looked at her, then at Salty Shannon, the craggy fisherman Bev at the marina had referred her to. Salty grunted as he circled the boat, good and loud. The dog didn’t react, but after a few seconds, she beat a hasty retreat, disappearing into the brush again.
“I’ll win you over,” Pippin muttered.
Salty Shannon came around the bow of the boat, a beat-up mug filled with what Pippin presumed was lukewarm coffee—or possibly rum or some other spirit— in one gnarled hand. He looked at them, dipping his chin in a nod, before continuing his inspection.
Grey leaned in close to her and whispered, “Where’d you find him?”
“I went to the marina where Dad kept the boat. The woman there recommended him.”
Grey peered at the seaman, looking skeptical.
Salty was as grizzled as a man could get. With his white beard and bushy mustache, he could have played Santa Claus in any department store, but his bulbous nose sitting atop a face that had seen decades of sun without an ounce of protection left no question that he’d spent his life on the sea rather than at the North Pole. Ancient faded tattoos ran up and down his arms. A woman in a bikini top and grass skirt—a throwback from another era. A rope and anchor, no doubt a symbol of his life on the water. A circle with a face inside, cradled by the letter V. And a ship, sails billowing in the wind. It was an eclectic collection. “The woman said no one knows old boats better than him, and he’d know what to do about it,” Pippin said. She didn’t have a reason to doubt Bev, but still, she was a tiny bit skeptical about the guy. He looked straight out of an old Popeye comic strip.
It was as if Salty knew they were talking about him. He cleared his throat and said, “I knew your folks back in the day. Your mom, she was a beauty.” He looked at Pippin. “You look just like her.” He changed tracks. “Now I’m out on Ocracoke. Came up to see ma youngins and their youngins, so I was glad to stop and take a gander.” His Eastern Carolina accent was heavy with remnants of Cockney from the original settlers.
“Did you know our dad well?” Grey asked.
Salty shrugged. “He was a solid fisherman. Had a gift, I’d say.”
He left it at that and circled back around the boat as a car pulled up in front of the house. Two kids bounded out just as Jimmy came out the front door. He jogged down the porch steps, crouched down, and opened his arms wide. The kids, both boys who looked to be maybe four and six years old, barreled toward him. “Daddy!” they both yelled as Jimmy opened his arms wide. The force knocked Jimmy to the ground, laughing.
The driver’s side car door slammed, and a woman Pippin presumed to be Jimmy’s wife walked up the steps. She looked at Pippin and Grey, nodding to them and giving a passing wave of her hand. She stopped for a second, frowning as she looked at the boat, then turned to her family when Jimmy called her. “Babe. Camille. Come here,” he said. From where Pippin stood, Camille looked a good ten years younger than Jimmy.
Grey touched Pippin’s shoulder. Salty was beckoning to them. They left Jimmy to his family and joined the seaman at the bow of the boat. “It’s been sitting her for a long time,” Pippin said, even though it was stating the obvious.
Salty walked alongside the vessel, trailing the fingertips of one hand along the hull. “It’s in purty good shape,” he said. “No stress cracks in the fiberglass. The inside’ll tell a different story. Thirty-two feet. I reckon it has four bunks, far as I remember. I think your pops ran a crew of four.” He scratched the top of his head through his cap. “Maybe five. Can’t quite recall. That’d be a mighty tight fit, but possible.”
Together, they pulled the worn tarp all the way off, revealing the name Leo had painted on the side of the vessel. Grey tensed beside her, and Pippin felt her nostrils flair. The Cassandra.
Leo had loved their mother with all of his heart. That’s why, they’d always reasoned, he’d left them. He couldn’t cope after losing her. It was the only comfort Pippin had. Any other version of the story—that he just didn’t care about them; that he couldn’t look at them because they reminded him of Cassie; that he was weak and depressed and gave up—those were stories she couldn’t swallow.