Chapter Five
Cass returned to the hotel in time to shower off the grass, sweat, and sunscreen and still make it to the veranda for tea, but even the prospect of spending an hour or so with Grace did little to improve her mood.
“Crass?” she’d muttered as she stepped into the shower. “Yeah, Crass Cass, that’s me. Shame on me for wanting to shine the spotlight on generations of people who stood up for what they believed in, paid the price, and went on to settle an island that had been considered uninhabitable. Built homes, raised their families, stayed true to their way of life for a couple of hundred years. Bad Cass.”
That Owen failed to understand she was, in fact, honoring Cannonball Island’s deceased made her see red. Names that had been forgotten for God only knew how long would be remembered. As she’d walked through the Singer plot, she’d envisioned a little memorial book to be given to each of her buyers. The booklets would contain historical photographs of the island and photos she’d take of the headstones of some of those buried on the buyers’ new properties so they’d know the names. She’d seek out photos of previous owners and include them. How better to take the fear from the fact that your new property contained a little graveyard than to put names and stories and faces to those buried there? Cass thought of it as a way of helping the new owners to accept, maybe even feel pride in, that their properties came with the remains of some of the prior occupants. After all, Deiter Construction would be asking premium prices for the limited number of homes they were going to build or renovate.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she could remove the graves. That would be illegal and, to her mind, unethical. The islanders who were laid to rest there were there to stay; it was up to her to put the best possible spin on that. She thought she’d found a way to make their presence less objectionable to prospective buyers. Damn Owen for making her feel like an opportunist for doing her job and, at the same time, serving what she saw as the island’s best interests.
“Someone looks like she got a bit of sun today,” Grace remarked as Cass took a seat at the tea table. Today’s group was smaller, though Joanna was present, as always.
“Oh, yes.” Cass nodded and smiled at the server, who offered her a choice of teas. “Earl Grey today, thank you.”
“At the beach?” Joanna asked.
“No.” Oh, what the hell. Let’s test my theory right here and now. “Actually, I was on Cannonball Island, cleaning up an old family graveyard.”
After a bit of a silence, Grace asked, “Anyone I know, dear?”
Cass suppressed a smile. Was there anyone Grace didn’t know in St. Dennis or on Cannonball Island?
“The Singer family. I noticed the grasses were so high around the graves you couldn’t even see the stones, so I thought I’d tidy things up a bit.”
“I knew the Singer family well,” Grace said. “Edward and Paula were the last to raise a family there. They moved to Ohio to be with her folks back in the eighties—she wasn’t from these parts—but a few of their boys stayed around for a bit. I think the last of them left the island, oh, my, it must have been ten or fifteen years ago. No idea what happened to any them. I don’t recall any of them ever coming back.”
“We found one of the sons, still in Ohio, and the company bought the property from the family. And last night, I met one of the descendants at a dinner.” Cass almost said, At Emily Hart’s, but she didn’t want to shine the spotlight on Emily’s operation, which, as had been pointed out, was probably illegal.
“Oh, yes. Diane Jenkins. She and her husband have been staying here this week. We chatted at breakfast this morning.” Grace paused to stir her tea. “She mentioned she was going to look for her grandmother’s grave before they left.”
“Well, now she’ll be able to find it. And others of her ancestors as well.”
“That’s so nice of you,” Joanna said. “But if I may ask, what would motivate you to do something like that? Especially on such a hot day.”
“Because the gravesite was a mess and the people buried there deserved better.” As she spoke, Cass remembered why she’d taken those first steps to clean up the Singer plot. Owen Parker’s cynicism be damned. “Besides, I think it would be nice for the people who buy the properties to know the family who built their home, the people who lived and died there and are buried there.”
“What do you mean, buried there?” Joanna raised one eyebrow.
Cass explained the islanders’ burial practice and her thoughts on documenting the family plots for the buyers of each of the properties.
“Wait, are you saying you’d have a graveyard in your backyard?” Joanna’s expression left no doubt what she thought about that.
“More like the front or side yard, dear.” Grace declined a refill from their server. “It’s actually a charming custom, one that’s been practiced for centuries. Remember, for a long time, there were no organized cemeteries in the rural areas. Do go visit the island, and you’ll see little white fences here and there. Those fences mark the final resting places of the families who lived in the nearby houses.” Grace turned her gaze to Cass. “How good of you to take it upon yourself to clean things up.”
“Still, I don’t know if I’d want to buy a house that had its own graveyard.” Joanna was still frowning. “I don’t know if I could sleep at night that close to the dead.”
“Dear, you’ve been sleeping close to the dead from the time you checked in here,” Grace said. “My husband’s ancestors—and my husband, for that matter—are buried on the far side of the lawn. Actually, I believe you can see the markers from your room. As I said, it’s a custom in these parts, one I wish hadn’t gone out of favor. I think it’s a lovely idea to keep your ancestors close to where they lived.” Grace turned to Cass. “I applaud what you’re doing. I love the idea of honoring the island’s early inhabitants. It brings a sense of continuity and history to the houses you’ll be building, a weaving together of the past and the present. I think I’ll write about it in my column for the St. Dennis Gazette.”
“When you put it that way, well, yes, I can see where it might be . . . interesting.” Joanna clearly was slowly coming around to the idea. “It would certainly make one feel more a part of the island.”
“Exactly.” Cass took a sip of tea and looked into her cup to avoid Grace’s eyes. Once again, the older woman had saved the day.
“Perhaps you’ll let me interview you sometime soon,” Grace said to Cass. “It would make a nice feature piece for my newspaper.”
“Of course. Whenever you like.”
“Now, do you have plans to clean up any of the other plots?” Grace asked.
“I’ve been thinking about seeing if there’s any interest in forming a sort of committee on the island to take care of all of them. I do want to clean up what’s there now, but maintenance could be an issue in the future.”
“I’m afraid there aren’t too many able-bodied residents of the island these days. The population has aged, and I don’t know of any young folks who have taken up residence there. I would think you’d be able to recruit my nephew Alec, though, since he’ll be an island resident after his marriage to Lisbeth. But I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, Cass. I have total confidence in you.” Grace stood to signal tea was over for the day, at least for her. “Now, my little break is over. Time for me to get back to work. Thank you all for joining me this afternoon. Do stop back again tomorrow.”
Several in the group were slow to rise, finishing either their tea or one of the pastries that had been served. Cass left the table a moment or two after Grace.
“Excuse me, Grace, if you have a minute?” Cass caught up with her at the door between the dining room and the lobby.
Grace turned and smiled. “Of course, Cass. Is something on your mind?”
“I want to thank you for backing my project. I was afraid people would react the way Joanna did at first. I couldn’t think of another way to deal with the fact that the houses we’re going to be selling have graves on their property.”
“Sometimes a little education is all that’s needed to overcome our fears and our prejudices, and it appears you have a handle on that.” Grace patted Cass’s hand. “But I also feel you are sincere in honoring the residents of the island—living and dead—and I respect that. I was serious about writing an article for my paper. I’ll look at the schedule and see when a feature would be most appropriate.”
“I appreciate that, Grace. I know your paper is widely read on the Eastern Shore, so your article will draw attention to what we want to do on the island.”
“Cannonball Island isn’t like other places. Its history is unique, and without an effort to preserve it, I’m afraid much will be lost, and that would be a terrible shame. I’d like to see all your homes sell so I can be assured the story not only will be remembered but will continue to be written.”
“You know, if the people who have been staying at the inn decide to buy on the island, you’ll be losing business,” Cass teased. “You might regret making such a good case on our behalf.”
Grace laughed. “The last thing I worry about is the inn losing business. We have waiting lists for every weekend from March through December. You should plan to be here for the Christmas holidays—we have wonderful events. There are a number of bed-and-breakfasts in St. Dennis, but we’re the only true inn, and the only one right on the water. We have families who’ve been staying with us for years. I’m not at all concerned about losing their patronage, but I am concerned about losing our local heritage. You can always call on me if you have any questions or need any information you think I might be able to share.” Grace took a few steps into the lobby, then turned back to Cass. “You might want to talk to Lisbeth. I understand she’s been sitting with Ruby, recording the old stories for a book she was thinking about putting together. Your work could enhance hers, and hers, yours.”
“Thanks, Grace. I’ll talk to Lis and see what she has in mind.”
“You do that, dear.” Grace waved and went off in the direction of her office on the other side of the inn.
Cass’s plan had been to go back to the island and take some photos at the Singer plot, but she was still annoyed with Owen and didn’t want to risk running into him again today. Instead, she returned to her room to take a much-needed nap. The earlier raking had awakened muscles she hadn’t known she’d had.
Tomorrow, she thought as she punched her pillow and curled up in the middle of the bed, she’d go to that big-box store out on the highway and buy her own sickle and weed-whacker grass-trimmer thingy.
Who needs Owen Parker? Not this girl.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Cass set out for the highway, her list of things to buy in hand. She’d need the equipment, certainly, but a goodly supply of the largest trash bags she could find would certainly come in handy when it came time to—ugh—rake the cut grass and take it somewhere, though she wasn’t sure where that would be. Would Ruby Carter want the clippings?
Maybe we should plan a community garden, Cass mused as she tried on a pair of garden gloves, which should cut down on the wear and tear on the palms of her hands. No garden this year, but maybe in the future something could be done. She asked for assistance to find the implements she’d come for and spent a full half hour with the salesman, who felt compelled to explain every feature of everything he showed her. Finally she selected a battery-operated weed whacker—the salesman called it a trimmer, but it was the same thing—and something that resembled Owen’s sickle, though lighter in weight.
“I can do this,” she murmured confidently as she drove over the bridge onto the island and along the bayside road. “I will clean up every one of those plots by myself. It may take a while, but I know I—”
She slammed on her brakes as she rounded the point and the river came into view. There, fifty feet from shore, was a boat. She turned off the engine and got out of the car and stood for a moment, one hand shielding her eyes. For a moment she watched several men gather on the deck before she took off for the beach, her tennis shoes filling with sand as she neared the water. As she drew closer, she could easily identify Jared Chandler, but the others she didn’t recognize. She walked out as far as she could on the unfinished dock and glared.
The rat. She’d left a message for Jared with the desk, telling him about her involvement with Deiter Construction and asking him to call her when he got back. Owen probably knew in advance Jared would be here this morning, and neither of them had let her know. Thanks, guys.
“Hey!” she shouted, and all five men on board turned at the sound of her voice.
“Hey, Cass!” Jared waved a greeting.
“Something going on I should know about?”
“I just got back.” Jared walked to the far back of the boat. “I was going to catch up with you as soon as I had something to tell you.” Before she could respond, he said, “I take it you’ve heard about the ship that’s down there.”
“I heard that, but not a whole lot else, except that it’s going to cost Deiter Construction a delay and a lot of money.”
“I’m sorry about that, but it can’t be helped until we know exactly what we’re dealing with here. Right now, we’re going to take some depth measurements, and we’ll try to get a read on the visibility down there. I wish I knew more, had more to tell you, but that’s all I’ve got right now.”
She remained on the dock for a few minutes and watched two of the men pull on wet suits. Armed with some equipment—Cass wasn’t a diver, so she wasn’t sure what they were carrying—they entered the water from a platform on the very back of the boat. She stood for a few more minutes, then realized she was wasting time. She couldn’t see what the men were doing below the surface of the water or know how long they’d be down there. Best for her to go about her business. She could stand here for the rest of the day and still not learn anything.
Meanwhile, she had work to do. She went back to her car and unfolded the map she’d made for herself the night before. She’d drawn the island, marked the properties Deiter Construction had purchased, and drew an X on the ones having graveyards. She’d drive by each and see which one needed the most work, and she’d start there. She studied the map, numbered the properties, then headed for the first on her list.
At the old Heller homestead, Cass drove onto the overgrown driveway. She stepped out of her car into a sea of grass that came above her knees and tickled her legs up to the cuff of her shorts. She decided there should probably be a path to the graveyard, so that was the logical place to start. She put on her new gloves and got the sickle from the back of her car.
It was cooler than the previous day, overcast and gray. Sun was forecast for the afternoon, but as yet was still hiding behind the low clouds. The breeze off the bay brought whiffs of the salt marsh at the far side of the property, bringing the scent of decaying plant and animal life as summer slowly faded into autumn.
Might be a good idea to show this property early in the season, she mused, lest the smell off the flats turn people off. People unaccustomed to natural elements might object.
Cass tried to remember how Owen had used the sickle, but she wasn’t sure. She gave it a good swing, but she’d misjudged the length of the handle and, it being unwieldy, caused the blade to careen a little to one side. She’d somehow managed to lop off the top third of a few strands of grass, but that was all. She swung the sickle again, a little closer to the ground this time, but her form still wasn’t right. Perhaps if she handled it more like a golf club and less like a rake?
She took another swing, but swung too hard, and the weight of the sickle almost took her with it.
This looked so much easier when Owen was doing it.
“Okay, you are going to cooperate with me whether you like it or not.” Cass planted her feet solidly and tried the golf swing again, this time not quite as hard. The sickle barely missed her ankles.
“You keep that up and you’ll be shorter by a foot.” She hadn’t heard him walk up, but she didn’t need to turn around to know who was behind her. “Get it? Shorter by a foot?”
“I get it, Owen. Not funny.”
“Do you know how unfunny that actually is? Do you realize how close that thing came to your ankles?” He wrestled the sickle from her hands. “You want to clean up the whole damned island, you should have called me. I told you I’d help.”
“Was that before or after you called me crass?” She let go of the handle. She knew when she was overmatched. “Why would I think you’d want to work with someone who’s so opposite to your moral compass?”
“About that.” He planted the sharp end of the sickle on the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I spoke. It was a stupid thing to say. I understand that it’s possible to have two goals at the same time. Which is what I think you were trying to tell me, but it went over my head at the time.”
“Who explained it to you?”
“Fine. I deserve that. Go ahead. Pile it on. But I wanted you to know I am honestly sorry, and that I understand.”
“So what, exactly, is it you think you understand?”
She was not going to make this easy for him. She’d thought he of all people, having grown up on the island, would recognize how special it was, how steps should be taken to preserve as much of it as possible. That he’d thought her interest was only financial gain had hurt her. That he had the power to wound her bothered her almost as much as his unfair assessment of her efforts.
“I understand that as an employee you are obligated to do the best job possible for your father and his company, but at the same time, I think you really do want what’s best for the island. I apologize for not realizing that right away. I should have known better.” Owen paused. “I do know better. And I am very, very sorry.”
For a moment Cass was taken aback. A heartfelt apology was the last thing she’d expected. At least, he sounded sincere.
“You’re smarter than you look.”
“I guess that’s a blessing,” he deadpanned. “Do you accept my apology?”
“I do. Thanks for manning up.”
“So how ’bout I finish up here for you?”
It would have been so easy to take him up on the offer. Her back would have thanked her. Her hands would have been eternally grateful.
“I appreciate it, Owen, I really do, but I want to finish what I started. What you can do is teach me how to use that thing.” She gestured at the sickle, which he was still holding.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“All right. Come here.”
He instructed her and watched as she followed through with his directions. When she realized she’d cleared a path to the gate, she turned to him and beamed.
“Nothing to it once you get the hang of it,” she said, pleased with the results. “Thank you for taking the time to show me.”
“You’re welcome, but the offer stands. I’d be happy to work on the others. Anytime.”
“Nice of you, Owen, but really, it’s something I want to do myself. My tennis partner signed out of the inn this morning, so I’m going to be missing that morning workout. Now I’ll spend that morning time working over here on the island. If I don’t have a reason to leave my desk, I’d stay there all day. Not good for the head, the heart, or the hips.” Cass smiled. “And besides, taking care of something here on the island makes me feel more a part of it. Makes me feel as if I’m more than just someone who wants to buy a home here.”
“I get it. Okay, you’re on your own. But you know you can call me if you need me.”
Cass paused, wondering if he knew Jared had returned.
“I suspect you’ll be pretty busy, now that Jared’s back. I saw him out near the mouth of the river earlier. He had a couple of divers with him.” She paused. “You wouldn’t have been one of them, would you?”
“No. He sent me a text a while ago to let me know he had me on the schedule to dive tomorrow. I told him I think they were diving in the wrong place.”
“Where do you think the ship is?” She mentally crossed her fingers. Please, somewhere away from our dock.
“Ruby says the story she heard was that the ship went down on shoals that used to be out in the bay, in line with the mouth of the river, and it was pushed by the currents and the tides into the river itself. I’d like to look where she suspects it might be. I never argue with her.” He appeared to think that over. “Well, rarely. She’s always right.”
“So you’re saying more in the river than in the bay?”
“If Ruby’s right, then yeah. More in the river.”
Damn. “Sounds like you’ll have lots to keep you busy. Think maybe you could keep me in the loop? You know, about what you find and where.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. Now, maybe you can show me how to work the weed whacker.” She rested the sickle against the fence and walked to her car. “I watched how you started yours yesterday, but this one isn’t like yours.”
“Let’s take a look.” Owen followed her to the car and looked over her purchase. “Fancy. You went for top-of-the-line, I see. Long-lasting lithium battery. Probably cost double what the gas-powered units sell for, but the battery is easier to maintain and you won’t have to add gasoline to make it run. Good choice.”
“Thanks. The salesman—he called it a trimmer—did show me where the on switch is, but I looked at so many of these things this morning, I can’t remember what he told me.”
“Trimmer, weed whacker—two names for basically the same piece of equipment.” Owen leaned over her shoulder and reached around her. He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. She tried to ignore the tickle that went up her spine.
“It’s right here on the handle.” He pointed to it.
She activated the switch and the trimmer turned on. She turned it off right away. “Got it.”
“So you’re all ready to go.” He stepped back, but he was still close.
“Again, thank you.” She took the weed whacker into the enclosed yard and made it clear she was ready to work.
He nodded and started to walk away, then turned back. “Cass, about crabbing . . . ?”
“What about it?”
“How ’bout you let me teach you? If you’re going to be an islander, you have to know how to catch crabs. This could be your way of thanking me for teaching you how to use that thing.” He stood with his hands on his hips, his long legs tan under the shorts that were cut off at the knee, his shoulders broad and muscled and dark from hours spent in the sun.
She almost had to force herself to look away from all that male gloriousness.
“All right.”
“Morning’s the best time for crabbing, but it looks like mornings are going to be out for a while, with you weed-whacking and me diving, so let’s shoot for tomorrow afternoon.”
“What time in the afternoon?” She’d be really interested in hearing about what he found on his dive. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure placing herself in the path of temptation was such a good idea, and the more she was around Owen, the more she was tempted.
“Does four work?”
“I have tea with Grace at four.”
“You have what?”
“I have tea with Grace Sinclair. She hosts afternoon tea at the inn, and I go every day. I look forward to it.”
“How long does it take to drink a cup of tea?” Owen frowned.
Cass smiled. “It’s more than just a cup of tea. It’s conversation and spending time with Grace and some of the other guests. It’s fun and relaxing. Actually, it’s about the only fun, relaxing thing I do these days.”
“I can be fun. We could spend time together crabbing and conversing. Of course, we’d have to whisper so the crabs don’t hear us.”
“It’s the whole thing—the ambience, the little group who shows up every day.” She paused, then put it in terms she thought he’d understand. “The inn’s chef makes scones and éclairs and incredible pastries.”
“No way I can compete with Grace’s chef. I’ve had his pastries. Okay, how ’bout five thirty?”
“Five thirty should be fine.”
“How ’bout we meet on the pier out at the point?” Owen knew Cass was well familiar with the point, that section of the island that stuck out farthest into the bay, because her father had done his damnedest to talk the current owner into selling it. That owner being Ruby, the answer was always an unequivocal no.
“Perfect. I’ll see you there.” She turned back to the job at hand and went to work.
If he said anything else, it was lost in the whine of the weed whacker. When Cass glanced over her shoulder, he was gone.
THERE WAS STILL plenty of daylight left when Owen parked his Jeep at the edge of the clearing and began to unload his crabbing gear: two buckets—one for bait, one to contain the crabs after they’d been caught—and a long-armed net. On his way out to the pier, he passed the old house—the cottage—where Ruby and Harold had lived when they were first married and where they’d raised their children before they moved above the store, the place that had become the object of Lis’s obsession.
Owen still marveled that the place had been salvageable. He’d walked through it a week ago and he’d been amazed by the transformation.
“Silk purse, sow’s ear,” he’d murmured when he saw the nearly finished structure.
He’d obviously lacked imagination because he’d told Lis she was crazy to take on such a project. He thought maybe her being an artist might have had something to do with the way she could see what the space could become.
Funny, he had the “sight,” but apparently his sister was the one who had vision.
The old fishing pier grew out from the very end of the point and jutted into the bay for twenty-five feet. Islanders once gathered there late in the afternoon, their fishing poles or crab nets in the water, and exchange gossip while they waited for their dinner to take the bait. Owen remembered walking to the pier with Gigi, carrying her bucket of bait, and how she’d greet everyone she passed by name. He’d been five or six at the time, which would have made her close to seventy. She’d taught him to crab and to fish off this pier, he recalled as he neared the very end.
It occurred to him that since he’d returned, he hadn’t seen anyone on the pier except Lis. Almost all the old-timers were gone, died or moved away, and few had come to the island to take their places. It saddened him to think of all the old ways that had been lost over the years because no one was around who remembered.
My fault as much as anyone’s. I left, too.
He felt Cass’s presence without realizing, and he turned to look over his shoulder.
Cass had a long, even stride and her legs effortlessly ate up the distance between the road and the bay. She wore khaki shorts and a navy tank top, a Ravens baseball-style cap, and dark flip-flops. Her dark shades were shaped like cat’s eyes, and the bag she wore over her shoulder swung slightly as she walked. She waved and smiled as she drew near, and he had to swallow the lump in his throat before he called out a greeting.
She really was hot.
“So glad the breeze shifted,” she was saying as she walked along the rickety pier. “I wouldn’t be out here if those damned flies were around.”
“Those greenheads are vicious. I never miss them when I’m away.”
“They don’t have flies in Costa Rica?” She dropped the bag she was carrying.
“There are flies, and then there are flies,” he said solemnly. “They breed ’em big and mean on the Eastern Shore.”
“Well, then, they should stop. And what’s with this pier? It’s wobbly in a couple of places and it’s missing some boards.”
“It’s old, and I guess no one’s given any thought to repairing it. It just doesn’t seem to be used as much as it used to.”
“That’s probably a blessing. Someone could very easily fall through this thing, and then Ruby’d be in for a good lawsuit.” Cass bounced up and down a little as if testing the pier’s stability. “So let’s do this. Where do we start?”
“Okay. There are two schools of thought when it comes to catching crabs. Well, three, actually, but we’ll leave out the way the watermen trap on a large scale.” Owen sat and patted the space next to him for Cass.
She lowered herself cautiously. “I don’t want to get any splinters.”
After she settled herself, he handed her a string. “We’re going to tie bait around the end of the string and then lower it slowly into the water as far as it can go.” He reached into one of two buckets he’d brought with him and drew out something that looked fleshy and gross.
“What in the name of all that’s holy is that?” She moved back as if her entire body had gone into cringe mode.
“It’s a chicken neck. There are some—me being one of them—who believe there is no better bait for catching crabs.” He tied the string tightly to the bait and offered the string to Cass.
“That’s disgusting, but okay. I’m game.”
“To a crab, it’s a gourmet meal.” He dropped the baited end of the string into the water and looped the other end around her left index finger. “Now, lower it bit by bit—don’t go so fast. You don’t want the crabs to think, Incoming bait. You want them to just sort of find it on their own.”
Cass rolled her eyes. “Like crabs think.”
“Who knows how advanced their intelligence might be? No way of measuring it, far as I know.” He watched her lower the bait until it disappeared.
“So now what?”
“Well, now you want to bring it back up just enough so that you can almost see it. There, yes, that’s perfect.”
“What happens now?”
“Now you sit quietly until you feel a little tug on the string. Sometimes it’s subtle, but pay attention and you’ll know when a crab is nibbling on the bait.”
“Then what?”
“Then you’ll tell me you think you have a bite, and you’ll very slowly, like inch by slow inch, raise the string. You don’t want the crab to feel it’s being lifted. When you can see the crab, I’ll come at it from underneath with the net and scoop it up.”
“That sounds easy enough.”
“We’ll see how easy you think it is when you’ve lost the first dozen crabs on your line.”
“Are you having a line, too?”
“I already do.” He pointed to his left hand where a string looped over his finger.
“How can you pick up mine with the net if you’re trying to catch some yourself?”
He held up the net with his right hand. “Baited string on the left, net on the right. Not my first day on the dock.”
They sat side by side in silence for several minutes until Cass whispered excitedly, “Owen, I think I’ve got something.”
“Okay, stop swinging your feet,” he whispered back as he reached for the net. “Now pull it up as slowly as possible. That’s good. Really slow, now . . .”
He dipped the net into the water, and the crab fled.
“Damn.” Cass frowned. “You scared it away. That net went into the water like . . . like . . .”
“I scared it away?” He snorted. “Maybe if you hadn’t tugged so hard those last few inches . . .”
“Phfft.” She waved away his protest. “Next time, I’ll do the net thing myself.”
“You’re not ready.” Owen shook his head.
“You’re at a weird angle to my string. That crab could see the net coming.”
“Oh, one bite and she thinks she’s an expert.”
“I’m going to net my own crabs. If they’re on my line, they’re mine. I get to net them.”
“Okay. Let’s see what you can do, big talker.” He placed the net between them.
Owen watched as she let the chicken neck drift back into the water. Moments later she tapped him on the arm.
“I felt another tug.” She lifted the net with her right hand and lowered it slowly into the water several feet from the string.
Owen practically had to sit on his hands to keep himself from grabbing the net because as she raised the string, he could see the crab—a large blue claw—clinging to the bait.
“Oh, boy,” she whispered, her face lit with excitement.
“Slowly, now.”
“Shhhh.” The crab was less than two feet from the surface, the net slightly below it. Cass eased the net until it was under the bait, then snapped the net over the crab and pulled it and the bait to the surface.
“I got one!” she shouted with both surprise and delight. “I caught a crab! And, Owen, look how big she is!”
Owen stood and grabbed the net from her hands. “He. Look how big he is.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
Owen held the net over the larger of the two buckets he’d brought with him and turned it so they were looking at the back side of the crab.
“See that long, narrow shape there on its abdomen? If this were a female, that would be wider and more round. They say the male’s looks like the Washington Monument, the female’s like the dome of the Capitol. And actually, we don’t say abdomen, we say apron.”
“Got it. That was fun.” She sat down again and dropped her line into the water, then glanced at Owen. “No nibbles yet?”
“Sometimes it takes a few minutes for the crabs to find the bait. No worries,” he said confidently. “I expect a nibble anytime now.”
The only nibble was on Cass’s line. She happily netted her second crab, which Owen helped disentangle from the net and drop into the bucket. The crab landed facedown.
“It’s a female.” Cass pointed to the crab’s abdomen. “There’s the Capitol dome, right there.”
“You’re a quick study.” Owen resumed his place on the dock and once again wound the string around his finger.
Cass did the same. “Thanks. This is fun.”
Within three minutes, her line twitched again. Another crab to add to the bucket. “Another female.”
“A sook. A female is called a sook. Males are jimmies.”
“Thanks.”
It seemed to Owen she had an even harder time hiding her pleasure when the next tug came on her line. Another sook, another plunk as it dropped into the bucket.
“We should be keeping score.” Cass grinned and leaned over the bucket. “That would be Cass, four, Owen . . . how many did you catch, Owen?”
He made a face and she laughed out loud.
“Someone is feeling pretty damned smug right about now, isn’t she?”
“Yes, someone is.” She dropped her line back into the bay, a broad smile on her face.
“Wait, I think I have one.” Owen peered over the side of the dock, then grabbed the net. Moments later, he lifted the net with the bait and the crab.
“Cass, four, Owen, one. You’re catching up.”
He laughed good-naturedly and let the crab fall into the bucket.
By the end of an hour, the score was Cass, nine, Owen, six.
“Beginner’s luck,” he told her after they decided to call it a day.
“Maybe. Could be technique.” She held up the string with the now-chewed-up bait still attached. “What do we do with this?”
“Just untie the chicken neck and let it drift on down into the water. Might as well let the others have a feast since we’ll be back again sometime to catch them, too.”
“We will?”
“Sure. It’s still one of the best places around for crabs, as evidenced by the fact that a total novice just made quite a haul.” He reached a hand down to help Cass stand. “You can’t tell me you don’t want to do this again?”
She smiled as she brushed off the back of her shorts. “I would do it again. Where did you say you got those chicken necks?”
Owen shook his head. “Secret source. You want crab bait, you have to go through me.” He held up the bucket of crabs. “I think we have enough here for a couple of crab cakes. You in?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
“I’ll clean the crabs and make them into the best crab cakes you ever had. You bring the beer. But it has to be really, really cold beer, because the crabs are going to be spicy enough to make your tongue tingle.”
“And where would this be happening? The cleaning? The cooking? The beer drinking?” She paused. “Didn’t you have some wine from the dinner at Mrs. Hart’s?”
He looked at her as if she’d blasphemed. “Cass. One does not drink wine with crabs in any form.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be a sacrilege.”
“Who declared that?”
“It’s tradition. You’re so set on upholding traditions, this is one you need to keep. You can drink wine with fish, which you will note we have not caught.” He picked up the bucket with the bait in it. “Crabs. Beer. End of story.”
“Okay.” Cass sighed. “When and where?”
“Tomorrow night. The general store. Be there or . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Or be square.”