The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

Used to be a much bigger affair, right after the cake was named Maryland’s official dessert—what was that? Ten years ago. Anyway, that’s the way of things, iddn’t it? Feast or famine.” Anders noticed Lady Judy had the same affectation in her pronunciations as the boat captain. T words came out with a soft d sound. It was similar to the Eastern Shore accent he had slowly been getting used to, but a derivative of it—like the difference between a British accent and Cockney.

Since she’d brought it up, Anders asked the question that had been bothering him since he had noted the dwindling attendance—he estimated about sixty people at the event, which had once drawn nearly five hundred. “Why is the event held on a Thursday? I know it’s the summer, but wouldn’t it have a greater chance of drawing a bigger crowd if it was a Saturday?”

Lady Judy just stared at him, and then shrugged. “It’s always been on a Thursday. That’s the way it’s done.”

“Yeah, but—”

Her eyes flared, effectively cutting him off. “Nobody goes around suggesting we change Thanksgiving, do they?”

“Um, no. I guess not,” Anders said. He glanced back at his notebook, eager to change the subject. “The only other thing I’ll need is the total funds raised from today’s walk. Is that a figure I could get from you when it’s over?”

“I reckon I could find that out for you.”

“Great,” Anders said. “Do you have an email or cell number so I can follow up?”

She cackled. “Wouldn’t be any good to you if I did, now, would it? Internet hardly works out here and the only place to get any kind of cell service is clear the other end of the island—Graver’s Beach. That’s what they say, anyway, though I never had need to test it out. And why it would work all the way out there is anybody’s guess.” And that was when Anders looked around and wondered how he hadn’t noticed before— heads weren’t bent toward phones in the crowd the same way they were everywhere else he’d ever been.

The next two hours plodded by, with a large swath of tourists surprisingly clearing out after the third walk—not even halfway through the event. Anders hadn’t noticed the clouds rolling in until suddenly the sun was blotted from the sky and the first fat drop of rain fell on his shoulder. Then the bottom dropped out, rain coming down like bullets, scattering the few people left to shelter beneath tents and open doorways. He stood, stunned for a moment that the old man’s prediction had been correct, and then he checked his watch and realized he only had fifteen minutes to get to the dock for the four o’clock ferry departing back to the mainland. And then he ran.

He reached the dock winded but relieved when he saw the yellow boat tied up where he left it. Until he got closer and realized no one was in it. His eyes darted around the docks and landed on the white shack of a building with the Frick Island Marina sign. In small letters above a door was the word Office.

—

The door squeaked on its hinges as Anders entered, grateful to be out of the deluge. And he came face-to-face once again with the boat captain, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he scribbled in a ledger, a stubby pencil gripped in his right hand and a lit cigarette in his other. At least Anders thought it was a cigarette. But the man dispensed with it in such a smooth, quick motion, his hand disappearing beneath the desk, that Anders would have thought he’d imagined it altogether if not for the telltale wisp of smoke rising up in the air. When the captain turned his attention to Anders, his face morphed from alarmed to relieved to annoyed. “Thought you were my wife,” he muttered. He opened a squeaky desk drawer and reached for a new cigarette out of the pack stashed there.

Anders nearly apologized for startling the man, but then remembered why he was there. “Has the ferry departure time been postponed?” Anders asked. The captain brought the cigarette to his lips and lit it with the flick of his thumb on a red lighter. He glanced at Anders, then back at his work.

“No,” he said, the cigarette impressively staying put between his lips

“Oh. Good.” When the man didn’t say more, or appear to be finishing up what he was doing, Anders pointed his thumb in the marina’s direction. “Should I just go wait on the boat?”

“Suppose you could, if you want,” the man said, without looking up.

Confused, Anders hesitated. When he realized the man wasn’t going to say anything else, he turned to walk back out the door.

“You’ll be waiting awhile, if you’re trying to get back to the mainland.”

“What? I thought you said it wasn’t postponed.”

“It’s not.”

“What do you mean?” Anders asked.

“Boat left at three today. On account of the weather.”

“What? How was I supposed to know?”

He shrugged, scribbling in the book with his pencil. “I announced it four times on the ride over. And again when we docked.”

Shocked, Anders wondered how he had missed it. Then he remembered his earbuds and inwardly groaned. “I had my headphones on . . . I didn’t hear.”

The man didn’t respond and panic started to grip Anders. “How do I get back to the mainland? I need to get back.”

The man finally plucked the cigarette from between his lips and tapped the ash into a coffee mug on the desk, while his eyes grazed Anders’s face once more. “Walk around the docks long enough, you might could find a waterman’ll take you. If the price is right, anyway. Otherwise, you’ll need to find a place to hunker down. There’s a motel should have room.”

“You mean spend the night?” Anders asked, appalled.

“I reckon. ’Less you up for some long-distance swimming.”

Back outside, huddled beneath the awning over the office door, Anders glanced around the dock. There wasn’t a soul