Baiting & Fishing Page 10

Chapter 10

  He walked into the house and leaned against the inside of the front door. What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I do that?

  He read for a while and then went to bed, determined to put Marcella Wilson and her strange “story” behind him, and focus on his job for a change. For several days he did just that. He was determined to find his next “big story” and spent hours every day trolling the town for something interesting. He came up with at least a half dozen news items and maybe twice that many potential human interest articles. He thought he might be able to expand a couple of them into full-blown features for the Sunday paper. He was moderately pleased with his success, but he knew that none of the stuff he had dug up was anything close to a great story. It was better than nothing, but it didn't make his heart race and his typing-fingers tingle like a “great” story did.

  Late the following week he received an email from Marcella asking if he was still willing to take her fishing. She said she was planning an out-of-town trip, but wanted to schedule it around their “fishing date.” He noticed that, as usual, she didn't say where she was going. He wanted to reply by telling her he was too busy to go fishing and that she should schedule her travel at her convenience. Instead, he looked at the calendar and checked the weather. Saturday seemed like a perfect day for fishing. He replied asking if she was free on Saturday.

  A couple of hours later, she replied she would postpone her trip until after the weekend and she would be delighted to go with him on Saturday.

  He found himself hoping like hell it would rain on the one hand, and, on the other, planning what he would pack for drinks and snacks. He feared he was turning into some kind of a nut.

  Consequently, to prove he could still function more or less normally, he put in several of the most productive writing days he had accomplished in years. Most of the stories he had dug up were not time sensitive. He wrote six local interest stories for his semi-regular Thursday feature in the local section. He outlined three longer pieces for the Sunday paper, and wrote up proposals for his editor. It was no use writing a lengthy article until they said they wanted it, but the outline would make the writing easy. He called one of the photographers and asked for a series of photos for each of the articles. The photographers liked having “no-rush” assignments like that to give them something to do between deadline assignments.

  He turned in one story for the Thursday paper and filed the rest of the articles away in his “pending publication” file, which was almost empty. Ray felt good about his work for the first time in a long while. He noticed with some satisfaction that since he had started writing with Victoria in mind, his style had improved dramatically. After the new editor, who cared about nothing but word-count, had taken over he got lazy. Writing for a discriminating reader forced him to slow down and consider his choice of words more carefully. He knew he was back in his groove when he found himself struggling with an awkward sentence, which he copied down on a piece of paper and diagrammed the way his junior high English teacher had taught him to do.

  By Thursday afternoon, he was more or less finished with his work for the entire week. He called Marcella to confirm their plans for Saturday. He noticed that her calling card listed only her name, cell phone number and email address. It did not give a physical address. Her cell number was evidently an old one because the area code was from Atlanta. Marcella answered, and they chatted for a few minutes. Based on the weather report and tide chart, Ray calculated that the best time to go fishing on Saturday would be early in the morning. He asked her how early she could be ready.

  She laughed, “It will probably surprise you to know that I am a very early riser. I'm always up by 5:00 a. m. at the latest. Do you want to go out and watch the sun come up on the water?”

  He made a face even though they were speaking on the phone, “Actually, given the changeable channels in the canals I have to go through to get from the marina to the Gulf, I generally don't like to go out before daylight or stay out after dark. Call me a chicken, but I am not thrilled about the idea of hitting a sand bar in the dark.”

  “That's an understandable concern. What time is sunup?”

  “6:07”

  “How about we plan to take off about 6:30. That way we'll beat the Saturday rush of boat traffic.”

  “Works for me. Shall I pick you up?”

  “No. I'll meet you. Where do you keep your boat?”

  He gave her the address of the marina. She added, “Do you want me to bring snacks and/or lunch?”

  He said, “No. This is my treat. What say we snack for breakfast. I'll bring some granola bars and coffee or whatever. We'll fish until we either have enough fish to cook for lunch or we're too hungry to continue. If we have a good catch, we can go back to my place and throw it on the grill. If we don't catch anything, there are a couple of fish-camp type restaurants in the vicinity of the marina that serve excellent local seafood. Either way we can have fresh catch for lunch.”

  “That sounds great. I'll plan to meet you at the marina around 6:15. I'm looking forward to it.” She paused. “Oh, by the way, I have my own poles. Are we going into the Gulf or are we staying in the intracoastal?”

  Ray said, “That depends entirely on the winds and the weather report. My boat is a 21' open bow runabout. I only take her out in the Gulf on days when it's not too wavy and there is absolutely nothing on the radar. As I said, I'm a big chicken.”

  “Not a chicken. You're a man who's lived his entire life near the water and who understands the risks. What kind of gear to you use?”

  “I have a relatively light pole with sort of medium-weight line. That way I don't tire out my arms holding up a heavy pole, but I can bag some pretty decent sized fish, if I were to get lucky, which I never do. I'll have a couple of deep sea poles on board in case conditions are right for us to go off-shore, but we'll probably stay close in. It's a good time of year for redfish, if you like that.”

  “I like almost any kind of fish. I'll see you on Saturday.”

  On Friday, he cleaned the boat from top to bottom, checked the line on all his poles and got everything squared away for a day on the water. On the way home, he stopped at the store for snacks and water. He bought a large thermos so he could take enough coffee for both of them. He had noticed that she enjoyed a couple of cups of regular coffee after dinner: the hallmark of a fiend. That was something they had in common.

  On Saturday, he got up about 5:00 a. m., packed the cooler and checked the weather report and radar one last time. Everything looked good. The winds were expected to be calm. It was cool in the pre-dawn hours, but shortly after dawn the temperature was supposed to rise to the high 70's and later in the day into the 80's. For a second he stopped to remember his boating expeditions with Deborah. She didn't fish, but she loved being out on the water. She would sit quietly for hours on end, occasionally reading, but mostly just soaking up the sun and enjoying the beautiful scenery. He shook his head and tried not to think about her.

  He arrived at the marina a few minutes after 6:00 a. m. He kept his boat in out-of-water storage, but if he called ahead they would have it in the water, at the dock, gassed up and ready to go. She was tied up at the dock, ready to go. He checked out the boat and the poles, and sat down with a cup of coffee watching the finale of the sunrise and anticipating the new day coming to life. As much as he loved the drama of sunset, there was always something about daybreak that thrilled him.

  He didn't notice Marcella approaching until he heard her laugh. He looked up, startled, and she said, “You look like the picture of contentment. The title of the painting could be: 'Man in a boat with coffee, smiling'.”

  He chuckled, “Yeah. I guess the prospect of a day on the water is always a thrill.” He looked at her. She was carrying what he could tell was a very good fishing equipment, but not the extravagantly expensive stuff he had expected. Her tackle was the kind of outfit really good anglers used. She was dressed for fishing, too. He was sure her clothes were expe
nsive designer stuff, but they were obviously comfortable and perfect for fishing. Incongruously, she was wearing an old beat-up slouch hat that made him want to laugh. There was clearly a story there. He continued, “Especially when I plan to spend the day with a pretty lady in such a lovely hat.”

  She laughed, and then stopped before stepping on the boat, raising her eyebrows, in the timeless manner of sailors, seeking permission to board. He held out his hand in a welcoming gesture and she stepped on the boat like someone who had been around boats her entire life. She grinned and touched the brim of the hat, “Isn't it just the loveliest thing? I never go fishing without my lucky hat. It's a superstition, but I have to tell you, it works. I am about the luckiest fisherman, er, woman around. Prepare to be amazed.”

  “That's good, because I have lousy luck. I can be right in the middle of a huge school of fish, with folks all around me catching them like crazy and I'll go home empty handed. My dad always told me the problem with me was I let my mind wander.”

  She shook her head. “That is the deadliest sin in fishing. Concentration is key.”

  He fired up the engine and nodded. “I know. I know. And I try. It is just so hard for me to concentrate on the water and my line when the scenery is so beautiful and there are so many stories rattling around in my otherwise empty head to distract me.”

  She smiled, “There are some writers who are good fishermen, and they often turn out some awesome fishing stories, but I imagine most writers suck at fishing for that reason. You're too distracted by the interesting stuff going on inside your head to pay attention to the fish.”

  “You're probably right. What about you? What distracts you?”

  “Absolutely nothing. When I am on the water, I am totally focused on fishing.”

  “Sounds like we should have a real fun day.”

  She laughed and said, “Sorry. Maybe I should have warned you....” She stopped suddenly and, like a snake striking, grabbed a net, “There. Look. A school of perfect bait-fish.”

  He swung the boat around to put the nose directly in the school facing the opposite direction from which the school was headed and cut the engine to idle. Marcella leaned forward and in one smooth and graceful movement dipped the net into the school of fish. When she raised the net, it was full to over flowing of quivering silver bait-fish. She could barely hold it up. Ray opened the bait bucket and she dumped in the haul. Ray whistled and a said, “Good eye.”

  She smiled, and for the first time he saw her eyes light up as well, “Oh, my dear man, you ain't seen nothin' yet.”

  She was absolutely right. What followed was six hours of the most incredible fishing he had ever witnessed. She was not familiar with Sarasota waters from first-hand experience, but he soon learned she had spent most of the week reading fishing reports on the Internet and she had studied a navigational map of the area. She may not have fished Sarasota before, but she was an unsurpassed expert angler and she was prepared. That proved to be more than enough. After a very short time, he simply drove the boat to where she told him to go and then helped her haul in her catch. He did very little fishing of his own. He was too enthralled with watching her.

  At one point, he simply sat back with a cup of coffee and stared at her. He knew she wouldn't notice because she was concentrating with her mind, body and soul on the point where her line entered the water. He recalled that newspaper articles usually described Marcella as “attractive”. That was often a sort of journalistic code-word for a woman who may not be technically beautiful but who fixes herself up well, usually at considerable cost and and often with artificial enhancements.

  He looked at her carefully, smiling to himself and wondering if those same reporters would use that adjective at that moment, what with her standing there in the bow of his boat, with fish blood smeared on the front of her pants and sweat running down the backs of her legs. Several tiny fish eyes were stuck on her vest. Her hands were slimy from the gore in the bait bucket. Her hair was pulled up under that big, floppy hat, but a few strands had escaped to fly around her face and curl up on the back of her neck. She must have tried to push some of that stray hair back under the hat because he noticed she had a little smear of fish blood on the back of her neck. He thought to himself, “attractive” was not an appropriate desription for Marcella. She was freaking drop-dead gorgeous!

  He tried to shake that thought from his head, but at that very moment she had a bite. He could see her entire body tense for a second and then her arms went up and she flicked the rod to set the hook. She smiled and he heard her whisper, “C'mon, baby, let me see you.”

  Ray watched transfixed for the ten minutes or so she spent fighting the fish. She fished with not only her body and mind. She fished with her soul. She talked to the fish. She talked to her fishing gear. She seemed to have forgotten Ray was even there. If there had been any doubt that Marcella Wilson had spent at least a large part of her life, probably her entire childhood, near the water, it was put to rest that day. Wherever she was from, Ray knew the fishing was good.

  After a while, she whooped, “Look at that sucker!” She reeled fast and smooth and brought the fish along side. Ray grabbed the net and a gaff, not knowing what kind of fish it was.

  He leaned over the side and whistled, “Holy smoke! That is the biggest red fish I have seen in long time.” He netted it and pulled it in the boat.

  Marcella picked it up and said, “What do you think? Five pounds?”

  Ray nodded, “Oh, at least.”

  She grinned, her face glistening with sweat, salt water and joy, “That's lunch!”

  Ray nodded, “And dinner, as well as fish dip for tomorrow.”

  He put the fish in the cooler, which was almost full. He said, “Ma'am, I salute you. I have fished with some wonderful anglers. Since it is well established that I suck at fishing, I usually do what I did today: I drive the boat and help pull the catch aboard. You are the best I have ever seen.” He took off his hat and bowed.

  She was sitting in the bow of the boat, sweaty and smeared with fish gore, but to Ray she looked like Guenevere on her throne. She inclined her head and accepted his salute. He half expected her to raise her hand in a kind of blessing. She said, “Speaking of lunch. I'm hungry.”

  “I'm not surprised. I may have to feed you lunch. After all you caught this morning, I'd think your arms may be too tired to lift the fork to your mouth.”

  She laughed. “I think I'll be able to manage.”

  He turned the boat around and headed back toward Sarasota. They were quiet most of the way. He found that odd. He usually felt it awkward to be quiet with someone he didn't know well. He and Marcella did not seem to need to fill up the silence. When they pulled into his slip at the marina, she helped him clean the boat. They needed assistance from a couple of guys hanging out on the dock to get cooler up on the dock. A couple of fishermen who knew Ray followed them to the fish-cleaning tables. One old salt remarked, “Well, well, Raymond, looks like you finally figured out the secret. Since you couldn't catch a fish if it jumped in your boat, you found yourself a lady-friend who can fish. Very smart.”

  At that very moment, Ray opened the cooler and the old guy added, “Holy shit! Can that lady fish!” He turned to her and said, “Any time Ray is busy, I'll take you out for free.”

  She laughed but didn't answer.

  Ray started to clean the fish. Since he didn't typically catch many fish, he did not have a lot of experience cleaning them. He was a little nervous with so many people standing around watching. Marcella cleared her throat and said, “Why don't you let me do that?”

  Ray looked at her, astonished, “You clean your own fish?”

  “Damn right I do. I have rarely met a mate anywhere who can clean fish better than I can. Outta my way.”

  She pulled a knife from a sheath at her waist and then proceeded to put on a virtual clinic on how to perfectly clean fish. Her knife flashed as fish after fish was cleaned, skinned, filleted and bagged with a sp
eed and efficiency that drew a crowd. When she finished her exhibition the fishermen applauded. She rinsed her knife and her hands and started to wash down the cleaning table. Ray took the hose away from her and said, “At least, let me do that.”

  She handed him the hose and he washed down the table. When he was finished, he heard Marcella giggling. He turned around and looked at her. Her arms were bloody to the elbow and she had bloody streaks running down her legs. She took off her shoes and said, “Perhaps you should turn that thing on me.”

  He laughed and said, “You look like a crime scene.” He squirted her legs and she bent over so he could rinse her arms. She dried herself with a beach towel and threw it over her arm. “I'll sit on this in your car to avoid getting the seat nasty.”

  They loaded their poles and their catch into the trunk of his car and headed for his house. When they pulled into the driveway, she looked down at herself and said, a bit sheepishly, “While you're getting the fire going, would you mind terribly if I use your shower. I promise to clean up after myself, but I'm starting to smell really bad and it's going to get much worse very fast if I don't apply some soap and water soon.”

  “Absolutely.” He led her directly to the bathroom, pulled out some clean towels from under the sink. He asked, “Do you want a sweat suit or something to put on so you don't have to put on those dirty clothes?”

  She shook her head and held up her large tote bag. “I brought a change of clothes. I know myself to be a very messy angler.” She shooed him out of the bathroom.

  He unloaded the car and started the gas grill on the deck. In an amazingly brief time, she walked into the kitchen grinning. Her hair was wet, pulled back in a pony tail. She had on no makeup, and the lines in her face showed her age. Her khaki crop pants and black shirt showed off her excellent figure without being too revealing. Ray thought she was very beautiful.

  She looked around the kitchen. He was heating oil for hush puppies. He asked, “Do you want fries or should we have veggies?”

  “We're grilling the fish. Let's grill some veggies. Fried hush puppies are of course crucial. I happen to make outstanding tartar sauce. Why don't you shower, and let me take over here.”

  Without even thinking about it, he simply did as she suggested. As he stepped in the shower, it crossed his mind that only a few minutes earlier she had been there, naked. He put that thought out of his mind as soon as it bubbled up.

  He showered, changed and returned to the kitchen. She had whipped up a bowl of home-made tarter sauce and was mixing up a batch of hush puppies. He watched her without saying anything. She minced a small onion and put about half into the batter. Then she pursed her lips and looked at him, “More?”

  He smiled and nodded, “Oh, yeah.”

  She dumped the rest of the onion in the batter and then reached for the cayenne pepper. Once more she looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

  “Just a tad.”

  She sprinkled in a little heat and stirred the lumpy batter ever so slightly. She turned to him and said, “I'm not much of a grill cook. My fried fish is like nothing you've ever tasted, but I have never learned the knack of grilling fish. Why don't you man the grill and I'll do the inside work.”

  “That sounds good.” He picked up the plate of fillets and headed for the door. Then he turned around and put a few pieces on a plate. “If you're so handy with the Fry Daddy, how's about tossing a few of those in there with the hush puppies for a little variety.”

  “Sure. I noticed in the fridge you have the cole slaw made. Do we need anything else?”

  “I'll slice some onions and zucchini for the grill and throw on the fish at the last minute. I think that will do us.”

  “Do you want tea or beer?”

  “What would you prefer?”

  She smiled. “After a day on the water like that? What do you think?”

  He went into the garage where he had a second fridge. He came in with two bottles of beer. He set one on the counter in front of her, and took the other along with the plate of fish and veggies out onto the deck.

  Less than half an hour later, he came back into the kitchen. She had the table set, and was taking the last batch of fish out of the fryer.

  He set the platter of grilled fish and vegetables on the counter and picked up her beer bottle. It was still nearly half full, but it but it was warm. He emptied it in the sink and fetched each of them a cold one from the garage.

  While they feasted, he looked up at her and said, “Okay, lady, I want to know where in the sam hill you learned to fish like that.”

  She paused for a very long time, chewing carefully in the manner of fish eaters everywhere, testing for bones. It was very clear she was considering how to answer him. Eventually she took a deep breath and looked him directly in the eye. She held his gaze for a long time and said, “You're a reporter. I have managed, with some difficulty and at considerable expense, to keep my background private and out of the news. If I tell you my story, am I going to read it in the paper tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. It was his turn to think for a minute. How much privacy was he willing to give her? What if she revealed something he could use? He decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it, and said, “This is a private conversation. It won't go any further than this table.”

  She stared at him for a few minutes, clearly weighing whether or not to trust him. Finally she sighed, “Okay. I'll tell you. Obviously, I didn't learn to fish, clean fish or cook fish like that in any fancy finishing school. My dad was a charter boat captain out of Destin. I'm an only child. My mother died when I was ten. During summers and school holidays, Dad would take me out with him. I started out as second mate. I learned to bait hooks and clean fish from the mates. I learned to navigate and find fish from my dad and from some of the really great fishermen who fished out of Destin. I went to school because the law said I had to, but I spent virtually all of the rest of my time on the boat with Dad.

  “On the rare occasions we were able to take a vacation, we went fishing on lakes and rivers inland. Dad also liked to go fly fishing in the Keys. I have to confess, I never enjoyed fly-fishing as much as he did. It's just too damned much work. And it makes my arms tired. I go strictly for volume of fish. I like to catch fish I can eat, except for tarpon which is catch-and-release fishing for fun and excitement. I don't like trophy fishing, although we used to take people out to fish for the big ones. God, it is beautiful to watch someone bring in a sailfish, but I always wanted to let them go, which pissed everybody off.”

  Ray laughed.

  She went on, “Anyway, in many ways the ocean is my true home and fishing is the thing I love more than anything.”

  He munched on a hush puppy, which was fantastic, and considered very carefully the next question he wanted to ask. Before he quite got up the nerve, he heard her chuckle. She said softly, “Your next question would be: so how did you get from the docks of Destin to high society in Atlanta?”

  He looked at her and said very softly, “I'm dying to know, but I appreciate that you are a very private person. I know that I'm nosy by profession; I'm trying hard not to pry.”

  She laughed. “Thank you. I'm sure that coming from you, that is an enormous sacrifice. I won't go into the details, but I'll give you the highlights. My dad had a client who was from Chicago. He was a fabulously rich businessman. You would probably recognize his name if I told you, but who he was doesn't matter. He chartered Dad's boat a couple of times a year for several years. The summer before my senior in high school he chartered the boat for an offshore trip lasting several days. It was just Dad and me, the client and a lady friend of his. She was seasick most of the time. One night after the lady went to bed, the three of us were up on the deck, drinking beer and watching the stars. The client asked me what I was going to do after high school. I told him I planned to work for my dad full-time and maybe run a boat of my own someday. He asked my dad what he thought about that plan. My dad shrugged and said it sounded
good to him. Dad had never done anything but fish. It seemed logical to him that I would do the same thing.

  “The client threw a fit. He said that was no life for a girl. He asked me how many of dad's clients had made passes at me. I shrugged and told him a few had made remarks or even advances. That's why I kept my knife on my belt at all times.” She smiled, lost in her thoughts, “You know, I always carry a blade even today except when I travel by air. I think the reason I don't like to fly is because I can't take my knife with me any more.

  “Anyway, the client told my dad that I had the excuse of not knowing any better, but he was a bad parent because I was so ignorant. The man offered to pay for me to go to college. He said if I wanted to go back and fish for a living after I got out of college that was my business, but at least I'd have an education to fall back on if I ever came to my senses and decided to get a decent job and live like normal people. “I had no intention of taking him up on his offer.

  A couple of months later, my dad found out he had lung cancer and wasn't expected to live very long. Other than the boat and an old ramshackle house, we didn't have anything in the way of material possessions. Dad didn't have any insurance for cancer treatments, so he decided not to waste money on treatment other than pain medication. He sold the house, and we moved onto the boat. We sort of putzed around taking out fishing charters as long as dad could manage that. When he got too sick to fish or to easily get on and off the boat, we sold the boat and moved into a cheesy apartment near the Air Force base in Ft. Walton Beach. Dad lived long enough to see me graduate from high school. Actually, he was too sick to go to the graduation ceremony but he saw me in my cap and gown beforehand and he saw me with my diploma afterwards.

  He died a couple of weeks later. After I paid his final expenses, all I had left for his lifetime of backbreaking work was five thousand dollars. That, and a high school diploma, were what I had on which to build my future.

  “I had planned to work on a fishing boat for my dad. I knew better than to try to get a job on a fishing boat run by anybody else. Even as good as I am with a knife, I knew for sure that something bad would happen to me if I tried to do that. So, I guess in the manner of solo women since the dawn of time, I turned to a man for protection. I called upon the only man I knew who might help me: my dad's rich client. I asked him if his offer to send me to college were still open and, if not, I asked for a job.

  “He told me to close up my affairs in Florida, buy a plane ticket to Chicago and let him know when I would arrive. I packed all the half-way decent clothes I had, which wasn't much, along with my dad's captain's logs and the purple heart he got in WWII. That didn't even fill up a backpack. I boxed up the rest of our meager possessions and put it out on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, free to anyone who might need it. A neighbor took me to the airport.

  “It was July. I thought it was hot in Florida. Chicago was having a heat wave and it was much hotter and more humid and more utterly miserable there than I had ever experienced in Florida. From the minute I got off the plane until the day I left four years later, I hated Chicago.” She chuckled. “I thought it was bad in the summertime. Oh, my lord, that first winter I thought I would die....

  “Anyway, my mentor had a big house on The Loop that had air conditioning. I had never been in a building other than a movie theater that was air conditioned. I thought that was extravagant to the point of obscenity, but, to be honest, I got used to it pretty damned fast.

  “I stayed with him and his wife-du-jour that summer. In the fall, he rented me an apartment near the campus of Northwestern University and set up a trust fund which provided income for me to live on and enough money to pay for my books and tuition. I had always hated school, although I had earned very good grades. I wasn't really interested in much of anything, but I had agreed to go to college so I had to study something. The only thing I knew anything about was the ocean, so I decided to major in marine biology. That turned out to be a good fit for me. I struggled with a lot of other classes, but I never had any trouble with science. I was almost the only girl in most of my upper level science classes. I guess I was kind of a nerd before that word was invented.

  “Boys had never paid any attention to me in high school because I was considered to be that crazy chick who worked on a fishing boat, and could out-cuss, out-spit and out-fight almost every boy in the school. I guess I probably don't have to tell you that reputation didn't get me a lot of dates.

  “It was different at Northwestern. My mentor's wife, who was only a couple of years older than me at the time, took me shopping and bought me some really cool clothes. She was kind of an idiot, but she had really great fashion taste. She took me to a stylist and had my hair cut by a professional for the first time in my life. Up until then, my dad cut my hair, or I cut it myself.

  “Before I arrived in Chicago, the closest I had ever come to wearing makeup was putting on chap stick when the salt spray caused my lips to break open and bleed. She took me to the cosmetic counter at a department store and they taught me how to put on makeup. Who would ever have guessed I was sort of pretty? Anyway, I got plenty of male attention, some good and some not-so-good.

  “I managed to get by without having to pull my knife on anyone in Chicago except for a homeless guy who tried to mug me one night when I came home late from the library. I didn't cut him, but I scared the hell out of him. He must have spread the word because none of the neighborhood bums or panhandlers ever bothered me after that.

  “Anyway, I ended up with a certificate to teach science. My trust fund was still chugging along pretty nicely, so after graduation I decided to move to Southern California and get a graduate degree in marine sciences. USC had a good program for that and Southern California didn't have winters like Chicago plus it had an ocean nearby. Lake Michigan is beautiful, but it is not an ocean. I had never been to California nor did I know anybody there, but it seemed like a good place to go.

  “Shortly after I left Chicago, my mentor died. He left me a lot of money.” She paused for effect, “A whole lot of money.”

  She laughed, “You know people often said that I married Roland for his money. Actually it was the other way around. I was the one with the money.... , although Roland never knew that.”

  He put up his hand. She stopped, and he said, “Sorry to interrupt you, but I want to interject this. Please don't tell me anything about your husband or Tectron that has not already appeared in the press. I agreed to keep your story to myself. I don't want to know anything about that other story that I might even be tempted to use.”

  She looked at him for a long time, with a very sad look. Then she put her hand over his and said, “You are indeed an honorable and upright man. That's what I have been told about you.”

  She thought for a minute. “In that case, I guess that's about as far as I can go other than to say I began post-graduate work at USC, but being an heiress was just too tempting. I started traveling. I was sort of a gypsy for several years. I didn't have a permanent address. The Trustee's firm took care of my affairs and they deposited money in my checking account. I sort of flitted around the globe partying with the jet set. It was fun for a while. Then it became boring and I decided to try to do something useful. I kind of got involved in some environmental organizations and embarked upon a career as a do-gooder. Soon after that, I met Roland and you know the rest of that story.”

  She was finished. She took a sip of beer and then shrugged. “So you see, Mr. Bailey, the reason I have gone to great lengths to hide my background is because I just simply don't want my rich society friends to know about my tough childhood and the fact that I am basically the beneficiary of a rich man's charity.”

  He started to protest, then he realized she was right in a sense.

  She continued, “I also don't want people to know who my benefactor was because he was a rather notorious womanizer and, as I said, his last wife was not much older than me. I always feared that people would think h
e gave me money in exchange for sexual favors. That was not the case but I am quite certain no one would believe me.”

  He put his hand over hers as it lay on the table, “Where on earth did you get your impeccable manners and regal bearing?”

  She laughed, “From an actress who was playing the part of a queen in a movie.” He looked dubious. “Honest, I did! When I first moved to LA, I lived near the USC campus. A neighbor of mine was an actress. She wasn't exactly an A-List movie star, but she was a really good character actress who worked regularly. She'd never had a starring role in a major movie but when I knew her she was only in her early sixties and she had been in more than 150 movies, and countless TV shows. She wasn't rich but she was financially comfortable. She was also very kind. Since I was more or less alone in the world, she took an interest in me and mothered me in a way. Or at least she did the closest thing I ever had to 'mothering'.

  “At the time, my manners were appalling. I had learned to dress and fix my hair and wear makeup while I was in Chicago, but I smoked, drank and swore like a sailor. I often got into fights with strangers. In Destin, my blade was always the best protection around. It was not likely to help me in LA where so many people carried guns. My lack of social skills was not just unattractive; in LA it was dangerous.

  “My neighbor took it upon herself to teach me to behave like a lady. Maybe she went too far. There are a lot of people who say I carry myself like royalty. In America, that is not necessarily, or even usually, a compliment. I think that has worked against me because many people perceive me as arrogant or someone putting on airs. The latter accusation, of course, is true.”

  She looked at her watch. “Oh, my. It's very late. I have bent your ear and ended up taking up your whole day. I should call my driver.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Honestly I'm not going to do anything but go for a run. Why don't you let me take you home?”

  She considered that for a minute, “Okay. If you're going for a run anyway, why don't you change into your running clothes. Let's run on Longboat Key before you come home.”

  “Sounds good.” He went into the bedroom to change while she cleaned up the kitchen.

  She lived in a gated community on Longboat Key. Her condo was large and beautifully decorated, but neither opulent or gauche. It struck him as odd that she would have such wonderful taste given what she had said about her background. He assumed she paid expensive decorators to get the look just right. Whoever was responsible for it, her home was beautiful.

  She was back in a flash in running clothes. He waved his arms around the room and said, “I thought you said you were messy.”

  She laughed out loud, “I'm positively a pig. Fortunately, I have an excellent housekeeper.”

  They ran for a long time; eventually running out of gas altogether, they walked the last mile or so back to her condo. She invited Ray inside. He agreed to take a bottle of water, but said he needed to go. She walked him to the door and, as he started to leave, she put her hand on his arm, saying, “Thank you for today. It was the best time I've had in ... in a very, very long time.”

  He smiled at her and said, “I love to go out on the water, but I don't like to go out alone. Anytime you get a hankering to wet your line, call me. I'll be happy to take you out.”

  She smiled at him and said very softly, “I'll hold you to that promise.” She lifted herself up on her toes and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  He responded by putting his hand on her cheek. Then he turned and left her before he embarrassed himself by throwing his arms around her and kissing her on the lips.