To my father, Paul R. O’Brien Jr., a pilot and captain. See you on the other side of the horizon.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am fortunate to work with such a talented and tireless team at St. Martin’s Press. I appreciate you all! Thanks to my editor, Nettie Finn, for your insightful suggestions on my stories. Thanks to Executive Managing Editor John Rounds for leading the charge. Much appreciation to Sara Beth Haring, Sarah Haeckel, and Allison Ziegler for all your hard work on marketing and publicity. Thanks, also, to artists Danielle Christopher and Mary Anne Lasher for the adorable cover for this book.
Thanks to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, for keeping me under contract and doing what I love.
An ongoing debt of gratitude goes to my fabulous friend Paula Highfill, who suggested the concept for this series, and to my author friend Melissa Bourbon who suggested a houseboat for Whitney and Buck’s next flip project. Thanks also to Kathy Elsie, for suggesting the engagement ring description, as well as my sister, Donna Parsons, R.N., for the information on hospital supply management. It takes a village!
Finally, thanks to all of you wonderful readers who chose to spend your precious reading time with this story. I’m honored you picked my book, and I hope you enjoy every second of your time with Whitney, Sawdust, and the gang. Ahoy!
CHAPTER 1ALL DECKED OUT
WHITNEY WHITAKER
On a Saturday morning in mid-April, I sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen of the cottage my cousin Buck and I had rehabbed a while back, the place I now called home. We’d originally planned to flip the cottage but, due to some unforeseeable circumstances (a body in the flower bed), we’d been unable to sell the property for a reasonable price and decided to hang on to it for the time being. I’d happily moved out of the cramped converted pool house behind my parents’ home and into the much roomier cottage, which allowed me to stretch both my legs and my wings.
My blonde hair was pulled up in a sloppy ponytail to keep it out of my face while I drank my coffee and scrolled through the local real estate listings on my laptop, looking for our next potential flip project. With the Nashville real estate market booming, bidding wars were common and many houses sold for over the asking price. Even fixer-uppers commanded a high price these days. I sighed as I scrolled past yet another overpriced dwelling. Maybe the heyday of house flipping has come to an end.
My sweet buff-colored cat, Sawdust, sat on the kitchen counter watching Colette, who was both my best friend and my roommate, prepare cranberry scones. Colette was a professional chef and had recently launched her first restaurant, the Collection Plate Café. The café was housed in a repurposed parsonage that sat on the same grounds as the Joyful Noise Playhouse, a former country church Buck and I had turned into an entertainment venue. The Collection Plate was the perfect pre-show eatery, as well as a great place for the audience to have dessert and coffee after seeing a performance. Colette also served a wonderful Sunday brunch. She’d hired our other roommate, Emmalee, to serve as her assistant manager. Having worked the late shift at the restaurant last night, Emmalee still dozed in her bedroom down the hall.
The morning sun shined through the kitchen window and glinted off Colette’s engagement ring. The ring featured a traditional round stone, around 1 carat, in a simple yet sophisticated 14k gold setting. Tastefully elegant and not gaudy, much like Colette herself.
A quick, soft knock came at the front door—rap-rap-rap—but it was merely a courtesy gesture. A second later, we heard a key in the lock and in came my cousin Buck, who also happened to be the guy who’d put that ring on Colette’s finger. Like me, Buck was tall, blond-haired, and blue-eyed, though he sported a full beard, broad shoulders, and strong muscles developed from years working in carpentry.
A grin on his face, he proceeded into the kitchen. “Hey, babe.” He wrapped his arms around Colette from behind and she turned her head up with a doe-eyed smile to accept his kiss on her cheek.
“Ewww!” I teased. “Don’t let him kiss you again, Colette. He’s got cooties!”
Having greeted the love of his life, Buck turned to me, “Hey, Cuz.”
I raised my coffee cup in response and took a gulp of the warm brew.
Buck poured himself a cup and dropped into a seat at the table across from me. “You can put your laptop away. I found the perfect property for our next project.”
“Oh, yeah?” I closed the computer, glad he’d discovered a prospect since I’d found squat online. “Tell me more.”
“It’s a three-bedroom, two bath.”
That number of bedrooms and bathrooms would appeal to a variety of buyers. Growing families; older couples downsizing from larger family homes as their nests emptied; single people who’d use one of the bedrooms for guests and the other for an office, or who might share the home with a roommate. “What about the outdoor spaces?”
A grin played about his lips. “It’s got a two-story deck.”
“Nice.” The buyers would have two levels on which to relax and enjoy themselves outside. “Square footage?”
He looked up, as if performing math in his head. “Around six hundred.”
Colette looked over from rolling out the scone dough. “Did you say six-hundred square feet? How in the world can three bedrooms and two baths fit into that small a space?”
I wondered the same thing. I looked from her to Buck and took a guess. “It’s a tiny house, right?”
“Not exactly. You’ll see. I’ll take you there.” He continued to grin but would say no more.
While the scones baked, Colette and I hurriedly cleaned up and dressed, curious about this potential new project. Colette packed up a basket of scones for us to eat in the car, and we headed out to my red Honda SUV. Buck slid into the passenger seat, while Colette climbed into the back.
I shoved one of the pastry triangles into my mouth and held it between my teeth, speaking around it as I buckled my seatbelt. “Where to?” I asked my cousin.
He directed me to head north on Interstate 65. I started my engine and off we went. We ate the delicious scones, sipped our coffee, and cruised up the freeway.
After about ten miles, he pointed to the sign for Exit 95. “Take this exit.”
I exited and took a right turn onto State Route 386. After another three miles, he instructed me to take the exit for Hendersonville. Soon, we rode up on Old Hickory Lake, catching glimpses of the sparkling water through the trees. The lake had been formed decades ago, when dams had been placed along the Cumberland River. I unrolled my window an inch or two. The wind blew in, bringing the smell of lake water with it and opening a floodgate of happy memories. When I was young, my parents often took fancy European trips in the summer. Not the type of thing a young girl would enjoy. They’d leave me in the care of my aunt Nancy and uncle Roger, Buck’s parents. Uncle Roger would round up some inner tubes for all of us, Aunt Nancy would pack the cooler with orange soda and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and we’d drive down here to Old Hickory Lake. Buck, his brother Owen, and I would spend the day floating and playing around on the water, while Uncle Roger fished and Aunt Nancy lounged in the shade with a romance novel. Those days at the lake were some of the happiest from my childhood.
I cast a glance at my cousin. “Is the property a lake house?” A vacation home would explain the relatively small square footage. Secondary homes were often much smaller than primary homes, especially in areas where people would be spending most of their time outside, such as in the mountains or near a lake.
“Exactly.” His eyes glittered with mischief, telling me there was more to the story but that he wasn’t going to share it yet.
I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
We passed an old convenience store called the Get-N-Git. Hand-lettered signs in the windows of the aged building advertised its wares. BAIT & TACKLE. FLOATS. SWIMSUITS. SNACKS. DRINKS. BEER. SOUVINEERS. Whoever made that last sign could’ve used some help from a dictionary or spell check, although the misspelling did give the place some folksy charm. Racks in front of the store held fishing rods, foam pool noodles, inflatable toys, and colorful beach towels. A locked freezer for bagged ice stood outside next to the entrance. With summer having yet to arrive, business was slow and only a single car sat in front of the shop.
We continued on for another half mile before Buck pointed to a sign for a private marina. “Pull in there.”
Colette and I exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror. Buck is up to something. We both knew it. We just didn’t know what, exactly.
My cousin instructed me to pull into a gravel parking area. I parked next to a flashy bright blue Chevy Camaro. Nice car. We climbed out of my SUV and I scanned the area, looking for a lakefront home with a FOR SALE sign on it. Though I saw no vacation homes nearby, my eyes spotted a sixtyish Black man with graying hair sitting on a portable canvas lawn chair near the edge of the nearby woods. He wore a nylon sun hat, a vest with a lot of pockets, and cargo pants, all in colors made to blend into his surroundings. He consulted a small guidebook, then raised the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the treetops. A bird-watcher, apparently.
“This way.” Buck motioned for us to follow him, drawing my attention back to the matter at hand.
Colette and I trailed after my cousin—who was her fiancé—as he descended a few steps that led from the parking lot to a floating wooden dock. All sorts of boats were moored to the dock, separated by narrow walkways that formed numbered slips. Nearly all had been backed into their spots, which allowed us to read their funny, punny names as we passed. A fishing boat named Kiss My Bass; a pontoon boat called Out of Toon; a ski boat named the Nauti Boy.
The air was filled with the fresh smell of lake water and the sounds of cawing birds, the metallic clang of halyards banging against the masts of sailboats, sputtering boat engines, and muted clunks as the rippling waves caused boats to surge and sway against their bumpers.
Buck stopped when he reached a houseboat dubbed the Skinny Dipper. The outside of the houseboat had once been white, but the paint had oxidized to a dull, ugly gray. The lower level comprised the living quarters, behind which was an open deck. The upper level included an enclosed helm and another partially covered deck. The upper and lower decks were connected by two corkscrew-shaped structures—a spiral staircase on the left and an enclosed plastic spiral slide on the right. A circle of still shiny white paint beside the rear door on the lower deck indicated where a life preserver had once hung, though the safety device was now AWOL. An inflatable rubber duck big enough to ride on also sat on the deck, though it had long since lost all its air. The deflated ducky looked up at us with big eyes, as if pleading for us to give it breath. The boat floated at a slight tilt. A FOR SALE sign had been taped in the back window.
I pointed to the boat. “This is the project you’re proposing?” Maybe my cousin had become unbalanced, too, like this aged party barge. “The Skinny Dipper?”
“It sure is.” Buck grinned. “People live in all kinds of unconventional homes these days. Some hipster would snap this up in a heartbeat. Or maybe a retired couple looking for a vacation home.”
I glanced at the boat again. We’d never rehabbed any type of pre-fab dwelling, let alone one that sat on water. A special type of paint and primer would probably be required to paint the metal. “We don’t know anything about refurbishing a houseboat.”
He shrugged. “We never let ignorance stop us before.”
He had a point. In the past, if we didn’t know how to do something, we learned how by watching YouTube videos, reading books on the subject, or cornering the staff at building supply stores and asking for advice. Even so, a boat was a very different project than a permanent structure on land.
Seeming to sense that I was wavering, he stepped off the dock and onto the deck, holding out a hand. “Come aboard, mateys. The owner took me on a tour of the boat yesterday. I told him I’d need to get you two on board if we were going to do this project. He gave me the code to the lockbox so I could show it to you.”
Colette took Buck’s hand and stepped gingerly onto the deck.
I followed. The tilt was even more evident now that we were standing on the boat. I had to spread my legs and hold my arms out to my sides to steady myself. “This boat feels like a carnival funhouse.”
“That’s an easy fix,” Buck said. “One of the pontoons has a leak, but we can patch it or replace it.”
A fiftyish woman with a platinum blonde bob strode up the dock, her shiny black pumps clunk-clunk-clunking against the wooden boards. She stopped behind the Skinny Dipper. She wore a pair of gray dress pants paired with a silky white blouse and a black blazer, looking very businesslike. She frowned on seeing the empty slip next to ours. She turned our way, pointing to the empty slip. “Is this where Grant Hardisty docks his boat?”
“Sorry,” I said. “We don’t know who docks there. We’re just here to look at this houseboat for sale.”
Her frown deepened. “Damn.” She heaved a frustrated huff, turned, and stalked off.
I wonder what that’s about. Realizing it was none of my business, I turned back to the matter at hand, glancing around. “What else does the boat need?”
“New motor,” Buck said. “New generator. A fresh coat of paint, obviously. But everything else is cosmetic.”
“What would a motor and generator cost?”
“Twenty grand tops, combined, and that’s if we go with higher-end models. We’re looking at around fifteen thousand if we go mid-range.”
He’d already done his homework. I wasn’t surprised. Buck might be a risk-taker, but he wasn’t impulsive. The risks he took were calculated ones. The same went for me.
Buck continued. “The owner said he and his wife used to take their kids and grandkids out on the boat, but they’re all grown up now and most have moved out of the area. They considered fixing it up themselves and renting it out as an Airbnb.”
“Air?” I said. “Wouldn’t it be a waterbnb?”
Buck groaned. “Hardy har har. Besides, there’s air in the pontoons.”
He opened the lockbox, removed the key, and used it to unlock the back door. He opened the door and held out a hand, inviting Colette and me to enter first. We stepped into a small living area. While I’d expected the space to be filled with all built-in furniture like an RV, the living room was actually a mix of built-in shelving and cabinetry, with a traditional sofa, love seat, and armchair forming a semicircle around a square coffee table. The couches and chair were wood-framed with removable cushions. Some of the cushions had torn and were patched with duct tape. But while the cushions would need to be replaced, the wood frames could easily be sanded to remove the scratches and restained or painted to look as good as new. A tingle of excitement began in my toes.
We continued through the living room to the kitchen. The kitchen space was a bit more pre-fab, with a table bolted to the floor and benches on either side to form a booth. But the table and benches were a nice, heavy wood rather than cheap aluminum and, like the living room furniture, could be rehabbed without much effort or cost. Ditto for the cabinets. The stove and oven appeared to be working, as did the refrigerator, freezer, and microwave. The kitchen faucet had a small leak, but that would be an easy fix, too. It probably only needed a new washer. The vinyl flooring in the kitchen was scuffed and grungy, but the total square footage was small. It would be cheap to replace it with new flooring. Gray vinyl plank would look nice.
The “three bedrooms” Buck had promised were three small berths with built-in platforms on which mattresses were situated. The beds took up nearly the entire bedroom space, with only a narrow walkway inside the door of each berth that led to a small closet. Drawers were built into the platforms to serve as dressers. On inspection, I discovered that most of the runners on the drawers were broken but, again, they’d be a simple fix, especially for a couple of trained carpenters like my cousin and me. Two of the beds were doubles, while the third was a king size. Windows along the side of the rooms provided wide views to the outdoors. A tiny bathroom with a triangle-shaped shower tucked into a corner was situated between the two double bedrooms. The master bedroom featured its own en suite bath with a slightly larger square shower stall. Though the spaces were small, they were functional, economizing on room but still allowing for comfort.
The excited tingle that had started in my toes spread throughout my body, and my mind began to buzz with ideas for decorating the place. Navy-blue-and-white striped all-weather fabric would be cute for the living room furniture. Accent pillows with anchors on them would add a nice touch. The light fixtures could be replaced with bright red sconces to look like old ship lanterns. Maybe Buck is onto something after all.
Buck led us back out onto the rear deck and up the spiral staircase. The upstairs deck was furnished with cheap plastic mismatched lawn furniture, most of it weathered and looking like it might break if anyone sat on it. We’d replace the chairs and table for sure.
Colette stared out from the deck across the lake. “This would be a perfect place to watch a sunset over dinner or drinks.”
A grin tugged at Buck’s lips. “Colette’s sold.” He turned to me. “What about you, Whitney?”
I’d certainly be interested—for the right price. “How much is the seller asking?”
“Forty-five thousand,” Buck said. “He claims the price is firm, but I’d bet I could talk him down to forty-two, maybe even less. I asked around. It’s an old boat, a ’seventy-eight model, and it’s been for sale for months. Not many people want to tackle a project like this. Plus, people can buy a part interest in a houseboat and share the maintenance costs. That sounds like a better deal to a lot of folks.”
“Part interest?” Colette asked. “Like a timeshare, you mean?”
“Yup,” Buck said. “Except they like to call it interval ownership now. The term timeshare has negative connotations after so many people got stuck with timeshares they couldn’t afford and rarely used.” He turned to me again and cocked a brow in question.
I mulled things over. This could be a fun project, but we weren’t in the house flipping business simply for the fun. We were in it to make a living. “How much do you think we could sell the Skinny Dipper for once we fixed it up?”
“With brand-new equipment?” he said. “Hundred K. Maybe one-ten.”
My enthusiasm waned slightly. “That’s not a big profit margin compared to the other houses we’ve flipped.”
“No, it’s not,” he conceded, “but we’d make a decent profit for the amount of work and time we’ll put in. It will only take a couple of weeks to fix this boat up. Maybe three.”
Colette looked up at him. “You sure you want to start a new project this close to our wedding date?”
“Why not?” he said. “It’ll help me burn off some of my nervous energy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘nervous energy’? You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”
“How could I have cold feet when I’m marrying a gorgeous woman like you?” He chuckled, grabbed her hand, and held it to his lips. When he released it, he said, “The only thing I’m nervous about is standing up in a monkey suit in front of a hundred and fifty people and saying all that mushy stuff about how I’ll love and cherish you to the day I die. I’ll sound like a hopeless sap.”
I couldn’t help but snort. “It’s not exactly a secret how you feel about Colette. You’ve been making puppy dog eyes at her for years.”
Colette rolled her eyes before returning her gaze to Buck. “Would you feel more tough and manly if you wore your tool belt with your tux?”
His cocked his head and raised his brows. “Is that an option?”
Colette and I answered in unison, “No!”
She added, “You’re just going to have to deal with feeling emotionally exposed and vulnerable.”
He gave her a grin. “You’re worth it.” Turning back to me, he asked, “What do you say, Whitney? Should we buy this boat?”
The breeze blew past, bringing that fresh lake water scent and pleasant memories with it again. What the heck. Why not give it a go? I raised my hand to my forehead and gave my cousin a salute. “I say, aye-aye, Captain.”
CHAPTER 2SLIPS AND SLIDES
WHITNEY
Buck called the owner of the houseboat and told him we’d take the vessel off his hands for forty grand. While they negotiated, I examined the rubber ducky. Seeing no obvious holes, I figured I’d try inflating the adorable big-eyed bird. I wasn’t about to put my mouth on the air valve, though. Who knew whose mouth had touched that valve, or how many mouths for that matter? The last thing I wanted was to end up with a herpes sore on my lip from a rubber ducky.
I was nothing if not resourceful. Colette watched with interest as I rounded up a plastic funnel from the toolbox in the cargo back of my SUV. I retrieved the hair dryer I’d seen in the boat’s master bath, stuck the small end of the funnel into the air valve on the flaccid rubber ducky, and plugged the hair dryer into an outlet on the deck. When the hair dryer roared to life, Buck cut me an irritated look, put a finger in his ear, and stepped away from the boat to continue dickering over the boat price. Lest I melt the vinyl, I turned the dryer to the cool setting and stuck the end into the funnel. Whirrrrrr!
The ducky rapidly came to life, rising like a phoenix from the ashes, until he was as full as I dared to make him. One more air molecule and the little guy was likely to pop. I turned off the hair dryer.
Colette poked a finger in the ducky’s round chest. “He’s cute.”
“Before we sell this boat, we need to have a party on it. We can take turns riding the duck. Maybe we can get a rope and tow it behind the boat.” I wanted to try the spiral slide, too. Maybe I’d even go down the twisted chute headfirst. Another idea popped into my mind. “You know, the Skinny Dipper would be the perfect place for me to host your bachelorette party.”
“Yes!” Colette squealed and clapped her hands. “It’ll be so fun!”
I returned the hair dryer to the bathroom. I walked back to the deck to find that Buck and the seller had agreed to forty-two thousand for the boat. Not bad. The price gave us even more potential for profit. I raised my hand to give my cousin a high five. “Good job, Cuz.”
He slapped my hand and cut a glance at Colette, grinning. “I know how to get what I want.”
She narrowed her eyes and wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you go getting cocky on me.”
He feigned innocence. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
* * *
Between our other carpentry gigs the following week, Buck and I completed the paperwork to have the boat’s title transferred to us and signed paperwork to assume the slip rental. We also bought the materials we’d need to rehab the boat. Vinyl plank flooring. Sandpaper. Aluminum patch and epoxy to repair the leaky pontoon. Primer and paint. We’d even run by a boat store and bought a new lifesaving ring. We’d also looked into getting boating licenses. While older folks weren’t required to have a license, Tennessee law stipulated that any adult born in 1989 or later was required to have one. Fortunately, there were free study materials online, though we’d have to take the test in person and pay a ten-dollar fee to sit for the exam.
By Friday afternoon, we were ready to get started. I bubbled with excitement. The boat promised to be a fun flip. It would be nice to try something new, expand our skills, find out what we were capable of.
Buck and I met up in the marina parking lot. To speed the work along, we planned to live on the boat while we fixed it up. Lake life would be a new experience for me, and I was looking forward to a kind of working vacation. To that end, I’d brought a small suitcase filled with spare coveralls and essentials, as well as my cat, Sawdust, in his plastic travel carrier. Like the man we’d seen the other day, Sawdust would enjoy watching the birds around the lake. Besides, I’d miss my sweet furry boy if I was gone for two weeks and didn’t get to see him.
Luggage in hand, Buck and I headed down the dock to the Skinny Dipper. The slip next to ours that had been empty before now contained a shiny cabin cruiser dubbed the Sexy Sheila. The boat bobbed in the water. A beach towel hung from an improvised clothesline. A large cooler sat on the deck, and a small charcoal kettle grill was attached to the boat near the back, its arm designed to be secured in one of the holes intended to hold a fishing rod. Although a black Lab mix stuck his snout out of an open window on the cabin, there was no human to be seen. Either the boat’s owner was below deck, too, or he’d left the vessel. I wondered if the real-life sexy Sheila was the blonde who’d come by when we’d been looking at the boat a few days earlier. The dog wiggled as we approached, telling me that his unseen tail was wagging away. He greeted us with a woof.
“Hey, boy!” I called.
The dog woofed again. Woof-woof!
Sawdust stood in his carrier and returned the greeting. Meow!
I took Sawdust inside and claimed one of the smaller berths, leaving Buck to take the king-sized bed in the master. I set the carrier on top of the bed and opened it. Sawdust poked his head out tentatively, sniffed the air, and ventured forth, curious about this new place. Lest the furry little love of my life inadvertently go overboard, I slipped him into a bright red kitty life jacket. He had no idea why I’d outfitted him with the vest. He tried to back out of the thing but couldn’t. He rolled over, hoping that would get the jacket off him. No luck with the roll, either. He looked up at me, his eyes imploring me to remove this torture device.
I scratched his ears. “Sorry, Sawdust. You’ll just have to get used to it. Mommy loves you and wants you to be safe.”
He resigned himself to the fact that the life jacket wasn’t going anywhere. He shifted focus and jumped down from the berth, setting off to explore the boat.
I turned my attention from my cat to our rehab project. Step one of any remodeling job was to empty the structure of unnecessary items. To that end, Buck pulled out the ancient kitchen flooring, while I carried the furniture cushions out to my SUV and crammed them into the cargo bay. Next, I removed the bedding. The mattresses had been protected with waterproof covers and were in good condition, but I’d buy new sheets, pillows, and nautical-themed bedspreads to spruce things up.
Sawdust followed Buck and me as we ventured up the spiral staircase to the top deck to remove the cheap plastic patio furniture. From that higher vantage point, I could see past the marina to the open part of the lake. The sun glinted off the water as a man puttered by in a small johnboat. He resembled the man who’d been bird-watching the last time we were here, but he’d been too far away for me to get a good look at him then, just as he was too far away now. He wore a fishing hat, a short-sleeved shirt with a life jacket over it, and a pair of shorts. A fishing rod stuck up out of the boat. Farther out, another fishing boat bobbed in the water, three men aboard. They sat on the deck, rods in hand, a retractable canvas Bimini top shielding them from the sun. The water was calm. Only a gentle, cooling breeze blew across the lake. What a beautiful day to be out on the water.
I carried the patio furniture down the spiral staircase, carefully watching my step. I loaded it onto a flatbed trailer hitched to Buck’s van and tied it down to ensure it wouldn’t fall off in the road when he drove it to the dump later.
Now that we’d cleared things out, Buck and I donned safety goggles and dust masks, and set to work with various grades of sandpaper. While he tackled the kitchen table and cabinets, I buffed the bathroom cabinets and the living room furniture frames. We kept the windows open and enjoyed a nice cross breeze. Sawdust lounged in a bright spot on the deck, soaking up the sunshine and watching as ospreys circled above. Once things had been sanded to our satisfaction, we used a vacuum cleaner to suck up the mess we’d created.
Five o’clock rolled around, and Buck and I decided to call it a day. Colette was working at her café tonight, and Buck planned to take advantage of his free night to watch a basketball game with some of his buddies. I had a date with my boyfriend, Collin Flynn, a homicide detective for the Metro Nashville Police Department. I’d convinced him to go see the latest rom-com at a theater tonight, promising to balance things out with an action flick next time. Relationships were all about compromise, right?
Buck and I were tossing the used sandpaper into a trash bin on the back deck of the Skinny Dipper when the fishing boat with the three men in it trolled up, its engine softly puttering. Sawdust padded over to the side of the boat to see what was going on. The boat appeared to be a relatively simple one, functional not flashy. I’d need my tape measure to get a precise length, but by my best estimate the boat extended a modest fifteen or sixteen feet. The captain was a sixtyish guy with shaggy gray hair sticking out from under a faded fishing hat adorned with bright-colored lures. He sported a gray beard a few days overdue for a trim, a middle-aged paunch under a lightweight pocketed beach shirt, and a relaxed smile that said the casual lake life agreed with him. The man in the front passenger seat looked to be in his sixties, too. He sported similar attire and a fishing hat, too, though his face was cleanshaven.
The third man had been sitting on a bench seat in the back. When the captain reversed the motors and the boat came to a stop next to the dock, the man eased off the vessel, using a cane with four prongs on the bottom to steady himself as he stepped onto the dock. The black dog inside the Sexy Sheila returned to the window, sticking his head outside and wiggling and woofing again in excitement to see his shipmate returning home. Woof! Woof-woof!
Once the man had found his footing, the passenger handed him a string of fish. The guy with the cane said, “Thanks, guys.”
The captain dipped his head in humble acknowledgment. “Let’s do it again soon. Later, gator.” The other man raised his hand in a silent goodbye. The boat swung around in a slow semicircle to leave the marina. As it puttered off, I could see the name emblazoned across the back: CAUDAL OTTA FISH. Huh? The pun was lost on me.
Once he passed out of the no-wake zone, the captain revved his engine, the bow lifted a little, and off they went. The guy who owned the cabin cruiser ambled up the walkway with his fish in one hand and his quad cane in the other. He wore a faded blue T-shirt and a pair of bright yellow swim trunks in a pink flamingo print. To my surprise, he appeared to be only in his early forties. The cane had thrown me off, made me assume he’d be older, closer to his buddy’s age. His skin was sun-kissed and shimmery with suntan oil, and his blue eyes sparkled like the water in the lake behind him. Natural blond streaks highlighted his light brown hair, sunshine acting as a hairdresser. He looked like a casually dressed, slightly aged Disney prince.
Buck cast a glance at the man. “Looks like the fish were biting today.”
“They sure were.” The guy raised his hand to show off his catch. “Jojo and I will be eating good all week.” He stopped at the window and momentarily lifted his hand from the cane to stroke the dog’s neck. “Won’t we, Jojo?”
The dog wiggled in the window, the tail wagging the dog, as the guy took his cane and circled around to the back platform of the Sexy Sheila. Once aboard, he hobbled over to the door that led down to the quarters. Bracing himself against the fiberglass, he unlocked the door. The dog bounded out, nearly knocking the guy over. He’d have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed the top of the door. “Careful, boy!”
The dog danced around on the deck, enjoying his freedom. The man disappeared below, probably putting his fish in his freezer. He returned with two bottles of beer dangling from his fingers, another beer tucked into the pocket of his swimsuit. He called over to Buck and me. “Looks like you two are calling it quits for the day,” he called. “Care to join me in happy hour, lake style?”
Buck said, “Don’t mind if I do.” He looked my way. “You in, Whitney?”
“Sure.” I’d have preferred a frozen margarita to a beer, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’d also have preferred to go inside and stand under a hot shower to ease my aching muscles, but I didn’t want to come off as unfriendly. We’d be making a lot of noise over the next couple of weeks while we rehabbed the Skinny Dipper. It couldn’t hurt to get on good terms with the owner of the boat next door, especially since it appeared he lived on the vessel.
I removed Sawdust’s life jacket, put him inside the boat, and followed Buck as he climbed off our boat and circled around to the back deck of the Sexy Sheila. As we boarded, the enticing coconut scent of the man’s suntan oil smelled good enough to eat. Or drink. It gave me a hankering for a creamy, slushy piña colada. Mmmmm. To heck with the margarita I’d been thinking about a moment earlier.
My cousin must have noticed the oil, too. He gestured to the guy’s arms. “Boy howdy, you’re as slicked up as a male stripper.”
Our neighbor laughed and handed the bottles of beer to Buck and me. “I’m Grant Hardisty.”
Buck pointed the longneck at himself. “Buck Whitaker.” He turned the bottle on me. “My cousin, Whitney. Same last name. Our dads were brothers.”
It was true that our fathers were brothers, though the men were as different as night and day. While Buck’s father enjoyed working with his hands and had gone into carpentry, my father had been much more interested in science and pursued a career as a doctor. In many ways, I was more like my uncle Roger than I was my own father. I, too, enjoyed physical labor. Not that it didn’t require quite a bit of brainpower, too. A lot of calculations were involved in remodeling homes.
Grant gave us a smile as warm as his tan. “Nice to meet y’all.” Now that his left hand was free, he pulled his phone from his pocket. “We need some happy-hour tunes.” He jabbed the screen with his thumb and the music started up. I recognized the first few bars in an instant. It was the old Kiss hit “Rock and Roll All Nite.”
Buck and I took seats on the built-in benches. The dog came over to me, looking for affection. I gladly provided him with ear rubs. He thanked me with a continuous tail wag.
As I petted the dog, I angled my head toward the rear of the boat. “Who’s Sheila? Your wife? Girlfriend?”
“No. Sheila’s married to a buddy of mine.”
Buck’s brows shot up. “Your friend doesn’t mind that you named your boat after his wife?”
Grant chuckled, released his cane, and held up his palm. “It’s not like it sounds. This boat used to belong to him. I took it off his hands. You know what they say. The two happiest days in a man’s life are the day he buys himself a boat and the day he sells that boat.”
“Is that so?” Buck angled his head to indicate the Skinny Dipper. “I hope we’ll be happy the day we sell our boat. That’s the whole reason we bought it. To fix it up for profit.”
“Is that what you two do for a living? Restore old boats?” Grant took a pull on his beer as he waited for an answer. As he drank, I noticed a strip of untanned skin on his ring finger where a wedding band had once been. Trouble in paradise?
I filled him in. “This will be our first boat rehab. We normally flip houses.”
Grant’s head bobbed. “Mixings things up, huh? Keeping it fresh?”
“Exactly.” Buck held his bottle poised at his lips. “Can’t hurt to learn some news tricks.” He took a slug.
Grant used his hands to lift his left leg up onto the bench to stretch out. He must have trouble moving it on its own.
While I would’ve ignored the elephant in the room—or should I say on the boat?—Buck brought the subject up. Using his beer bottle once again as a pointer, he angled it at Grant’s leg. “Boating injury?”
Grant shook his head. “I slipped and fell in a store about six weeks back.”
My busybody cousin asked, “Did you break your leg?”
“No,” Grant said, “but I banged my knee up pretty good. Got some soft tissue damage, torn ligaments and tendons. I’ve been going to physical therapy, not that it’s helping much. The doc says it won’t ever be the same. I had to quit my job. Can’t tend bar with a bum leg.”
“Shame,” I said. It was frightening how something unforeseeable could happen and a person’s whole life could change in an instant.
He settled back, turned his head up to the sun, and issued a happy sigh. “Nothing beats lake life, does it?”
Buck took another drink of his beer. “Looking forward to finding out.”
Though the fishing boat was long gone by then, I found myself gesturing to the end of the dock where it had departed a few minutes earlier. “The name of your friend’s boat,” I said. “Caudal Otta Fish. What’s that mean?”
Grant cleared things up for me. “The caudal fin is another name for the tail fin of a fish.”
“Ah.” Mystery solved.
Jojo stepped to the end of the boat and looked back at Grant, whining softly. “Nature calling, boy?”
Jojo wagged his tail.
When Grant struggled to rise with his cane, I offered to take the dog for a walk so he could relieve himself. “That would be a big help,” Grant said. “He nearly pulls me down.” He pointed to a leash tied to one of the boat cleats. “There’s his leash.”
I untied the leash, clipped it to the dog’s collar, and stepped with him onto the dock. The dog nearly pulled my shoulder out of the socket as he headed down the dock. He was strong, with that just-out-of-puppyhood energy. He dragged me toward the grassy area by the trees. I had to jog to keep up. He sniffed along the edge of the trees, lifting his leg to mark several of their trunks as we went along. When he stopped to pop a squat, a soft rustling in the woods caught my attention. I looked up to see the man from the johnboat walking away through the trees. There didn’t appear to be a trail where he was walking, but maybe he’d spotted a rare bird and ventured off the path to get a better look.
Jojo finished doing his business and I realized I didn’t have a poop bag to clean up his mess. Luckily for both of us, I had a disposable latex glove in my pocket. I donned the glove, picked up his droppings and slid the glove back off, turning it inside out as I did. On our walk back to the Sexy Sheila, I dropped the doggie doodie into a waste bin.
Sawdust mewed from the back window of the Skinny Dipper as Jojo and I approached. I’d expected Sawdust to cower in fear when he saw the dog, but instead he put his paws up on the glass and scratched, as if trying to get through. Jojo stopped and sniffed the air at the back of the Skinny Dipper, scenting Sawdust. Before I knew what was happening, he’d leapt onto the back of the boat and dragged me over to the window. He stood on his hind legs and he and Sawdust looked at each other through the glass, Jojo’s tail wagging happily all the while. I was glad to see the dog wasn’t being aggressive.
Sawdust mewed again, more insistently. He seemed determined to make a new friend. I tied the leash to the railing on the Skinny Dipper to limit Jojo’s range of movement in case things went south, put Sawdust’s lifejacket back on, and opened the back door of the boat to release him. To my surprise, my little fraidy-cat showed no fear, marching right over to the big, wriggly dog and sitting up prairie dog style as if trying to look Jojo in the eye. The dog lowered his front half, his rear end still moving left and right at warp speed, and went nose to nose with my kitty. When Sawdust mewed again, Jojo opened his mouth and licked Sawdust from chest to ear, nearly lifting the cat off the ground with his enthusiastic tongue. Sawdust activated his purr, happy to have made a new friend.
I scooped Sawdust up and cradled him to my chest as I walked Jojo back to the Sexy Sheila. “Mind if my cat joins us?”
“Not at all,” Grant said. “The more the merrier.”
I set Sawdust down and he sniffed his way around the small platform, Jojo tagging along behind him.
Grant’s phone chimed with an incoming notification. He pulled it from the breast pocket of his T-shirt and eyed the screen. “Looks like I’ve got one on the hook.”
CHAPTER 3A NEW FOUR-LEGGED FRIEND
SAWDUST
Sawdust had seen dogs before, but mostly from afar. Normally, he was a fraidy-cat. Dogs were much bigger than cats. They had menacing growls and loud barks and long, pointed teeth. Scary! But the way this dog was acting, wiggling around all silly and licking Sawdust with his tongue, the cat could tell he was a friendly sort, what Whitney would deem a “good boy.”
Sawdust went snout to snout with the dog, exchanging sniffs. The dog had been nice enough to give him a lick. Sawdust figured he should return the favor. He stuck out his much smaller tongue and swiped the side of the dog’s snout. The dog danced around in a circle. What a clown!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DIANE KELLY is a former state assistant attorney general and tax advisor who spent much of her career fighting, or inadvertently working for, white-collar criminals. A proud graduate of the Citizens Police Academy of Mansfield, Texas, Diane combines her fascination with crime and her love of animals in her stories. Diane now lives in North Carolina, where she spends her days catering to her demanding cats or walking her dogs in the region’s beautiful woods. You can sign up for email updates here.
Copyright © 2023 by Diane Kelly.
