Fairy Tale Blues by Tina Welling

Author:Tina Welling
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

When the afternoon cooled, we set off with Bijou to walk along the pier.

“Beautiful day,” Dad called to the fishing guide who always looked, but never smiled at me.

The guide tipped his head up, checked the sky, said, “You’re right. Severe clear.”

“Sounds like pilot talk to me.” We paused and Dad asked, “You a pilot?”

“Yes, I am . . . or was. On the water more these days.” The man was cleaning a small part with an oily cloth; he flung that aside, set the part down and, while wiping his hands on a cleaner cloth, came over to the side of the boat and introduced himself.

“Daniel.” He stuck his right hand out toward Dad.

Dad shook it and said, “Skip. And this is my daughter Annie Teague.” Dad didn’t use my married name, never had.

I shook Daniel’s hand, looked up at him, and I felt a brief sexual jolt at meeting his clean penetrating gaze. For a second it threw me completely off balance. Daniel nodded imperceptibly as if confirming the jolt. Then he directed his attention to my dad, who was bent over, checking out the engine on view inside the open hatch cover.

During their small talk I rearranged any trace of response lurking in my facial expression. It was as if this man had passed me a secret note, a small key, acknowledging with his nod that it was intended expressly for me. I’d felt a vibration in the center of my palm, sharp and brief. To ease the weight of my sudden self-consciousness, I worked to convince myself that it didn’t happen.

Maybe he had one of those practical joke hand buzzers.

I greeted Daniel’s dog, who had gotten up, stretched, then sauntered over to check us out. I petted the sleek black-and-white dog that Daniel said was named Jeter. Then he and Bijou sniffed each other.

In between his casual questions to my dad—Live around here? Do you fish?—Daniel answered enough questions of Dad’s to make him feel comfortable—Don’t guide much, used to fly cargo, been around Florida a few months. But through my father, Daniel gleaned more information than he offered, slowly and methodically, and with no help from me.

Then Dad said, “That fellow over there down the beach—he’s watching you with his binoculars. Did you notice?” Dad directed our attention back toward the grassy park, where the picnic tables sat beneath the shade of Australian pines.

Daniel didn’t glance over in the direction my dad indicated, but said, “Lots of tourists around, interested in boats.”

I turned to see, though.

I said, “He looks as much like a tourist as the Secret Service who accompany Vice President Cheney on his trips home to Jackson Hole.” Even from this distance you could see the sun reflecting off the smooth fabric of this man’s dress pants, and though he didn’t wear a tie, his shirt was collared with long sleeves. Back home the Secret Service started off wearing dark suits and ties, and when all the locals greeted them with questions about the weather in D.

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