Faron Goss by Diane Lechleitner

Author:Diane Lechleitner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Green Writers Press
Published: 2021-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 37

IN SPITE OF BEING HAUNTED by what lay below, Faron’s first summer on the B. Paisley passed quickly, and the next five fishing seasons went even faster. He could empty and bait pots as well as any sternman on the island, though there was still that problem when he hauled a trap.

“You about to puke?” Emmett asked when the color drained from Faron’s face. “Keep them eyes open!” He’d heard about the eye-closing thing. The gang had quite a laugh about it a while back.

When he wasn’t on the boat or painting, Faron wandered along the shell-flecked beaches and pungent marshes that he explored as a child, but his favorite spot was where he first listened to the pacifying thumps of little brown moths—the small meadow that sprouted where his house used to be.

It wasn’t unusual to see him sitting on the overgrown sliver of land, watching insects soar through the rue and feed on the white and yellow flowers. Seaside dragonlets, slaty skimmers, and violet dancers zipped through the air at Puddle Cove, their iridescent wings beating so fast they seemed not to move at all. Monarchs fluttered from blossom to blossom, on their way to Mexico, and nothing soothed him more than the hum of chunky, fuzzy bees, bending stalks of goldenrod as they gorged on sweet nectar.

When the weather was bad, like this morning, he took his sketchpad to Scuppers, where Connie Ebel was still one of the regulars. Being Hodie’s wife got her the prized table—the largest one, with a sweeping view of the harbor, as well as the front door, so she and her lady friends could monitor the comings and goings by land and by sea.

Faron hadn’t quite outgrown his interest in her, and Connie always made a point of saying something nice. She and her friends were just finishing breakfast when Faron sat down at another table and opened his sketchpad.

“Not bad,” Connie said, looking over his shoulder on her way to the register. “You make good pictures of bugs. You still catching those things?”

“Only so I can draw them. Then I let them go.”

Ninety-one-year-old Clara Duncan stood up as straight as a woman her age can do and poked her head in the middle of Faron and Connie for a closer look at the drawing. Clara could see terns diving for small fish halfway across the harbor, but everything up close was a blur. “That’s real nice,” she told Faron. “I like bats—they eat the skeeters.”

“It’s not a bat,” said Faron.

“Tell you what.” Clara dug in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and a handful of change. Laid it on the table. “I’ll buy it from you—put it on my fridge. I like bats.”

“It’s not a bat, Mrs. Duncan.”

Clara squinted at the drawing. “It’s not? What is it, then?”

“A moth.”

“Well, so it is,” she said, now holding the sketchpad up against her nose. “Nope. You better keep it.” She put one crooked hand against the edge of the table and swept her money into it with the other, then shoved the cash back into her pocket.

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