Chapter 5

Gee’s turn:

I made it to Tuesday. I pulled my phone out at noon, punched up HIS number. It rang a few times before, “Hey, Gee! What’s up?”

“Are you on the high seas?”

“No, actually I’m motoring to the shipyard. They have some space on a dry dock and I can take advantage of it to get a bottom job.”

“Bottom job,” I snickered. “Kinky. And you’re telling me this for what reason?”

“A bottom job is...”

“I know, I know... Dorable. I just like jerking your chain. So what do you do while that’s happening?”

“I load up all the laundry, empty out the fridge, pack up Pickles and turn into a denizen of dry land.”

“Oh. I was calling to see...”

“Maybe by Friday,” he said.

“How’re you gonna get from the shipyard to your car?”

“I was gonna bum a ride.”

“I can pick you up after four.”

“Hey, that’d be wonderful. Then I can drop Pickles off at the house and take you to dinner...”

“I eat dinner,” I said, feeling just a little bit giddy. “We’re talking about that shipyard south of town?”

“Yeah.” He explained exactly where I needed to show up.

I hung up, shoved the phone back into my purse, tossed my head back, eyes closed, thinking. This is different. The boat? Our own little world. Just him and me. This is different. Well, if there’s any ‘here’ here, I need to see the guy in more normal surroundings. I’m trying to imagine what kind of house might belong to a guy who lives on a houseboat.

Is it worth the risk? Silly me. We’ll be on dry land, not stuck up some dark channel in a primeval swamp. That’s a bit safer. And he DOES like cats.

At four-thirty I pull into the fenced parking lot of the shipyard. There he is, those darned baggy shorts, an army surplus duffel bag, an ice chest and a pet carrier with a very aggravated cat inside.

I rolled my window down. “Pardon me, sailor! Lookin’ for a good time?”

“Always,” he laughed.

We loaded the cat carrier into the back seat and his bags into the trunk. “Now, I think I know where your home marina is. Other side of town, right?”

“Yeah. How’re YOU doin’?”

“Actually, better. You’re my adventure for the day.”

“Me?” Pickles meowed. “Or Pickles.”

“Poor Pickles,” I said. “In a cage. How abusive.”

“I have special canned cat food at the house waiting for him. He’ll be okay. You and me, though ... What’s on your mind for dinner?”

“Can we go to that new steakhouse? I’ve heard...”

“So have I,” he said.

“I can pay my own way.”

“Hardly! You’ve saved me a lot of trouble by volunteering to transport me and my companion. Dinner’s a vestige of payback.”

“A vestige?”

“Of payback, Gee. I’d take you to dinner, wheels or no wheels.”

“I didn’t call you to mooch a meal.”

“Didn’t think you did. Are you trying to argue over this?”

“No...” in my ‘little girl’ voice. Dunno why I used it. Never works. Then I saw his face. Maybe it does.

“Then I need to go home, get Pickles some food and water out, shower and shave and change clothes, then come get you...”

“You don’t know where I live. Why don’t I just follow YOU home and feed Pickles while you do all that? Then we can go together.”

“Where DO you live?”

“An anthill.”

“Anthill?”

I named the apartment complex.

“They’re NICE apartments,” he stated.

“But it’s still an anthill. We do what we can,” I said.

“I sort of avoid all that...” he replied.

“So now I get to see what you’re hiding from,” I said.

“Yeah ... Follow me?”

“Sure.”

I followed him out of the marina, over several different roads, a chunk of interstate highway, then off and into the woods, finally pulling off a secondary road onto a gated driveway. I saw him reach up to his visor and punch a remote. The gate opened, letting us in. The driveway was rather long, with a twist hiding the house from the road. When we rounded the bend, I saw his house, set back under trees. It wasn’t a BIG house.

He got out of his car as I exited my own. First thing he grabbed was the pet carrier. Pickles glared through the door at us.

I grabbed one of the duffel bags and followed him. Funny. When he reached the front door, all he did was turn the knob and walk in. I looked at the lock. One of those high-tech things. I commented.

“Works great for just this occasion,” he said. “Just drop the bag. Let me let Pickles out.” He put the pet carrier on the floor, opening the door. Pickles glared.

“He’s mad at me for uprooting him. Cats don’t like change.”

I squatted down to Pickles’ level. “Poooooor kitty...” Over my shoulder I told him, “Go do your thing. I’m good here.”

As Josh walked out of the room, Pickles exited his carrier, pushing his round head into my waiting hand, purring. I plopped cross-legged onto the floor, petting him, then thought a bit. I got up, found his water bowl in the kitchen, filled it for him. Gotta take care of the cat. I went back into the living room, sat on the sofa, looking around.

It’s apparent to me that Josh is pretty organized. Bookcases and shelves lined the walls on both sides of a large-screen TV. I saw books, DVDs, a piece of interesting ceramic art, and a cream-white-and-blue mug with a US Navy insignia on it.

I stood up, browsed the books and DVDs, finding an eclectic range of titles. That’s a bit of data. It appears to me to be reliable data. The titles on this bookshelf match the range of titles on board his boat.

I hear the shower stop, so I raise my voice. “Cat food! You’re starving your kitty.”

“Tall cabinet. Middle shelf. Make sure it’s cat food. I don’t want to feed him tuna!”

“Got it,” I replied. “Finish your ablutions!”

Pickles knows what’s in that cabinet because as soon as I retrieve the can he’s twining around my legs. I dump the glop into his bowl. It’s something he likes. He hardly notices my hand stroking his back while he scarfs down the food.

He’s got a nice recliner. I sank back into it, heard faint sounds coming from what I assumed to be the master bedroom.

Presently he walked out. “Bored?” he asked.

“Nope. Nice house. Happy cat.”

“Want the tour?”

“I’d like that.”

“Okay. You’ve seen the kitchen and the living room.” He turned. “Master bedroom.”

“You’re the only one who lives here,” I said, noting the queen bed, properly made up.

“Pickles would argue with you.”

“Of course,” I replied.

Pickles jumped up onto the bed as if to make sure we were including him in any discussion of occupancy.

“Did you decorate this place?”

“If by ‘decorate’, you mean ‘Bought the stuff that’s here’, then the answer is yes. Does it expose me as a total Neanderthal?”

“No, it’s practical yet tasteful. Works. How much time do you actually spend here?”

“Oh, a few days a month,” he said. “Come in, check mail, do a bit of shopping if I need something...” His face changed subtly. “Land-based version of the boat.”

“Interesting,” I said. “What’s the rest of the house?”

He led me up the hall. “Guest room.”

“Really IS a guest room,” I noted. “Most of the time, ‘guest room’ is filled with junk.”

“Oh, now if you wanna talk ‘junk’, here’s my hobby room.” He opened a door. “Hobby stuff. Bench in the corner – ham radio. This bench – handloading ammunition. Big black thing over there – gun safe.”

“You do all those?”

“Yep. Geek, with an affinity for projectile weapons. Does that scare you off?”

I smirked and snickered. “Hardly. If I had a house like this, I’d never leave home...”

“I do that sometimes,” he smiled. “But I still get a bit more solitude on the boat.” He led me out through the back door into a covered patio overlooking a small hedged yard. There was a birdbath in the center.

The whole place looked pretty well kept up for having an owner who spent weeks away. I mentioned that.

“I have a yard guy – a couple, actually, who come in. They air out the house, take care of the yard, make sure that I don’t walk in on a disaster.”

“You seem to have your life tied up in a neat little package.”

“Mostly,” he replied. “A little solitude’s nice. Too much is, well ... And Pickles is a very good companion, but conversations are a bit one-sided. His vocabulary is limited.”

“Great!” I quipped. “I’m better conversation than your cat.”

“Whole lot prettier, too,” he retorted.

I almost glowed when he dropped that. I guess that every girl wants to be told she’s attractive. “Thank you,” I squeaked. “Nice to be told.”

“Oh, come on. You know it.”

“I know of no such thing. You may be hanging around with me because I’m pushy and you’re sympathetic.”

“Pickles likes you. He’s an excellent judge of character.

“Now, take me somewhere and feed me a steak.”

“You like steak?”

“A good one,” I said. “Kind of pricey – good ones, I mean. I’ve not had good luck where steak isn’t the feature of the place. And how we’re dressed...”

He eyed me up and down. “Tell you what, I go back in, put on something a bit nicer, then we go to YOUR apartment, you upgrade YOUR outfit, then I take you to that place for a NICE steak...”

“It’s gonna have to be a good steak to get me into a dress.”

“It’s a good one.” He named the place.

“I can’t afford that, Josh,” I said.

“I can. For both of us. It’s a date, Gee. You’re not expected to pay your way. My treat.”

That’ what happened. Delightful dinner. Late movie, in which I practically forced myself into his side for the cuddles I desired. Goodnight kisses at my apartment door without even a hint of ‘nightcaps’ or whatever other sleazy line some guy might use to get his repayment for dinner and a movie.

Now there’s a foundation for a relationship. A week later we’ve been together every evening. He’s onshore, the boat getting a very thorough bottom job in drydock.

And in the whole time, he’s NEVER pushed me past the point of some truly serious kissing and hugging. Now, that hugging and kissing thing, though, after I pushed for the first time or two, he’s as likely to start it as I am. And it’s good. Very good.

So it’s Friday afternoon and he’s asked for my help. He tells me that he’s already been to the boatyard, Dorable in the water, and he’s restocked her with perishables preparatory to him taking her back out. He’s taken her back to the home marina. My part is easy enough. I meet him at the home marina, take him to get his car at the boat yard, follow him back to his home marina, where he’s leaving his car.

That’s the dividing point. I could easily just drop him off and go home.

Or... “Is this like your ‘return to solitude’ trip?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been onshore for a week and a half. Is this where you motor off into the deep swamps and re-establish your chakras or whatever?”