winked at her.
Jenny couldn’t help but smile, even if she tried to suppress it. He wasn’t particularly good-looking: tall, sturdy, middle-aged, hair still more brown than grey, with sun-weathered skin, and friendly blue eyes. He was dressed in old jeans and red flannel.
“Whatever you suggest. I’m making dinner for some guests, so I need to impress.”
“Sure thing.” Kurt disappeared and came back a few moments later with Chop, a tall Asian fellow.
“King Salmon for the pretty lady,” Chop said, showing her a big pink fillet.
“Looks good.” Jenny nodded her approval and Chop wrapped it up in brown paper and tossed it to her over the counter.
“Whoa.” Jenny caught it on reflex.
“She caught it.” Kurt slapped Chop on the back and shook his head. “And here I thought she was just a city girl.”
“How’d you know?” Jenny smiled, and waved the package at them.
“I know this town.” Kurt chuckled.
“He does. This guy here—” Chop started.
“You guys are too much for me,” Jenny interrupted with good humor as she added the fish to her cart and pushed off.
“Wait, wait…” Kurt caught up. “That’s just Chop. He thinks this place is Pike’s Place, tosses fish to everyone.”
“I get it. It just surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting to literally ‘catch’ my dinner.”
“Come out on my boat with me,” Kurt said. “I’ll show you how it’s really done.”
Jenny stopped in front of the soup aisle. “Are you kidding?”
“No. Come out some evening. You’re so…” He squinted at her.
“So what?”
“So...”
She blushed, unable to maintain eye contact. “I don’t know you, and I’m married.” She gestured towards Kip.
Kurt grinned at the child, waved back at her, and then said, “Where’s your husband?”
She continued over to the vegetables, picking up some potatoes and then some asparagus.
“Not here.”
“I can see that.” Kurt followed her; Jenny didn’t know why she let him.
“He had to leave. This was our vacation, but he had to leave for work. Now, please. I don’t intend on going out with you on your boat. I’ve got my veggies and my king, and now I’m leaving.”
“If you change your mind, I’m at Kurt’s Tackle in town. Come by anytime. Most of the time I’m fishing, but you can leave me a note, or wait.”
“No, thank you, Kurt. Goodbye.” She hurried to the checkout.
“I’ll see you, then,” he called, waving after her.
Kip waved back at him. Jenny just frowned.
The young checker overheard and giggled. “I see Kurt has put the number on you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve never seen him do that before.” The girl scanned another item.
Jenny thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in the girl’s voice. “I don’t believe you. He probably does that to every woman who walks in here.”
“I wouldn’t say every,” the girl said, scanning the last item. She looked up, directly at Jenny’s eyes, assessing her. “He’s a man’s man, is Kurt. Mostly doesn’t chat with the ladies no more,” the girl said and rang up the groceries.
“I think you two are in cahoots.” Jenny handed over her money. “You have a good one.”
“Good night.”
“Fish?” Kip asked as Jenny buckled her in.
“Oh, honey. I forgot your fish. We can’t go back in there—tomorrow.”
Kip frowned.
“We’re going home now.” For a beach getaway, I’m not getting away anywhere. This place is swarming with locals, she thought.
* * *
“No bedbugs. Check.” Ron flopped the mattress back down.
It was a necessary habit, although he still itched in the night whenever he traveled. A previous run-in with the critters had left him covered in red, scabby welts and had resulted in a middle-of-the-night checkout, with nothing but a “sorry, we didn’t know” bullshit response.
He pulled open the squeaky drawer of the nightstand and removed a pair of neatly folded jeans and a blue T-shirt, also folded precisely, from his suitcase. They smell like Jenny, he thought—that fabric softener scent he always associated with her before she began to smell faintly of antiseptic and disease, of death even. I shouldn’t have left her, he thought. Shaking his head, he remembered the sea air on the coast, the sunshine. She’ll be fine, he told himself, not really believing it.
The television was on, blaring in the background. It was little company—some football game he was too distracted to truly focus on.
He rifled through the suitcase again, discovering he had forgotten his slacks. What do I need? It’s a disaster, after all. Jeans.
Settling on jeans, he pulled on old pair, along with a heavy black jacket.
He dialed a number on his cell. “I’m here. On my way.”
A twenty-minute drive later,