The Invisible Husband of Frick Island - Colleen Oakley Page 0,48

next time he was face-to-face with “Tom,” but also to offer some great expert insights to weave into his next podcast.

After leaving a vague message requesting an interview, Anders turned his attention to Hector, who was towering over his desk, his T-shirt taut over his ridiculously bulging biceps (“Grass-fed New Zealand whey protein, man,” Hector had whispered to him once, as though he were offering him the secret to the universe, though Anders had never asked) and half tucked into the waist of his khaki shorts, which would look haphazard if the hem of his shirt weren’t tucked in at the exact same spot (two inches to the right of his pants button) every single day.

“Dude, ever hear of sunscreen?” Hector asked, his lip turned up in disgust.

Ping!

Anders glanced down at his arms, where the skin had begun to scale and peel off in thin white crumbles. He sighed again. “What do you need, Hector?”

“The camera. Log says you checked it out yesterday. I got a game tonight.”

Ping! Ping!

Anders dug in the shoulder bag beside his chair and produced the camera for Hector.

“Thanks, man.”

Ping!

“You gonna get that?” Hector nodded toward Anders’s computer screen. Anders glanced at the message box, even though he already knew it was his sister. He’d been so busy, he hadn’t spoken to her since missing Labor Day weekend, and if her last text messages were any indication, she was pissed. He moved the mouse and clicked on the X to minimize the box.

“Porn chat room?” Hector gave him a knowing grin.

“No,” Anders replied indignantly.

“Sure,” Hector said, still grinning, then his squirrel attention span got distracted by the five-inch stack of papers on Anders’s typically spotless and organized desk. “What’s all that?”

“Research.” Anders had decided if he was going to keep up this climate change story ruse, he should probably start digging into the studies Piper had given him, particularly in case she ever asked about them. But they were dense academic files and it took him most of the previous night to get through just two of them.

The one-word answer was enough to satisfy Hector’s limited curiosity. He turned and sauntered back to his desk across the office, his leather flip-flops slapping the industrial carpet with each step, causing Anders to roll his eyes at Hector’s ridiculous attire—this was a workplace, for Pete’s sake.

But on the other hand—Anders paused and gave his head a shake. God damn it, he muttered to himself. He knew he was going to regret what he was about to say. “Hey, Hector, wait up.”

Hector stopped and turned his head.

“Where do you get your . . .” Anders gestured his hand at his own shirt and pants. “You know . . .”

Hector cocked his eyebrows and grinned. Anders could see the gray gum squeezing out between his clenched teeth. “My effortless ability to be cool?”

Anders closed his eyes. He regretted it already.

Chapter 13

Two Months Before the Storm

January on Frick Island, everyone agreed, was the worst month. Until February, anyway. And then February was definitely the worst. It was so cold, so wet, so miserable that only fifty-five or so of the ninety-ish people left on the island stayed for the entire winter, living in their battened-down houses like grizzly bears hibernating until spring. To make matters worse, this particular first week of February, a body-wracking cough was winding its way through the island, showing up like an unwanted houseguest and keeping everyone indoors, under blankets.

Piper had somehow been able to avoid it thus far, but looking at Tom’s pallor where he sat at the kitchen table, intently repairing a scrape net, she thought he might not have been so lucky.

“Tom, you feeling OK?” She cringed immediately when she said it. It was the third time she had asked him that in as many hours. And she knew he wasn’t. February was the hardest month for most watermen on the island. Tired of being cooped up and docile, they were ready to be back on the water. Not just because they were eager to start making money again but because, like German shepherds, they were most content when there was hard work to be done. For Tom, who mostly felt ambivalent about crabbing, fishing, and oystering, February was difficult for a different reason: It was the month he lost his father six years earlier.

Tom grunted, all his concentration on the mending task at hand, and Piper turned her gaze back to the menagerie of puzzle pieces in front of her, squinting at the