Deep Dish (25 page)

A
s they’d planned the night before, Gina and Tate each took different forks in the road at the end of the Rebeccaville driveway. And as planned, Gina took the loop path that followed the island’s coastline, then cut across the island to meet Tate at the spot she’d followed him to the night before.

The sky was a dull gray this morning, and there was not a hint of a breeze to dispel the damp, sticky humidity that seemed to close in around her body as she bumped over the oyster-shell cart path. She could feel her energy starting to flag, but shook her head violently, as though to shake off any doubts about the day’s outcome.

Ten minutes later, she arrived at the palm tree with the shorn-off top, and two minutes after that, she saw Tate standing beside his parked cart, unloading his fishing equipment. Moonpie stood at the edge of the marsh grass, nose in the air, tail erect.

“He saw a heron,” Tate said as a greeting to her. “Talk about an incurable optimist, he actually thinks he’s gonna flush and fetch me a three-foot-tall blue heron.”

Gina leaned over and rubbed Moonpie’s ears. “Go get ’em, boy.”

Tate made a face and started down the shell bank. He looked back at Gina, who stood motionless, her cheap plastic spinning reel in one hand, her cooler in the other.

“Come on, then, if you’re coming,” he said, glancing up at the clouds. “I think we may be in store for some rain.”

“Did you check the boat to see if there are any leaks?” she asked, stepping daintily down into the mud before getting in.

“It’s floating,” he said, handing her a weathered oak oar. “It probably has a little seepage, but nothing major.”

Tate stepped out of the boat, whistled, and Moonpie jumped in. He shoved the boat’s bow off the shell bank, and waded it out until the water was nearly waist high before climbing in and taking a seat at the front.

“You know how to row, right?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said indignantly. “Did you say something about seepage?”

“It’s an old boat,” he said, dipping his oar into the water and pulling it forward with one fluid motion. “The rivets are probably a little loose. But if it wasn’t seaworthy, it would have sunk long ago. I pulled all kind of gunk out of it before you got here. It’s been sitting on that snag for some time now.”

Gina dipped her own oar into the water on the other side of where Tate’s was. “So, this boat probably belongs to somebody. Somebody who’d probably consider us as thieves, since we’re taking it without their permission.”

“You could always hop out,” he suggested. “Before you become an accessory to grand theft, boat.”

Instead, she kept rowing, working to get her strokes in rhythm with his. She hadn’t rowed a boat in years. She could already feel blisters rising on the palms of her hands, and after fifteen minutes, the muscles in her shoulders were protesting.

They didn’t talk. The dark water flashed by, and red-winged blackbirds rose out of the tall marsh grass as they glided along. She could see shrimp popping at the point where the water met shell banks, and occasionally a mullet would jump and slap the water, causing Moonpie much excitement.

“Hey, we’re getting pretty good at this,” she said at one point, marveling at their relative speed.

“Tide’s going out,” he said, deliberately bursting her little bubble.

In thirty minutes, when she turned around, she could barely see the point in the marsh where they’d left the carts. They were out
of the creek, she thought, and in the ocean. The thought made her pulse race again.

“Do you actually know where you’re going?” she asked anxiously. “I mean, this creek just seems to curve and meander, and it all starts to look the same to me.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said simply.

Her feet were wet. There was half an inch of water in the boat.

“Uh, Tate,” she said.

“It’s just a little water. You won’t drown.”

“I was just saying…”

He grunted and kept rowing, so she did the same. She could feel beads of sweat rolling down her face, and her shirt was damp with perspiration. She wanted to take a break, have a sip from the bottled water she’d stowed in her cooler, but she didn’t want Tate Moody to think she was a slacker. Or worse, a girl.

Thirty minutes later, he put his oar down and frowned. They could see the dark green shape of Eutaw Island behind them. The sky had darkened to a pale pewter shade, and the wind whipped little whitecaps on the dark green sea. “This looks like the place Iris told me about.”

“Inez told me about a place too. Where her daddy used to take her to catch spot-tail bass. But if it’s the place, why are you frowning?”

“No anchor,” he said, slapping his thigh in disgust. “How could I not have thought of that?”

She hadn’t thought of it either, but she didn’t intend to volunteer that information.

“We’ve got that rope up in the bow,” she said. “Could we tie up to something?”

He gestured toward the creek bank, which seemed half a mile away. “You see anything we can tie up to?”

“What do we do now?” she asked. “Go back?”

“Hell, no,” Tate said. “We’ll just have to take turns. One can fish, while the other keeps rowing us back toward the island.”

“What do we use for bait? I’m used to fishing with shrimp. Or minnows.”

“There’s that
we
thing again,” he said, reaching for the plastic tackle box. He pawed through the contents. “Most of this stuff is worthless,” he said. “But there’s a couple halfway decent jigs in here. It’s better than nothing.”

He busied himself rigging his fishing line, and in a moment, he’d cast out in the direction of the creek.

“I take it that means I’m on rowing duty first?”

He nodded, not taking his eyes off the water. “Keep trying to move us back toward the island. You’ll have to work at it too, the way the tide’s moving.”

She had just put her oar in the water when Tate grunted. His rod tip bent. He jerked hard on it, then casually started reeling.

“Hey, fish!” he said happily. Moonpie gave a happy bark, and in what seemed like a very short time, Tate was reeling in a fish.

“Nice one,” he said. “Three pounds, easy.”

“What kind is it?” she asked, glancing down at the silvery fish flopping around on the bottom of the boat. Moonpie bent down, sniffed, and thumped his tail in approval.

“Spot-tail,” he said. “Redfish, you’d call it. Good eating.”

“Hope so,” she said, setting her oar down. “Now it’s my turn.”

She picked up the rod he’d just discarded.

“Hey,” he protested. “That’s mine. You can’t use my stuff. It’s against the rules.”

“Screw the rules,” she said, casting out in the same direction where he’d just caught the fish. But the wind had picked up, and it blew the light line right back toward the boat, landing almost beside it.

“Hah! You fish like a girl.”

She glared at him. “You deliberately turned the boat so that would happen. Come on. Play fair.”

He shook his head and dipped his oar in the water, rowing hard to turn the boat so the wind was at their back. It had picked up considerably, and twice she had to grab her baseball cap to keep it from sailing away. She cast out again, and this time her line landed right where she wanted it.

“Take the slack out of your line,” Tate instructed. “Reel in, then let the spinner drop, so the fish’ll think it’s a wounded minnow.”

“I
know
how to fish,” she said, insulted. But she did as he’d in
structed, remembering it was the exact same advice her daddy had always given her on their fishing trips to the coast.

She felt something bump her hook and then, suddenly, give a sharp tug, bending her rod tip sharply downward.

“Got one,” she reported happily, watching the line unspool.

“Reel!” Tate called. “Come on, reel it in, Reggie.”

She propped her feet on the side of boat to give her leverage, and reeled for all she was worth.

“It’s a big one,” she gasped, struggling for control.

“Give it a little line,” he coached, reaching forward and flipping the bail on her reel.

Line zigged out, and the fish made a run for it.

“Now, set the hook,” he told her. “Jerk it hard, then reel like you mean it.”

She flipped the bail with her thumb and yanked for all she was worth. The fish responded by zooming away.

“Reel!” he called.

“I…am…reeling.” She propped her elbows on her hip bones, leaned back, and struggled to get control of the fish, which seemed to be zigzagging away, and then, suddenly, without warning, turning and running toward the boat.

“Reel fast now,” he instructed. “Bring in the slack.” With the fish coming toward her, she was able to bring in the line, and soon she saw a flash of silver beside the boat.

“Bluefish!” Tate called. “Can you boat it by yourself?”

“Got it.” She grunted and, with an effort, jerked the fish out of the water and into the boat, where it seemed to fill the whole vessel, thrashing violently against the aluminum hull.

Moonpie barked at the fish until Tate swung around in the seat and clamped a shoe on the fish to still it.

“Holy shit, Reggie,” he said, looking up in admiration. “That’s a big damn bluefish.”

She grinned, ridiculously pleased with herself. “It is, isn’t it? How big, do you think? Ten pounds?”

“Ten!” He guffawed. “Dream on, little girl. It’s maybe eight, but that’s still a huge bluefish. You ever caught one before?”

“Never,” she admitted. “I’ve had bluefish in restaurants, of course, but this is the first time I’ve ever even seen one alive.”

She bent down and studied the fish. Its vivid blue and silver coloring were in stark contrast to the mud-streaked boat bottom. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Good eating too,” he said. “Ideally, the best-tasting ones are much smaller, but fresh-caught, grilled or pan-fried, it’s hard to beat a bluefish.”

“Grilled,” Gina said, already envisioning her menu. “I’ll brush it with some olive oil, and—”

She felt a drop of water on her shoulder and looked up, surprised. The sky had darkened another shade, and the wind-whipped whitecaps rocked the boat.

“Damn,” Tate exclaimed. A sudden sheet of rain swept over them, and the wind caught Gina’s baseball cap and sent it sailing off.

“We better get back,” he said, picking up his oar.

Gina turned around and for the first time realized she could no longer see Eutaw.

“I screwed up,” Tate said grimly. “So busy telling you how to fish I didn’t notice how far out we’d drifted.”

“But we can get back—right?”

“We can try,” he said, swinging an oar into the water.

Five minutes of furious rowing got them exactly…nowhere. The tide and the wind drew them inexorably out and away from the shore. The rain slashed down on them, and Moonpie huddled in the bottom of the boat, his snout tucked under his paws, as though he were too afraid to look.

Gina hunched her shoulders against the rain. “Now what?” she asked, trying not to let Tate see her growing fear.

“We go where the tide takes us,” he said, letting his oar rest across his knees.

“Out to sea?” she asked, panicking. “In an open boat?”

“Look over there,” he said, turning around and pointing off into the murk.

She saw the faint outline of a faint grayish green hump off in the distance. “What’s that?”

“Rattlesnake Key,” he said. “We’ll let the wind take us there, beach the boat, and see if we can sit out the storm.”

“Good,” she said, her voice saying she did not really think this was so good. “An island, right?”

“A small one,” he said. “People come out on their boats sometimes and camp overnight.”

“Good,” she repeated. “That’s a good thing to know. But what I don’t want to know is why they call it Rattlesnake Key.”

R
attlesnake Key loomed before them, a forbidding-looking dark green spit ringed with a collar of grayish sand. As the rain slashed at her shoulders and hatless head, Gina was eying it with trepidation when the boat, which had been rising and falling with the pounding waves, suddenly lurched to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, panicking. The island was still several hundred yards away.

Instead of answering, Tate hopped out of the boat—into ankle-deep water. “Sandbar,” he said. “I forgot about it. Come on, jump out. We’ll have to walk it across to the deeper water.”

She hesitated.

“Come on. It’s not like you’re going to get any wetter.”

This was true. She was soaked to the skin. She stepped out, and Moonpie came right behind her, leaping with abandon into the water.

Tate didn’t look concerned. He grabbed the bow of the boat and started trudging across the sandbar, which was maybe a hundred yards wide.

“Can he swim?” She asked, glancing worriedly at Moonpie, who seemed to struggle somewhat to keep his head above water.

“Well, he’s no Chesapeake Bay retriever, but yeah, he can swim. He loves the water.”

As if to prove it, when the dog reached shallow water, he romped joyously through the waves, running alongside his master, and barking at a single seagull that swooped and called from a wind current above.

The wind tore at their clothes and the waves tossed the empty
boat as, together, they walked it over the sandbar. When Tate finally pronounced the water deep enough, they climbed back into the boat and let the tide drift them onto the island.

Just as they stepped onto the beach, lighting struck behind them, a wicked, jagged bolt lighting up the deep gray sky.

“Crap!” Gina cried.

“Come on,” Tate said, hoisting the boat onto the sand. “We’ve gotta pull it all the way past the high-water mark to beach her and make sure she doesn’t drift off when the tide changes again.”

They half dragged, half carried the heavy aluminum vessel onto the beach and up to a line of seaweed and dried-out seashells.

“We’re good here,” Tate decreed, dropping his side of the boat.

“Shouldn’t we drag it up there toward those trees?” she asked, hanging on and pointing toward a stand of gnarled oaks and cedars. “We could tie it to one of those trees, just in case this storm makes the tide higher than usual.”

Tate shrugged. “What? You’re that afraid of being marooned alone on an island with me?”

“I’m just being careful,” she said, wiping her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “It’s my curse. Lisa is naughty by nature. I’m, well…careful.”

Lighting zapped again, closer, so close she could have sworn it struck the sand at her feet. But Gina didn’t wait to find out. Without thinking, she dropped the boat and ran for the tree line, followed again by Moonpie.

When Tate caught up with her, she was leaning against the trunk of one of the cedars, bent over double, trying to catch her breath. The thick canopy of oak and cedar limbs seemed to shelter her somewhat from the rain. She sat down abruptly and hugged her knees to her chest.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Tired,” she said, yawning, her eyelids fluttering. “No sleep…” Without warning, she slumped back against the tree. For the first time all day, her face relaxed. A moment later, she was snoring.

W
hile she slept, he worked. This squall, which he’d at first assumed was just one of the typical summer thunderstorms that swept through the Georgia coast and was quickly gone, did not seem to fit the stereotype.

The wind and rain lashed Rattlesnake Key and did not abate. The waves pounded the sand and crept up to the high-water mark and past, which alarmed and chagrined him—Gina had been right to worry about the boat.

Cursing, he ran through the rain, grabbed the bow rope, and dragged the boat almost to the tree line. He picked up the fish—his own spot-tail and her bluefish—and put them into the cooler he’d brought along. He’d been trying to ignore his own hunger pangs, but it was getting late in the day, and he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. If nothing else, they would at least be able to eat the fish—assuming he could find a way to make a fire. He took the fishing equipment and Gina’s cooler and his own and dropped them under the trees, not far from where she slept.

Satisfied that the boat was out of harm’s way, he stepped out of the tree line and surveyed his surroundings. Tate had fished in the waters off Rattlesnake Key for a taping previously, but he’d never actually been on the island before.

“Moonpie,” he called softly. The dog, stretched out alongside the slumbering Gina, looked up, blinked, and then looked expectantly at Tate.

“Come on, boy,” he said. “Let’s go explore.”

The dog stayed put.

“Slacker,” Tate said. He decided to let the dog stay with Gina.

He trudged through the fine white sand, down to firmer footing below the high-water mark, and headed for what looked like the tip of the island.

He stopped occasionally as he walked, stooping to pick up whatever useful bounty the waves brought his way. He found a piece of lumber resting in a tangle of seaweed and shells at the tip of the island. It was a two-by-four, maybe five feet long, sun-bleached and too soggy to be of any use for firewood, but he had another use in mind for it anyway.

He left the board and walked on, wading out once when he caught sight of an object bobbing at the water’s edge. As he got closer, he saw that it was part of a six-pack of beer—with only two cans remaining in the plastic ring pack. He grabbed it up, hoping for the best. The cans—Miller Lite—were undamaged and appeared to be full. “There is a God,” he said, pulling the cans from the plastic ring and tucking each in a pocket of his cargo shorts.

The tree line seemed to extend around to the island’s tip. He walked on and was surprised to find a small clearing in the trees. A mound of oyster shells marked the edge of the clearing, and there was a fire ring in the center of it, with a rusty metal grate that had obviously been used as a grill. He frowned when he saw what careless campers had left behind—empty plastic soda bottles, smashed beer cans, cigarette butts, and what he believed was a pile of soggy disposable diapers. His lip curled, he skirted the edge of the makeshift campground, hoping to salvage something useful from a larger trash pile.

Tossed on top of the pile was a discarded plastic inflatable raft—bright blue with a SpongeBob SquarePants design across the top. He grabbed it up and, with the toe of his shoe, stirred the pile some more. There were empty cardboard cigarette cartons, more beer cans and bottles, and a faded red plastic Zippo lighter. He picked it up and, hoping against hope, gave it a flick. A tiny flame licked out, giving him the biggest thrill of the day.

Tate pocketed the lighter and again kicked at the debris with his toe, sending a surprised lizard skittering away. When his toe hit something solid, he bent over to get a closer look. It was one of those citronella candles in a jar. The jar was soot-streaked, and held an inch of water, but when he dumped it out, he discovered there was at least two inches of candle inside.

“Excellent,” he said. He wrapped the candle and the grate in the inflatable raft and walked for another thirty minutes, occasionally stopping to add more finds to his makeshift raft-tote. Then he reversed course and headed back through the rain to the boat, stopping again to retrieve the two-by-four, which he hefted over his shoulder.

Feeling unaccountably pleased with himself, he trudged back to where he’d left Gina and Moonpie.

He gave a soft whistle, and Moonpie trotted out from the tree line.

He ruffled the dog’s damp ears. “Worthless mutt,” he said fondly.

Tate looked out at the water. The tide had receded some, but the water was still choppy, and now thunder boomed off in the distance. A steady drizzle fell.

Gina was still sleeping. He squatted down beside her and stared into her face. Her damp hair was plastered to her cheeks, and the makeup so carefully applied hours ago by D’John was mostly gone—with the exception of some dark streaks of mascara leaking from the corners of her eyes, which gave her the comic look of one of those Italian clowns. She was oddly vulnerable and completely, sweetly lovely. He put out a finger and gently wiped at one of the smudges.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” she said sleepily, sitting up.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” she said, yawning hugely. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Maybe a couple hours,” he said. “You didn’t miss much. Rain and more rain.”

She struggled to her feet and walked to the edge of the tree line, taking in the dark skies and wind-whipped waves.

“Oh,” she said, slumping a little. “I was hoping maybe the storm had blown through. Like they do at home this time of year.”

“No such luck,” he reported. “I think it’s some kind of front, and it’s just stalled out—right on top of us. The good news is that there hasn’t been any more lightning in a while.”

Gina used the hem of her shirt to wipe her damp face. She sighed. “All right. Now, tell me the bad news. Like, how and when do we get back to Eutaw?”

He pointed out at the churning sea. “No sense in even attempting anything until the tide changes. The wind and waves would just drive us right back here to Rattlesnake. We’d literally be spitting in the wind.”

She bit her lip. “How long before the tide changes?”

“Another six hours,” he said. “But it’s three now. That would put us at nine o’clock. Nearly dark, and it’s a new moon, so no help there.”

“Six hours,” she repeated. “On this island.”

“At the very least,” he agreed. “Realistically? I’m thinking we’re looking at not getting back to Eutaw until tomorrow morning.”

It took her a while to process it. She wrapped her arms around herself for a little warmth. “Overnight. On this island.”

“No food, no phone, no phonograph. Not a single luxury,” he sang from memory. After all those years of
Gilligan’s Island
reruns, the words and tune came easily. “Like Robinson Crusoe, it’s primitive as can be.”