The jolly drifted slowly, smoother than when Morton was rowing. I squared my knees, balancing my feet on the bottom planks. Then I sat up, scooting a small width away from Graham, and held fast to the bench. Chilly air blew through the space between us like the smart eyes of a chaperone, and we both seemed to sober.
“Come, see what I have in my bucket,” Morton said. He held a spool of thick thread that he was unraveling.
“What sort of fish are you after?” I asked, decidedly not looking in Graham’s direction.
“I’ll tell ya when you’ve made your way up to the center thwart.”
I gave the man a scowl, and he cackled.
Graham shifted in his spot, and I felt suddenly, horribly shy. Hobbling up to Morton seemed more comfortable thanstaying on this bench under Graham’s study. I held fast to the left side of the boat, then tested my weight on my feet. The jolly’s motions were rhythmic, like a song. Rolling back and forth, up and down. I felt the motions move up my legs to my hips. A dip made me step back, and I fell hard upon the bench.
Surprised that Graham hadn’t reached out to save me, I looked over. He wasn’t even watching. His eyes were set on the horizon, cheeks rosy from the chill. Still right there, waiting, but giving me the privacy I needed. Morton was busy knotting a hook on the end of his line, so I tried again.
I was steadier this time, but still I hunched my back, ready to fall forward or backward to whichever thwart was closer. A few steps, and another dip, but I was close enough to the center thwart to throw a leg over and hold tight.
“There she is,” Morton cheered. His bucket was roped to the back thwart. It sloshed with water. “You’ll like this,” he added, nodding his head toward the bucket.
“Here,” Graham said from behind. He spread a little towel on the bottom boards in front of the bucket for me to crouch upon. “Are they still alive?” he asked Morton.
“Just enough,” the man responded. “Don’t go stickin’ your hand in there, Miss Lane.”
When the waters eased for a moment, I took my opportunity to move from the center thwart and kneel beside the bucket. The bottom boards smelled putrid and fishy, so I touched my nose. No wonder I was so queasy. Fish and the sea were an awful combination I did not remember from Lyme.
Graham had moved behind me at the center thwart. I peered inside the bucket. Many small bulbs bounced aroundinside. They looked squishy and soft like jelly, tinted pink, and had long twirly legs protruding out from every side, twisting around each other so that I could not tell which belonged where.
“Octopus?” I asked.
Morton tugged on a large leather glove, then reached inside the bucket. Water sloshed out, wetting the edges of the towel, but my attention was focused on the little arms that curled around Morton’s glove.
“Bait,” he answered. “The real prize is the cod we’ll catch with ’em.”
“Close your eyes,” Graham said gently as Morton lifted up his line, with its hook and heavy lead sinker.
“Poor thing,” I moaned, obliging.
“Not poor thing when I make a living off the cod and families fill their bellies. It’s the way of nature, miss. Nothing less, nothing more.”
A quiet plunk, and I opened my eyes to find Morton unwinding the line. His movements were quick, calculated. His rough hands worked with surety and precision. Satisfied with the length of it, which seemed to go on forever, he held fast to the line, then reached behind him for another spool.
I winced as he hooked another small octopus to that line, then cast it out close by and let the thread unwind a while.
“Hungry, already?” he called to the sea. Then he yanked fast on the first line, reeling it in, one handful at a time. I glanced to Graham, who was grinning, leaning over the side of the boat with boyish wonderment on his face. “A big one, too. C’mere, Everett. Give us a hand.”
Graham did not need to be asked twice. He hopped overthe center thwart, his coat brushing my back, then took the first line from Morton and continued to reel it in.
“It’s a good weight,” Graham agreed.
Our eyes met, and I forgot to be shy. I couldn’t help but grin back. Perched upon the center thwart, I leaned over the side of the jolly boat to watch the line come in.
An eternity of anticipation, then finally, the water broke, and the fish flapped free. Its body was as long as Graham’s arm, tail flopping wildly as Graham reached down and gripped a space near its head.
Morton yipped, then took the fish from him, and Graham took hold of the other line.
“Want to try, Anna?” he asked. But I was still partly in shock that we were in a boat, surrounded by the sea and its inhabitants, and quite far from the shoreline.
Morton leaned over the other side of the boat with a knife, then flopped a bloody fish into a bucket. He looked at me and laughed. “She’s gone green. I don’t suppose your little lady is used to a seaman’s life.”
“Not in the least,” Graham said, and I considered defending myself. But Morton had called me Graham’s lady. And Graham had not denied it.
