“He can’t be in two places at once.”
“But I don’t know anything about the business. Not really.”
“I could teach you. Unless there’s something else you’d rather be doing.”
No, Cece thinks, there’s nothing, nothing in the world she’d rather do. The prospect of partnering with Richie and helping grow Rayburn Oyster fills Cece with a nervous, vibrating energy. It wouldn’t just be a job; it would be a life, something that required tending and attention. “It would be an honor,” she says, the words catching in her throat.
“Those are good tears, right?” Richie says.
Regaining her composer, Cece dabs her eyes with the heavy cloth napkin. “Absolutely.”
“That’s just grand. Just grand.”
“Does this mean I get a say in who we hire?”
“Sure does,” Richie says. “Have anyone in mind?”
“I’d like to hire from the shipyard near where I was staying this summer. A few guys got laid off there, and I know they’d appreciate the work.”
“Let’s bring them in for an interview this week.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. We’ve gotta get things moving now that the expansion’s been approved,” Richie says. “Stay as long as you’d like at the motel until you find a decent place to live. I catered the manager’s second wedding on the cheap, so he owes me a favor.”
“I’ll start looking for a new place first thing tomorrow.”
“I still can’t believe you were living on that lady’s property this whole time…What did you say her name was?”
“Lorraine.”
“And you’re saying she organized the whole protest?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, I appreciate you sticking it out with us, even after she kicked you to the curb.”
Cece thinks about the cozy pool house with its low-slung ceiling and miniature windows. She thinks back to the beginning of summer, when she used to sit on the front porch with Bernard and wait to hear Morgan’s truck rumbling up the hill, Mr. Shipyard. “It was time to move out anyway,” she says.
Outside the hangar,the shipyard is desolate. Under the baking sun, pickup trucks tinkle, heat rippling off their hoods. Morgan’s truck is parked in the shade under the only tree at the far end of the lot, which means he got there first. Cece’s only hasthirty minutes before she needs to head back to Santiago in Noank, so she parks and hustles across the gravel lot, dust coating her rubber boots. Morgan will be in the trailer, but that’s not where Cece is going. She’s looking for information on the men who were fired.
The hangar is cool and subterranean. Cece half expects stalactites to be hanging from the towering ceiling. At the far end, welders are at work, sparks dancing in the dark. A few men are congregated around a piece of plywood on sawhorses, pencils in their hands, eyes trained on a blueprint. They pay Cece no mind. If anyone recognizes her, they don’t say anything. Cece decides to try her luck with a pockmarked kid eating an egg salad sandwich. He’s sitting on a cooler with an energy drink between his boots.
“Any idea where I can find Mickey and Wesley?” Cece says.
“Black Wesley or White Wesley?” the kid says.
“Not sure. All I know is he repaired my engine. They repaired a boat engine for me.”
The kid takes a bite of his sandwich and chews it methodically. “That’s Black Wesley, but I’m pretty sure those two got laid off a few weeks back. You’d have to go talk to the supervisor.” He jerks his head toward the trailer.
“That’s not really an option.”
The kid shrugs. “Try Bob. He’s Mickey’s uncle or somethin’. He should be somewhere out in the yard painting boats.”
Cece thanks the kid and leaves him to his sandwich. It doesn’t take her long to spot Bob. An enormous human with a beer gut the size of a Sub-Zero fridge, he greets Cece with an enthusiastic handshake that leaves paint between her fingers. He pushes hisOakley sunglasses up on his sunburned forehead and asks what he can do for her.
“Hell of a thing for you to do,” Bob says after Cece explains why she’s looking for Mickey and Wesley. “Hell of a thing. Those boys would sure be appreciative of a steady gig.”
