Rangers. It was the highest level work he’d ever done. And more money than he’d ever imagine making, which had enabled him to buy and rehab the vintage Alberg 35. Who’d have thought that he—a Chesapeake Bay skiff sailor—would become a Pacific blue water freak? Much had changed in two years.
So, facing down this attractive mom and her daughter, he was on: “This pot looks vintage, maybe the 1940s?” he said, hefting the blue-glazed thing in his hand.
“Good eye,” Lillian said. “Can you tell me the maker?”
“Without looking,” the daughter added, her eyes seeming to mock him: geek!
He said the only old pottery name he could think of—something he’d come across while searching for boat parts online: “McCoy?”
Lillian smiled her approval. “You w-w-win,” she said, betraying her stutter for the first time. Which made her more interesting because he could see that, like her daughter, she was defensive mostly because she wasn’t wholly sure of herself.
“Does this mean I can treat you both to an early dinner?” he asked, surprising himself.
“Get a life,” Bailey said.
It was nearly five on a Saturday afternoon, tourists crowding the nearby beach, the bay popcorned with sailboats, Highway 1 slow with traffic, and the sun hot on his already peeling forehead. Briefly he surveyed the table of plants. On the one hand it was touching that mother and daughter were spending time together; on the other hand it seemed sad that this was the best they could do. Did they need the money?
He said: “Bailey, you wouldn’t have to do anything but sit politely while we grown-ups conversed. What do you say?”
“Assuming that her m-m-mother has a-accepted the invitation,” Lillian answered.
“Which came first,” he asked to put her off her guard, “the old pots or the plants?”
“The p-p-plants aren’t old,” she said. “And the pots came first.”
“She’s a pot hag,” Bailey said.
“I bet you’re listening to Ozzie Osborn,” he said. It was almost a taunt.
“James Taylor,” the girl replied with a smirk. “Only the early stuff.”
“But she’s so Goth!” he said to Lillian in jest. “What’s the deal?”
Lillian smiled. “It’s a complicated world, isn’t it?”
He told them his name and Lillian surrendered her own. He helped them load the plants into the trunk of her Honda Element. Lillian said she’d be happy to meet him at the Pelican in Montara an hour later.
“You live in Montara, then?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” Bailey said before her mother could answer.
“Remember what I said about polite?” he reminded her.
“She’s not yours to correct,” Lillian reminded him.
This gave him a pause, like a spark of static at a light switch.
He said: “If she’s in the world, she’s subject to correction.” Then to Bailey with a wink: “Be sure to bring ‘Fire and Rain’ with you. Maybe we’ll have a sing-along.”
“You shouldn’t taunt her,” Lillian warned at dinner while Bailey was in the bathroom. “She’s at that age.”
Lillian was wearing an airy blue blouse with the same faded blue jeans she’d worn at the flea market, but also he detected a trace of fresh lip gloss and subtle eye-liner. For his benefit or was this simply her going-out face?
Her protectiveness of her daughter was a good trait, he decided. But he wasn’t about to let a thirteen-year-old dictate the terms of his engagement. He’d heard too many stories about failed relationships involving children from a previous marriage.
“I remember that age,” he said. “A little challenge builds character.” He didn’t like that this echoed his own father’s platitudes.
“You don’t remember that age as a girl, Cooper. It’s very d-d-different for girls.” Lillian forked her grilled tuna tentatively. She seemed alternately shy and petulant, as though she were fighting with herself over some difficult question. She said: “You don’t have children, I take it.”
This made the heat rise to his cheeks—it felt like sunburn. So she was interested in him, and already he was into the Interview?
“You assume I’ve been married,” he said.
“Hasn’t everybody our age been married? You’re what, thirty-five?”
“Four. And, yes, I was married. No kids.”
“Was that part of the problem?”
This was like getting caught sideways in a trough, the waves raking in one after the other. A little scary, a little exhilarating.
“There were many problems,” he said. “We were together for seven unlucky years. The child question was a topic of conversation but not the issue.”
“So you don’t blame her for the failure?”
“We both made our mistakes,” he said. “But she was the bigger fuck-up.”
Carefully, with a furtive glance, she asked: “Infidelity?”
Immediately he took the hint: “Your ex was unfaithful?”
“Very.” She reached for her white wine.
“But she still works for the bastard,” Bailey interjected, dropping herself into the chair between them.
Lillian frowned at her daughter. “Since when have you started calling your father a bastard?”
“I’m just channeling your anger, mom.”
“How long has it been?” Cooper asked.
“Two years and counting,” chirped Bailey.
“You work for your ex?” Cooper asked, this fact just now hitting home.
“I hardly ever see him,” Lillian said dismissively. “I work in the greenhouse. He’s in the field.”
“He owns Trumaine’s Nurseries and Landscaping,” Bailey explained, popping a French fry into her mouth. “You’ve seen the trucks.”
“No, I haven’t.” Maybe Bailey was warning him off—but this only made him more curious.
“Very classy trucks,” Bailey continued. “He makes tons of money.”
“Don’t eat with your mouth open, Bailey.”
Bailey grinned, potato mash on her teeth.
“I own the greenhouse,” Lillian said, her eyes now fixed on Cooper as if to assure him that she was no patsy, that she had her life well in hand.
“She owns one of the greenhouses,” Bailey corrected, her pretty eyes glinting at her mother. “Dad owns three.”
“Then why don’t you start your own business?” Cooper asked—because he wanted Lillian to be unencumbered and unbeholden.
“My ex’s business is too well established, the clientele too firmly tied to him,” she said. “If I were on my own, he’d put me out of business.”
Cooper shook his head in sympathy. Not healthy, he was thinking. Maybe this family was too tied up with itself and there would be no room for him. “I guess that’s the prudent thing to do then,” he said, feeling oppressed by the story.
“Sometimes I don’t like being prudent,” Lillian said, almost angrily. “But I’ve got a daughter to raise and a mortgage to pay.”
“That’s