Cameron’s spine feels like someone thrashed it with a baseball bat. Chopping up buckets full of mackerel bait and hauling them all over that aquarium is no joke. His lower back throbs, and there’s a nasty knot under his left shoulder blade and some annoying thing keeps popping in his neck every time he turns his head to the right, which is pretty often because the camper’s passenger-side mirror is busted.
The mattress isn’t helping. After several nights, Cameron finally couldn’t take it anymore. The camper’s previous owner must have used it as a urinal. The stale-piss stench was so bad last night that he dragged it out and flung it onto Ethan’s driveway, opting to sleep on the greasy plank of plywood instead. How bad could it be? he’d thought, half- asleep. It turns out: pretty bad. He’s getting old. Thirty, after all.
At least the tire and wheel well are fixed. Only took seven hundred of his eight hundred dollars. Assuming that his bag doesn’t magically show up, he just has to limp along on that last hundred until his first paycheck from the aquarium, which will be this Friday. Three more days.
Wincing at another crack in his neck, he makes one last right-hand turn and pulls onto Sowell Bay’s main commercial block with its woeful little strip of shops. The realtor’s office Ethan told him about is right in the middle. He parks in front and walks past an ancient meter that doesn’t look like it could possibly be in service. The
storefront door lets out an anemic-sounding chime, like a kid’s toy with dying batteries, as he pulls it open.
“Can I help you?” The realtor is a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair and a narrow, expressionless face.
Cameron introduces himself and explains he’s looking for Simon Brinks.
The realtor laughs and shakes her head. “I mean, I’ve seen his advertisements, but I can’t say I know him.”
“He’s in real estate, and you’re in real estate. There’s no way you could help me get in touch with him?” Cameron glances down at a plaque on the desk. JESSICA SNELL. “It would really do me a solid, Jess.”
“It’s Jessica,” she says flatly. Hers eyes flit around the empty office. There’s a calendar sponsored by some sort of adventure outfitter tacked to the wall, already flipped to August, which features a lone figure in a rowboat casting a rod over a misty lake. It’s only the second week of July, and for some reason the calendar’s premature turnover annoys the shit out of him.
“Please?” Smiling sweetly, Cameron presses his palms together. “I really need to find him.”
The agent narrows her eyes, her face crinkling into a sour shape, her papery skin finding the creases far too easily, like his old baseball glove. Adjusting her eyeglasses, she says, “Who did you say you were, again?”
He straightens as he restates his name. After a hesitation, he adds, “I’m Brinks’s son.”
“His son?”
“Probably. Or, like . . . maybe.” Cameron squares his shoulders. “I mean, I have good reason to believe he’s my father.”
Jessica Snell raises a brow.
“Solid evidence. I have solid evidence.”
“I don’t understand why you need my help, then.” The realtor shrugs. “Just ask someone else in your family? Your mother?”
“My mother abandoned me when I was nine.”
“Gosh. That’s terrible.” Her eyes widen a bit, her jaw softens. Hook, line, sinker. He’s the fisherman in that picture, and she’s a guppy waiting in the lake.
“And I don’t really have other family, you know?” At this, Cameron crosses his fingers behind his back. Surely Aunt Jeanne would understand, given the situation, the need for this tiny distortion of the truth.
Jessica Snell nods, sympathy etched around her eyes.
“So yeah. I’ve never met my dad,” Cameron continues. “My mother kept us apart.” Well, she did, didn’t she? At any point during her nine years with Cameron, she could’ve told him something, anything, about his father. And at any point since, she could’ve reached out to him. At least made an attempt to repair the mess she made. At least been available for Cameron to ask the question. So, yes, this is true. Like so many other things, this is his mother’s fault. And, in a metaphorical sense, it is his mother who kept them apart. If she hadn’t been such a mess, maybe Simon, or whoever his father is, if not the guy in the photo, would’ve stuck around.
Snell nibbles her thin bottom lip and glances quickly from side to side like she’s preparing to misbehave. “Here’s the deal. I couldn’t make it to the regional convention last year.” With a huff, she clarifies: “I mean, I could have, I was even registered, but then my daughter had a piano recital, and even though the convention is the biggest trade show in the area, it’s hard to balance those things, you know?”
Cameron nods firmly as if he empathizes deeply with this particular dilemma. Looking down, he notices a ceramic paperweight on Jessica’s desk, a large and stern-looking green frog. On the base, in playful lettering, it reads: NO BULL ACCEPTED HERE. Aunt Jeanne would approve.
The agent hikes her glasses up again. Why doesn’t she adjust them to fit? It’s an easy fix with a micro screwdriver.
She continues, “Right, so this convention. I skipped it, but I’m sure Brinks went. He lives for those things, from what I hear. A fan of the open bar, so the rumors go.” She extends out her pinkie and thumb and mock-tips her hand.
Resisting the urge to run his finger along the NO BULL frog’s rounded back, which is covered in a layer of dust, Cameron nods again.
“Anyway, they send out a directory of attendees to everyone registered. I could look him up.”
“Seriously, thank you. It would mean so much to me.” Cameron’s smile widens, and Snell’s cheeks flush slightly.
“Have a seat. It’ll take me a minute to dig that directory out.”
As Snell disappears off to some back room, Cameron sits. A scene begins to play out in his mind: a gray-haired man in a well-tailored suit beckoning him toward a polished mahogany bar, summoning a barkeep. You should know the good life, son, the man says, leaning an elbow on the shining bar while patting the seat next to him, which is topped in a pouf of immaculate burgundy leather, unlike the hard stools back at Dell’s, which have grimy ass-prints permanently ground into them. The man smiles warmly at Cameron, and he has a dimple on his left cheek, the same one Cameron has, and something inside him feels like it’s bubbling up, going to overflow, and it takes him a long moment to realize it’s a heady cocktail of joy and relief. Gold liquid splashes soundlessly into two glasses; cognac maybe, or top-notch whiskey like the stuff Ethan had. The liquor cascades over oversized ice cubes, and the man is about to clap him affectionately on the back when—
Ding-dong!
He jerks his head around to see a girl standing, fists clenched, just inside the real estate office door. Her hair is soaking wet. She’s hot, easily the most attractive he’s seen in Sowell Bay. Somehow, her furious expression makes her even hotter.
The girl calls, “Jess!” in a dull, exasperated way that makes Cameron think this is a repeated occurrence. Still admiring the intruder, he congratulates himself for guessing the realtor’s nickname correctly.
He flings a thumb toward the back room. “She’s back there.”
“Okay. Any idea when she’ll be back?” Her voice is tinged with impatience. She crosses her arms over her chest, which jams her small but perky boobs toward her tank top’s neckline, and in an instant Cameron finds himself shifting in the chair. What is he, twelve years old? But, really, it has been three weeks since Katie.
He sets his jaw. “I dunno? Soon?” “What is she doing?”
“Um, serving me? Her . . . client?”
The girl barks a laugh and steps toward him. She smells like sunscreen. “You’re a client?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because Jessica Snell sells multimillion-dollar homes? You reek worse than a stadium bathroom during the fourth quarter of a Seahawks game. Also, you have something brown—which I honestly hope, for your sake, is chocolate—smeared on your chin.”
Cameron’s hand flies up, remembering the chocolate- coated protein bar he had for breakfast. There’s hardly a goddamn functioning mirror in the camper. How would he have known?
“Okay, so I’m not here to buy some mansion, but Jess is helping me out with something.”
“Whatever,” she mutters. She runs a hand through her sopping hair, then lifts the wavy mass from her neck, revealing a pink bikini strap knotted at the nape of her neck.
The girl tilts her chin toward the back room and yells again, “JESS!”
“Good lord, Avery.” Snell strides up the hallway, her face once again set into that all-too-natural scowl.
Avery doesn’t mince words. “You messed up the hot water again.”
“I lowered the temperature on the tank.” “Lowered it to what, subarctic?”
“I’m just trying to reduce our utility bill.”
“I’d rather give a few bucks to the gas company than freeze my ass off in the shower!”
Girl. Shower. Cameron tries to summon another image, literally anything else, and lands on the Welina Mobile Park’s chlamydia problem.
Jessica Snell plants her hands on her hips. “Well, most people don’t shower at their place of business.”
“Oh, come on,” Avery says, with a prickly laugh. “You know I paddle in the morning and rinse off before I open the store. I just froze my ass off.”
Jessica Snell juts her chin at the younger woman, who Cameron has by now deduced is associated with the shop next door. He remembers seeing a surf shop there. Snell sniffs as she says, “Nowhere does the lease guarantee an endless supply of hot water.”
“I guess the lease depends on neighbors to be decent humans.” Avery casts Cameron a hopeful look, like he might make a heroic interference on her behalf.
But there’s that paper in the realtor’s hand: a road map to his maybe deadbeat father. He shrugs impartially.
Avery glowers briefly at Cameron, then glares at Snell. “Whatever. I’ll pay the extra. Keep the hot water on high.” With a whiff of her coconut scent and another obnoxious door chime, she huffs out, slamming the office door.
“Sorry.” A nervous smile spreads over the agent’s face. “No worries.”
“Well, good news. I found an address for Simon Brinks.” Handing over the paper, she adds softly, “Good luck, and I’ll keep you in my prayers. I hope your reunion with your father is filled with joy.”
Cameron thanks her again and tucks the paper in his pocket.
“IT WAS CHOCOLATE.” Cameron strolls across the short stretch of sidewalk to where Avery is setting up a sandwich-board sign outside the surfing store, or whatever this place is.
“What?” She squints at him, holding up a hand to block the bright morning light.
“That brown stuff on my face. It wasn’t actual shit. It was chocolate.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” Her voice is bone-dry. “Well, you seemed overly invested in my state of being
back there.”
“Okay.” She dusts her hands and strides toward the open door of the store. SOWELL BAY PADDLE SHOP, the logo emblazoned on the front window says. As he follows her through the door, he’s greeted by neat rows of tall, thick boards on one side of the room, and plastic kayaks and canoes stacked against the opposite wall.
“I mean, I’m not some weirdo,” he presses. But he’s sort of acting like a weirdo, and doesn’t seem able to stop himself. And that damn mattress! He does probably reek of piss. He backtracks a step, putting a bit more distance between himself and the back of Avery’s cutoff shorts, which fit her perfectly.
She spins around to face him, her face expressionless. “Can I help you find something here, or . . . ?”
“Maybe I’m just browsing.”
“Fine. Browse away. But don’t mess anything up.” “What am I, a toddler?”
Avery smirks. “Chocolate all over your face, and you smell like you peed your pants. If the shoe fits . . .”
“Okay, I won’t touch anything. You can assure your boss the inventory won’t be dirtied by my filth.”
“I am the boss.” She cocks her head. “This is my store.”
Cameron opens his mouth, but to his surprise, can’t find a comeback. She can’t be much older than he is. All he has to his name is a disgusting camper, and she has an entire store.
“Look, I know your type.” Her voice has an edge to it now. She folds her arms tightly. “I don’t know what you’re after, but you played Jess for a favor. I know it.”
“Why do you care? You two don’t exactly have a neighborly relationship.”
“I care because I can’t stand players.” Avery scans him up and down. “Who exactly are you, anyway? I’ve never seen you around before.”
“I was just trying to get that realtor’s help,” Cameron says, then after a pause adds, “I’m trying to find my dad.”
“Oh.” Avery’s voice softens a tiny bit and her arms relax to her sides, which improves Cameron’s view of her spectacular little chest. She drags in a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come out swinging. My day got off to a cold start.”
“I know the feeling, believe me.” Cameron smiles, and Avery melts a little more, extending her hand to clasp his as he introduces himself. As he lets go, his goddamn neck lets out another one of its bone-on-bone cracks.
Avery winces at the sound. “Ouch. You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. Slept weird last night.” He regrets the words as soon as they come out. Is this what passes for a pickup line in your thirties? Complaining about back pain? Of course, he doesn’t add that the source of his ailment is the world’s nastiest camper. Warm light streams through the shop’s window as the sun continues to climb the midmorning sky. It occurs to Cameron he should’ve hosed off the mattress this morning before he left; it could’ve dried in the day’s heat. Why do these things never occur to him in the moment?
“Messed-up neck, then. I’ve got something for that. Just a sec.” Avery ducks behind the counter and pops up a second
later and hands him a small container. It’s some sort of cream, with a bright orange price tag affixed to the lid.
$19.95. “It’s totally natural,” she explains. “I use it whenever a long session on my board leaves me sore.”
Cameron feels a single brow inch up. Twenty bucks for organic Vaseline. He forces a weak smile. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“It’s on the house.” “Really, it’s okay.”
“Will you just take it?” An actual grin cracks Avery’s face as she thrusts the little pot toward him. “I’m a sucker for injured creatures.”
When Cameron walks out a little while later, his neck is slick with overpriced balm and Avery’s number is programmed in his phone.
ETHAN IS SITTING on his front porch when Cameron pulls into the driveway. Cameron heads toward the house, well aware of the cheeseball grin plastered on his face.
“Someone called for you bit ago,” Ethan says. “From some airline? Left a number to call back when you got home.”
“Thanks, Ethan.” Cameron’s pulse quickens. His duffel bag. Good thing he added Ethan’s landline to his claim last time he checked the status. His phone battery lasts about two seconds these days. The thought of replacing his phone has been out of the question, but with his jewelry-containing bag on the way and a job, he’ll check out the new model they released this spring, the one with six cameras or whatever. The one that can practically cook dinner for you.
Still grinning, he ducks into the camper and dials.
“JoyJet baggage services,” a woman answers, sounding anything but joyful.
Cameron gives his claim number. “So, when will my bag be delivered?”
“One moment, sir.” She types on a keyboard for what feels like an hour. The keystrokes echo through his phone speaker: click-click-click. Is she writing a novel? Finally, she says, “Yes, we did find your lost item.”
“Awesome. You need my address?” “Sir, I’m afraid your item is in Naples.” “Naples . . . Florida?”
“Naples, Italy.”
“Italy?” Cameron’s voice jumps up an octave. “Does JoyJet even fly to Italy?”
“Hold on a moment, sir . . . Let me check something.” The woman’s keyboard strokes sound even more aggressive now, somehow. “Ah, I see what happened. Somehow, your item was transferred to one of our European partners.” She lets out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s pretty awful, even for us.”
“Yeah, you think?” Cameron fights to keep his voice calm. “So how do I get it back? There are some . . . things in there that are . . . important.”
“Sir, we advise all passengers to remove any valuables before they check—”
“But I didn’t have a choice.” Cameron explodes. “They made me check my carry-on at the gate, along with a million other people, because your overhead bins are the size of matchboxes. Do the people who design your airplanes have any idea what a typical suitcase looks like?”
After a long pause, the agent says, “Sir, I’m going to have to transfer you to our European partner’s office, who will assign a new claim number. I can get the paperwork started here, then I’ll patch you over. If I could start with your last name . . .”
