Cameron sits at Ethan’s kitchen table, not sure whether he’s supposed to be hanging out here, or what. Ethan called a buddy of his who drives for a towing company, and although the guy hadn’t seemed thrilled about it, he hauled Cameron’s camper here, at no charge, to Ethan’s house, and deposited it in the driveway. Cameron thanked him about a million times. The flat tire still needs to be dealt with, but at least he’s not stuck in a grocery store parking lot.
But all of that took hours to sort out. It’s five now. So
much for getting back to Brinks Development as planned. “You sure it’s okay if I park here?”
“Long as you keep the noise down in the morning.”
“I’m not exactly a morning person,” Cameron says, laughing. At least he won’t have to worry about finding some shady parking lot to sleep in tonight. Taking another sip of whiskey, he feels his shoulders ease infinitesimally. For the first time since he left Modesto, he feels almost relaxed.
“To tell you the truth, I’m glad for a bit of company.”
“Same,” Cameron agrees. And even though Ethan had said he didn’t know Simon Brinks, he might be of use. He seems to know everyone here. How many degrees of separation can there be? Even rich guys like Brinks must need to buy milk once in a while.
An idea seizes Cameron. A brilliant one. “Ethan,” he ventures.
“Aye?”
“Is the Shop-Way hiring?” Cameron leans across the table. “What I mean is, would you hire me?”
Ethan seems to consider this for a moment.
“I can work a register.” Cameron has never used a cash register in his life, but how hard can it be? “Stock shelves. Wipe tables. Whatever.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but there’s just not enough work.” Ethan shakes his head. “I’d have to give Tanner the axe.”
Deflated, Cameron drains his glass. “Right. Never mind.” “But if you’re lookin’ for work, I might know of
something.” Ethan pours him another scotch. The amber liquid lets off a warm, intoxicating smell as it swirls into the glass. “I can put you in touch if you want.”
Cameron props his chin on his fist. The damn camper tire. Ethan’s tow-truck buddy whistled low as he squatted down to examine it. Something about a cracked rim, a bent wheel well. Not good. When he jacked up the rim on his old Jeep a few years ago, repairing it cost several hundred dollars. Not to mention that his luggage is still missing, and he needs to pay Aunt Jeanne’s cruise money back. He needs to generate some cash.
“It’s a maintenance position, of sorts,” Ethan adds. “Not glamorous work.”
“Not a problem.” Cameron lifts his head. “Can you hook me up?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve got the application here somewhere. My mate gave me a stack to set out on the deli counter at the store.” Ethan rises and stalks out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder that he’ll be right back.
Moments later, he returns, waving a sheet of paper.
“I’ll fill it out now.” Cameron picks up a pen that’s sitting on the table.
A slow grin spreads over Ethan’s face. “Well, on my recommendation, you’re a shoo-in, laddie. So what do you say we have some fun with it?”
THE NEXT MORNING, at quarter to eleven, Cameron returns to the aquarium. This time, the door swings open.
Ethan apparently called his “mate” first thing this morning, then banged on the camper door at ten, stirring Cameron out of a heavy sleep. Ethan’s green eyes were bright; it seemed he was completely unaffected by their late night. In a chipper tone, he told Cameron to be down there in an hour for his interview.
“Remember, his name’s Terry and he’s a bit of a fish geek, but he’s a fantastic bloke,” Ethan had explained for what felt like the tenth time. “Just relax, and I’m sure he’ll offer you the job on the spot.”
The guy who swivels around in the office chair is not what Cameron had expected for a so-called fish geek. He could be a linebacker. He’s clearly in the middle of a phone call, but he nods at Cameron to come in.
Sorry, he mouths, before turning back to his phone conversation.
Cameron hovers in the doorway, caught in the awkward place between not wanting to eavesdrop but wanting to follow instructions. He doesn’t need to start off a job interview by flouting orders.
The fish geek lowers his voice. “Tova, look, I’ll tell you the same thing I told you last time you called. If your doctor says six weeks, I insist you take it.” Brows furrowed, he scowls at whatever response comes from the other end. “Okay. Fine. Four weeks, and we’ll reevaluate.” Another pause. “Yes, of course I’ll make sure they’re capable.”
Pause.
“Yes, I know how the scum builds up around the trash cans.”
Pause.
“Yes, I’ll make sure they use pure cotton. Polyester will streak the glass. Got it.”
Pause.
“All right. You take care, too.” At this, a note of tenderness creeps into his voice, which lilts with some vague accent that might be Caribbean. Not that Cameron has ever been to the Caribbean.
Letting out a long sigh, the fish geek replaces the receiver, shakes his head, and stands to offer his hand. “Terry Bailey. You must be here for the interview?”
“Yeah.” Cameron straightens, remembering what Ethan told him. “I mean, yes, sir. The maintenance position.” He passes his application over the desk.
“Good, good.” Terry sits back down and starts to scan the paper. Cameron sits, too, suddenly regretting everything he wrote. He and Ethan had thrown back most of that bottle of scotch, and Ethan had assured him that whatever he wrote didn’t matter, that his recommendation truly was good as gold.
Maybe they’d had too much fun with it.
Terry frowns. “You managed tank maintenance at SeaWorld?”
“Right.” Cameron nods.
“And you were on the crew that constructed the shark tank at Mandalay Bay? Like . . . in Las Vegas?”
“Yeah.” Cameron feels his mouth twitch. Too far?
Terry’s voice falls flat. “The shark exhibit at Mandalay Bay went in back in . . . what was it, 1994, I think?”
“Yep. Gotta love the nineties, man.” Cameron chuckles, trying for nonchalance.
Terry’s not buying it. “You couldn’t have even been born yet.”
Cameron was born in 1990, but it doesn’t seem wise to point that out to Terry. Instead, he says, “Yeah, so some of that might be an exaggeration.”
“Okay. Thanks for your time. You can go.”
Cameron looks up, surprised at how effectively the words pierce him.
“I mean it.” Terry’s voice is flat. “You’re wasting my time.”
“Wait!” Cameron says, horrified at his pathetic, pleading tone. But that damn tire. Aunt Jeanne’s cruise. He absolutely needs to land some cash, and quick. Pointing at the application, he says, “Okay. None of this is true.”
“You don’t say.”
“Ethan said you would think it’s funny.” Terry sighs.
“But, man, hear me out,” Cameron goes. “I’m in a tough spot. I can do repairs, maintenance, whatever you need . . . I’ve got years of construction experience. Building luxury homes for rich pricks down in California.” He doesn’t add that he’s been fired a zillion times, but he’s worried it’s written on his face.
Terry leans back and crosses his arms, arches one brow.
Universal code for Fine, I’m listening.
Cameron leans forward, earnest. “I’ve sealed up more Carrara marble than you could imagine. Whatever you need done, I can do it. Promise.”
Terry stares at the application for what seems like a ridiculously long time. Finally, he looks up, eyes narrow. “I don’t care about California or Carrara marble. And I do not appreciate this little stunt.”
Cameron studies his hands, which are knotted together in his lap. This is weirdly like being in the principal’s office being chewed out for sneaking cigarettes under the bleachers. He probably deserves it now, just like he did then.
Terry goes on, “You know, when I went to apply for college in the United States, my standardized test scores were not that great. But I knew sea life, I sure did. I was raised on a fishing boat outside Kingston.” He shifts a stack of papers on his messy desk. “I knew I wanted to come here to study marine biology, and a lot of people took a chance on me to make that happen.”
Cameron glances up at the framed diploma behind his desk. Summa cum laude. Terry’s more than a fish geek, apparently. He’s some sort of fish genius.
“So you . . . want to give me a chance?”
“Not really.” Terry eyes him, hard. “I expect you’re the sort that’s had plenty of chances. Opportunities you don’t even realize. But you throw them away.”
Ouch.
“Anyway, I’ll give you a chance, but not because I think you deserve one. I’m throwing Ethan a bone. I beat the pants off him in a poker game a while back and he won’t shut his trap about it.” Terry lets out a chuckle.
“Thank you, sir,” Cameron says, sitting up straight. “You won’t regret it.”
“Don’t you want to know what the job actually consists of?”
“I thought it was maintenance.” Surely Ethan had mentioned Cameron’s experience in construction. He’d pictured himself patching roofs and fixing leaky faucets.
“Well, yes. Chopping bait. Cleaning buckets. That type of thing.”
“Okay.” Bait. How bad could it be? And anyway, it’s only until his luggage shows up, or he finds Simon Brinks, whichever comes first. Of course, he doesn’t mention that to Terry.
“Twenty bucks an hour, twenty hours a week.”
Cameron’s optimism sinks as he runs through the math in his head. After taxes, and gas for the camper, it’ll be the end of summer before he can pay Aunt Jeanne back, even if he can save some cash by eating the expired groceries Ethan brings back from the store. End of summer is too late for her cruise deposit.
“I mean, I would take more hours if you offered them,” Cameron says.
Terry steeples his fingers and, after a thoughtful pause, says, “You clean, kiddo?”
Reflexively, Cameron glances down at his shirt, which maybe he should have thrown in the laundry back at Ethan’s place. Then he realizes what Terry must mean. His .
. . record.
“Well, mostly. Got a couple misdemeanors. This one time, the bar was closing, and—”
Terry shakes his head. “No. I mean, do you clean? As in, can you mop floors?”
“Oh.” Cameron considers this. “Uh, yeah, totally.”
“I can give you more hours, then. Evening hours. But,” Terry holds up a prohibitive finger, “this part is temporary. I need someone to fill in for my regular cleaning lady for a few weeks.”
“Not a problem.”
“And, know this, Cameron Cassmore. Ethan Mack might not be very good at giving advice on job applications, but he is a very good friend of mine. I’m giving you a chance on his word.”
“Understood.” Cameron nods. “Don’t let him down.”
WHILE HE WAITS for Ethan to pick him up, Cameron wanders down the pier. High noon sun throws flashy streaks of silver over the water’s surface. A group of paddleboarders sends little ripples toward the dock.
In his pocket, his fingers find the key card. He’s never had a boss who trusted him with a key before. He takes it out and snaps a pic of the key card with the water in the background, then texts the photo to Aunt Jeanne.
As he hits send, a call comes in. Cameron recognizes the number immediately; it’s the one he’s called about a thousand times this week. Left a half-dozen voice mails. His heart speeds up as he taps the green button.
“This is Cameron,” he says, putting on a businesslike air. “Hello. This is John Hall from Brinks Development, Sowell
Bay office.” The voice sounds tired. “You’ve left several
messages here. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yeah!” Cameron draws in a bracing breath. “I mean, yes. I’d like to make an appointment to meet with Mr. Brinks.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.” “Why not?”
“Mr. Brinks works out of his office in Seattle most of the time. I’d recommend you try to reach him there.”
“I tried!” As if Cameron wouldn’t have tried. It’s the number listed on their damn website. “They told me he was unavailable.”
“Well, then I suppose he’s unavailable.” John Hall’s voice is flat.
“But he can’t be unavailable!” Cameron hates how his voice is trending whiny, like it did when he was begging Katie not to throw his shit out the window. “Please. It’s important.”
John Hall is shuffling some papers or something on the other end of the line. In the distance, a train’s horn sounds, and Cameron can swear he hears the same train, right here on the pier. How could he get so close, yet still be so far?
Finally, Hall asks, “Who did you say you were again?” “Cameron Cassmore. I’m . . . family.”
“I see. Well, then.” There’s a long pause, and then Hall continues, his voice careful, “You might know, Mr. Brinks can often be found at his summer home this time of year.”
“Summer home? Where?”
Hall laughs. “I can’t just give out his address. Perhaps someone in your family can tell you.”
By the time Cameron has processed this, the line has gone dead. He sinks onto a bench, slumping. How the hell is he supposed to find some vacation mansion?
Before he slips his phone back in his pocket, he sees Aunt Jeanne’s reply: a champagne emoji followed by I’m proud of you, Cammy.
