Nantucket Blue

Sixteen





“I HAVE A WHOLE MONTH to make this up to you,” George Gust said as he swallowed the last bite, explaining that he was staying in the annex, a little studio cottage in the backyard, for all of July and probably August, too. We sat there talking for at least a half hour. He seemed to have a lot of talking in him, and I wasn’t exactly dying to get back to my rose-covered chamber. He was writing a biography of Senator William “Boaty” Carmichael. He’d sold his idea to a big publishing house over a year ago and had been taking his sweet time. But with the latest news, his editors were pushing for a draft by the end of August. He was staying at the inn to do research and to write his ass off.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do it,” he said, his forehead crimping. “Especially with a broken leg.”

“But you don’t write with your leg.” I grabbed one of Liz’s beloved key-lime-pie-flavored yogurts (or, as she said, “yah-gurts”) from the fridge. She loved this stuff. I thought it tasted like whipped soap, but it was pretty much my only option tonight. Luckily, it was her day off tomorrow and she was at Shane’s, so I’d have time to replace it before she noticed.

“But everything takes me twice as long,” the man said. “Buying a cup of coffee is like a half-hour adventure. And I need to interview people. I can’t drive. It sucks.” He shook his head. “Are you a night owl, too?” He crumpled the butcher paper the sandwich had been wrapped in into a ball.

“Not usually. Can’t sleep.”

George aimed the paper ball toward the garbage. It landed next to the dishwasher. “I’ve never been good at that,” he said. “I’ve never been the guy who makes the basket with my trash unless I’m right next to it.”

“And this bothers you?” I polished off the yogurt and washed the spoon.

“You know, it kinda does. I’d really like to be one of those guys. Everyone would say, ‘he shoots, he scores,’ and I’d feel like a big deal just for throwing something out.”

I took five steps backward, assumed a basketball pose, and tossed the empty yogurt container directly into the bin.

“You’re one of those guys,” he said.

“One of those girls.” I picked up his paper ball and handed it back to him. “You need a loose wrist.” He rolled his wrist around. “Now, you’ve got to look where you want it to land.” George narrowed his eyes at the trash can. “Just kind of put yourself in that place.”

“In the trash?”

I laughed. “Yup.”

“I’m there,” he said. “It’s not pretty, but I’m there.” He lifted his arm to throw.

“Okay, now keep your eyes on the can and trust. Trust that your arm knows when to release.” I was pretty much quoting Miss Kang directly. He reared back his arm, took a breath, and shot.

“He shoots, he scores,” I said as the butcher paper landed in the trash.

“Look at that.” He clapped once, smiling broadly. “Thanks!”

“You just needed a coach,” I said, and shrugged. He stood up, balancing on one leg as he grabbed his crutches.

“What I really need,” he said, as he hobbled toward the stairs and used the butt of his crutch to push the door, “is an intern.”