“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.
Day 1,324 of My Captivity
TERRY HAS MADE A REPLACEMENT. SWAPPED OUT THE older lady for a younger model, as you humans might say.
He walked by my tank on the way to his interview. Shoulders pulled toward his earlobes, damp palms: clearly anxious. When he departed, his gait was fluid, relaxed. I could tell it had been a successful interview.
Something about the way he walked seemed . . . familiar. I wish I had more chance to study it, but he left the building too quickly. I suppose I shall have my chance soon. This evening, perhaps.
Not a day too soon. Last night, I journeyed around the bend to see whether the rock crabs were molting, as they are most delicious when their shells are soft. The state of the floor was, frankly, alarming. After I returned to my tank, I spent quite a while picking bits of grime from between my suckers.
I do hope the young man starts his new job tonight. The rock crabs were not yet molting, but they will be tomorrow. I do not relish another trip over those disgusting floors.
As for the previous cleaning woman, I can only surmise she is not coming back. I shall miss her.