The Captain's Daughter

“Give me a break, Eliza. No, of course not. I mean, come on. I work with my hands.”

She was an elastic, and she was stretching and stretching and she was overcome by the idea that deep down she was still the same scrappy lobsterman’s daughter, listening to the men curse around her, salty water, salty language, that she’d never fit into Rob’s life, she was a square peg trying to wrench herself into a round hole, always had been.

And then the elastic broke. And she said the worst thing she could think of. She said, “No you don’t, Rob. You don’t work with your hands.” She paused, for effect, but also to see if she might stop herself. She didn’t. “You just draw the pictures so other people can build what you draw with their hands.”

And that was the last thing she had the chance to say before Rob hung up.





21


BARTON, MASSACHUSETTS





Rob


Rob surveyed the kitchen. Earlier in the day Evie had attempted to make egg salad, and there were eggshells strewn across the counter, little bits of hard-boiled yolk chunks scattered in piles. The kitchen looked like a bunch of chickens had partied hard and then gotten the heck out of dodge without cleaning up after themselves. In his third-floor office, he knew, the Cabot file was in similar disarray. Rob closed his eyes and imagined himself aboard A Family Affair, light and variable winds, the ocean wide and inviting. The boat was equipped for serious sailing, a trip down to the Caribbean, but Rob would give anything for just half a day’s sail from the yacht club and back. An hour, even. A cruise around the harbor.

Eliza’s words floated back to him. You don’t work with your hands. You just draw the pictures so other people can build what you draw with their hands.

He knew, of course, that these problems were trivial in comparison with what Charlie Sargent was facing. And yet.

He pictured Eliza in some borrowed lobstering gear, her hair tied back to keep it out of the wind. He pictured her emptying a trap, throwing it back over the side. He pictured her losing her balance when the boat started up again, leaning into the ex-boyfriend, his strong workman’s hand steadying her, Eliza laughing.

His biggest fear, the fear that had plagued him since the first time Eliza had taken him to Little Harbor, was coming true. Eliza had realized that she belonged there instead of here. That’s why she wouldn’t sign the Phineas Tarbox papers. He was going to lose her.

You just draw the pictures.

The words stung.

Zoe had left her phone on the kitchen counter when she’d gone upstairs, and Rob picked it up.

Zoe got more texts in ten minutes than Rob got in an entire day. He scrolled through. Most of the texts seemed to be pieces of enormous strings of other texts; they were all plump with emojis and most of them appeared to be requests for one friend to go like another friend’s Instagram post.

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. Zoe was as quiet as a burglar. “Is that my phone?” asked Zoe suspiciously. “Are you looking at my phone?”

Rob gave her the stink eye and said, “I pay the bill, I can look at the phone.” What had happened to the patient dad he used to be, the one who had turned Evie’s tennis serve from her Achilles’ heel into her secret weapon? Where was the guy who had taught Zoe how to tie a cleat knot? Zoe rolled her eyes and let out a small dissatisfied huff. Rob looked down at the phone and said, “Who is Stanley? I didn’t know you had a friend named Stanley.”

“That’s Sofia,” said Zoe. “That’s just a nickname. We all have them.” Rob could see her trying to restrain herself from reaching for the phone.

“What’s yours?”

“Bob.”

“Interesting.” A wave of exhaustion slapped Rob. He didn’t understand Zoe’s world. He didn’t even understand his own world! Was Eliza going to call him back? Was she going to apologize for what she’d said to him? Was he going to apologize to her? How far over the line had he stepped? How far had she? His insides felt scraped out, empty. What was it like to know you had a tumor in your brain, that it was just a matter of time until it grew big enough to kill you? What was it like to know your father did?

Zoe said, “Were you talking to Mom?”

“I was,” said Rob.

Zoe gazed at him. “Were you two fighting?” Ever since the parents of her friend Hannah Coogan had announced their divorce, Zoe had been ultrasensitive about any possible discord between her parents. This fact made Rob feel tender toward and protective of Zoe.

Then Zoe did something with her face—a lift of the eyebrow, a thing with her mouth that was part grimace and part smile—that made her look exactly like Eliza, and Rob felt himself soften further.

“No,” he said gently.

“Oh,” Zoe said. “It sounded like you were.”

“Conversations sound different when you only hear one side of them.”

“Right.” Zoe chewed on a thumbnail and said, “When’s she coming back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What Grandpa has is really bad, right?”

Rob considered Zoe. When she was born she’d weighed the same as a bag of sugar; he used to gaze at her tiny scrunched-up features and try to imagine what she’d look like as a toddler, a teenager, an adult. Impossible, he’d think. She’ll never get that big. She’ll never not need us the way she does now. But she had gotten big. She was old enough for the truth, and yet still he wanted to keep it from her.

“Dad?”

He opened his arms, and Zoe stepped into them. She was tall enough now that he could rest his chin on the top of her head. “Yes,” he said. “What Grandpa has is really bad.”

He sighed and prepared himself to climb the stairs to the office and to face the Cabot file. As he turned to exit the kitchen, he heard a rattling sound and Evie flew through on her scooter. She was broadly smiling and one of her legs was pumping against the floor. She came to a stop in front of Rob and Zoe and contemplated them.

“You’re not allowed to ride that in the house,” Zoe said. “Dad, she’s not allowed to ride that in the house. Tell her.”

Rob said, “Evie,” in a tone he hoped exhibited disapproval and authority.

Evie shrugged and circumnavigated the kitchen. On her next go-round she stopped and said, “Can I get Instagram?”

“No,” said Rob.

“Never,” said Zoe.

“Probably not never,” corrected Rob. “But not now.”

“Worth a try,” said Evie.





22


LITTLE HARBOR, MAINE





Eliza


By the time Russell came back to the truck again, Eliza had composed herself, even though inside she was a rainbow of different emotions: angry, guilty, confused. To his credit, Russell didn’t ask her what was wrong or why her face was, well, for lack of a better term, lobster red, or anything else about the phone call. He said, “Good solid day of work, Eliza. What do you say we get a beer.”

It wasn’t really a question, based on the inflection, but Eliza answered it like one.

“I don’t know…I should go back, check on my dad.”

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