Page 19 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
My phone rings as Ipull up into the harbor lot the next morning. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, but I have a feeling I know who’s calling this early; I glance quickly at the screen as I put the car into park.
Incoming call from Pees Sitting Down.
I snicker. After I told Merrick I was leaving him and wanted a divorce, I changed his name on my phone. He might fashion himself as the paragon of virility—what with all the cheating—but those interns don’t know what a little boy Merrick really is inside. He still calls his mom Mommy. He sleeps with a nightlight on. And he pees sitting down like a toddler.
Am I mean for changing his caller ID? Maybe. But it’s also not a lie. Plus, walking out of a relationship of ten years (eight married) isn’t painless, and being able to give Merrick an innocuous nickname that nobody else will see makes it a tiny bit easier for me to assure myself that I did the right thing by leaving him.
Of course, it would also be great if he would stop calling me twenty times a day. Then I wouldn’t have to see his name—ornickname—at all. (I can’t block him, in case he actually has something important to tell me about signing the divorce papers, which he has so far failed to do.)
I decline the call and send him directly to voicemail. I already know what he’s going to say anyway, because every text and voicemail has been the same since I left L.A., a classic Merrick mixture of charisma and insolence. He’s charming enough that, if you’re not careful, you’ll fall for the wrong part of that cocktail. Most things Merrick says seem logical on their surface; it’s just the small twist of self-righteousness at the end that gets you.
“Helene, we have a relationship too good to walk out on, and you’re such a wonderful, reasonable person, I know we can work this out. What happened with Chrissy wasn’t what it looked like, but I’m sorry anyway that it hurt you. Come home so we can talk this through.”
“Helene, I know that not getting that columnist job must’ve upset you. It was my fault that I didn’t talk to you about your feelings, and things spiraled out of control. That’s probably why you thought you saw Chrissy in my office and misinterpreted it; you were hurting, and your eyes deceived you. But that’s okay, I understand and forgive you. Call me, okay?”
“Helene, where are you? Please, please call me. This isn’t like you to run away. I don’t know what you thought you saw, but Chrissy was just helping me pick something up that had fallen on the floor under my desk. You’re such a levelheaded, positive person, I know I can help you see that it’s better to drop the divorce stuff. Or else…Well, never mind that. Just come home, okay?”
Sure, Merrick. It’s alwaysmewho’s being irrational. Thank god I have your vastly superior brain to help me understand what I saw with my own two eyes.
And then there’s the implicit threat in all his messages.Or else.
I roll my eyes. Or elsewhat? He’s going to send a ninja assassin team after me? Merrick is just a newspaper editor, not president of the United States. He’s always had an inflated sense of self.
My phone rings again. I chuck it under the passenger seat. I have more important things to do.
As soon as I step out of my car, though, winter wallops me.Good god, it’s freezing! I zip up my coat (I’m wearing every single piece of long underwear and fleece that I own, all at once) and I button the snaps on the front of my hood until the only visible part of me is my eyes. Was it only a couple of days ago that I called Alaska a magical place with lacy frost woven by a snow maiden? How quickly the luster of newness tarnishes. I’d give anything for a dose of Southern California “winter” right now. I used to think seventy-three degrees was sweater weather.
But I’m here, so I march onward into the dark toward the lights in the harbor to look for Sebastien and theAlacrity.
The docks are already wide awake, boats bobbing on the sea while crews shout at one another about whatever it is that fishermen do.
The first boat is theCrab Monster,a beast of a ship. It’s a towering gray behemoth with shark-sharp teeth painted on the bow. Attempts to talk to the crew are futile, though. They’re too busy to be bothered by a random tourist wandering the dock.
The next few boats are equally unhelpful. Finally, I get five seconds of attention from a woman, in between her running from her ship to the dock for supplies.
“Excuse me,” I yell over the shouting all around us. “Could you point me toward theAlacrity?”
She doesn’t even bother with words, just points back toward the parking lot and grunts before she climbs the ladder back up to her crew.
I frown as I turn back in the direction I’d come from. I’ve checked every single fishing boat along the way. There wasCrab Monster, Salt Weapon, Filthy Oar, Lucifer, Chum Bucket,andReel Adrenaline.There were a few empty berths, too, but I figured those were just unrented slips. Unless…
My stomach sinks. What if theAlacrityalready set off this morning?
But if the boat is gone, why would the woman point me this way?
I walk, and the answer appears beneath one of the harbor lights. A rusty sign announces Offices with a faded red arrow pointing toward the parking lot. There, a set of small trailers sit likeafterthoughts to the powerful ships on the sea. The second one down is labeled Alacrity, and the lights are on.
I sigh. There’s a chance Sebastien is inside, but I doubt it. He doesn’t seem like the behind-a-desk type.
Still, I walk down there and knock on the door.
The office, if you can call it that, is cramped and stuffed to the gills with furniture and stacks of paper. A single floor lamp stands beside a file cabinet, both the kind you get for twenty dollars at Walmart. But there’s reggae music playing from a pair of speakers, which lends an unexpectedly cheerful vibe to the trailer. And the man behind the desk is smiling like there’s nothing more he wanted this morning than a would-be novelist stumbling into his office. It takes a little of the disappointment out of the very apparent fact that Sebastien isn’t here.
“Hi,” the man says, rising and offering his hand. “Adam Merculief. Can I help you?”
I wonder how out of place I must look, puffy as the Michelin Man in all of my cold-weather clothing piled on top of one another.
“Helene Janssen,” I say, shaking with my glove on. It’s probably rude, but my fingers are still frozen, and even from just a first impression, Adam doesn’t seem like the type to be offended by something like that. “I’m, um, looking for Sebastien.”
