Page 7 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“Must be hard living up to that legacy.”
Something sparks in those wide blue eyes, charged with new energy. “It can be, yeah. But it’s notjustabout our past. I think we also need to be looking forward, you know? Modernizing….” Suddenly, Ben seems to realize he’s ad-libbing and clamps right back up, cheeks tinted pink. “Anyway, I’m proud of what we’ve built here, and my part in it. It’s the backbone of the town.”
He was about to say something interesting,Jackson thinks,before retreating into the company line.He takes care to keep his expression neutral, even as the sight of color in Ben’s cheeks sets something humming under his own skin.
“I’m sure you do a lot of good,” Jackson says, tone casual but questing. “Especially this time of year. Why don’t you walk me through some of that?”
Ben brightens. “We sponsor the soup kitchen year-round by donating part of the catch. I even dish out chowder every Sunday. And we organize meal baskets for families in need. There’s also our annual toy drive at Christmas and…” He’s well-rehearsed as he goes on, but his genuine pride comes through. Beneath the slightly forced corporate smile, this sweet ball ofnerves clearly wants to do good. Of course, sometimes the do-gooders are pushed on by a guilty conscience.
Eventually, Ben winds down. “Was that… helpful?” Ben asks, voice hopeful, like he’s waiting for a grade. The sincerity’s so naked it makes Jackson feel a little like a conman for loading up his next question. You don’t give the cute ones a pass though.
“Absolutely. It’s great content.” Jackson offers what he knows is a disarming smile, pen tapping lightly against his notepad. “So, you mentioned modernizing a minute ago. I’m curious how that translates to, say… sustainability. Waste management, that kind of thing.”
The shift isn’t dramatic: a slight rigidness of the spine, a quick flick of Ben’s gaze back to his watch. But it’s enough to register that the conversation has suddenly veered onto shaky ground. “There’s nothing unusual about our waste management,” Ben says primly. “We handle it like any other processing plant.”
Jackson doodles a little fish skeleton in the margins of his notebook, letting the silence hang until it’s thick enough that Ben, well-bred and mannered to a fault, can’t help filling it.
He pastes on a brittle smile. “We do everything required by law.”
“Of course.”
“I just…I don’t see why this needs to be part of the article.”
If they don’t want it in print, it’s probably news,as the adage goes. “It’s not necessarily in the article. I’m just asking questions, Mr. Whitaker,” Jackson says, keeping his face pleasantly clueless. “That’s my job. I will remind you that you are on the record, so probably best not to say things like ‘I don’t see why this needs to be part of the article.’ People forget that.”
“There just isn’t much to say on the subject. The plant is fully compliant with any and all environmental regulations,” Ben says tightly. His attempt at control barely masks the panicbleeding through. He’s clearly imagining the fallout: bad press, misquotes, a disappointed call from his father.
“Then you don’t think anything happening at this plant would lead to higher mortality rates in marine life in the area?”
Ben’s mouth goes white at the corners.
“No. I don’t.”
Then Ben glances at his watch.Again.
“Am I keeping you from something more important?” Jackson can’t quite hide his annoyance, even as he’s committing the cardinal sin of giving an interviewee an out.
“No. I mean, yes,” Ben says, clearly warring with being polite and absolutely not wanting to answer any more of Jackson’s questions about their waste handling practices. “I mean, I’m just extremely busy this week, managing everything while my father’s away.”
Jackson masks a little smirk. “I’m sure you are. I guess I’ll let you get back to your kingdom, then, Fish Prince.” He enjoys the way Ben’s cheeks flame in response.
That heat doesn’t make it to his voice, which has gone icy. “Thank you for understanding.”
Jackson stands, not missing how Ben’s eyes follow him. He can’t resist one last nudge. “Can I call you later? You know, in case I have more questions?”
Ben’s throat bobs, and for a brief moment, Jackson imagines popping open the button on that starched collar. “I think we’re done, Mr. James. I don’t think there’s much of a story here for you.”
Jackson meets Ben’s stare. He tucks his notepad under his arm, feeling that pleasant buzz of curiosity mixed with something hotter. There’s something under the surface here. The pinched corners of Ben Whitaker III’s mouth make him all but certain. “I usually let my readers decide that for me. I’ll be in touch.”
He turns on his heel, holding back a grin. Whatever Golden Boy’s hiding, professionally, personally, or otherwise, Jackson plans on finding out.
Chapter 7
Ben
By the time Ben finally punches out, the sky’s gone dark, and the parking lot is empty except for his own Jeep and the few vehicles belonging to the night shift. Thick snowflakes fall slowly, lit orange by the sodium bulbs that line the yard. Ben watches them drift for a moment, then gets to work brushing off his windshield.
He pauses mid swipe as a waste truck rumbles away from the loading dock, late and loud. It’s not the usual Finny’s Disposal rig with the goofy cartoon trashcan he used to love as a kid. This one is labeled MarineSelect Waste Services, a logo that’s all minimalist lines and zero whimsy.
