4
“Still sorry we came home?”
“Wrong time to ask.” Tabby stared at the bilge of the forty-seven-foot Motor Lifeboat, 47-MLB, that they’d just spent two hours contorting themselves worse than a yoga class to scrub down. The bilge, the very bottom of the boat, sparkled. And every bit of grime, grease, and she didn’t want to know what, was now embedded in her skin.
“I’m talking about the boys.”
“You always are.” Last night at Workers, everyone had squeezed over and they’d found one spare chair. She and Suzy had shared it, one cheek each. Suzy had spent the whole evening prodding at Craig’s cultured Long Island, New York bonhomie. She and Tad had discussed grandmothers. His passed away three years back, hers still tenacious as could be, living alone out on the sandy, windswept side of Warr
