Page 34 of Rhodes

"Are you sure, Rhodes?"

"Group found another time. Two of them had the afternoon open anyway." He says it like it’s nothing. "It's handled."

I keep waiting for the rest. For the part where he tells me he already called the org, or lined up two guys from the docks, or looked at the tide chart himself and decided we should push to Saturday. For the part where the thing I asked for quietly becomes the thing he's running.

It doesn't come. He's standing there dressed to haul shell bags because I told him I needed somebody who could lift.

I don't know what to do with how easy he is making this, or that he won't take the out I'm giving him. We could use his help. He will halve our workload. But it still physically pains me that I have no choice but to accept the help I asked for in the first place.

"Okay," I manage. "Can you be ready to leave in twenty? Low tide's six forty, so we've got no room. And if we finish the sill by ten, we can drop the eastern anchor a foot lower and finally fix the line we laid wrong in the fall.”

"You driving or me?" He looks at my one bare foot, the sock in my hand. "I'm ready. Looks like you might need some extra time."

I throw my sock at him.

"Get out so I can finish getting dressed. I'll be ready in five."

He walks back toward the kitchen, and I stand in my cold room with one sock still half on, and one lying on the floor at the door. I'm completely annoyed all the way down at how much lighter the morning suddenly feels, but a smile breaks out anyway.

The Cruiser turns over on the first try, the engine catching perfectly.

"Would you look at that," I say.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"I was going to thank the mechanic." I back out, headlights sweeping the hedge. "Very quietly, in my heart, of course."

He almost smiles. I catch it in the dash glow before it's gone.

The road out is empty and gray, that no-color hour before the sun bothers to show up. The vents push out a weak heat that can't decide if it's on. Both coffees sit side-by-side in the cup holders.

He asks about the sill design, how the bags seat, why we cure the shell first. I answer, and he asks the next real thing. Somewhere around the parish line, I catch both of us just having a conversation like the old days. There's no agenda, no guard on my end, no surveillance on his.

"Four in the morning is a crime," he says.

"Four fifteen."

"Worse. That's a taunt."

"You could've slept in. I offered you the out."

"I know." He looks out at the marsh going by. "In all seriousness, as soon as you asked me, I wanted to come. You never ask for help."

I don't answer that and turn up the radio, instead. "My old truck doesn't have the state-of-the-art radio and touch screen yours does. You have to find music the old fashioned way in here."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

The launch lights hit the water in orange smears as we roll down. Jo's already backing her uncle's Scout boat off the trailer, brake lights red on the wet ramp.

"You're late," she calls with a smirk.

"We're early." I cut the engine.

Rhodes is out before I've got my door open, already at the trailer, lifting the cooler and the first crate of bags without asking where they go, watching what Jo does and matching it. The rope is wet, the metal cold, the trailer tires ticking as they cool.