“I don’t like that kind of talk.” Poppy wagged her index finger. “No, momma. You do you. If you want to renovate on the side, fix away. It’s a killer business on this island.”
“Yeah, that’s what my parents say.” My parents still lived in Sanibel. My mom’s diner pretty much took up all her time twenty-four-seven, but as a roofer, my dad always had odd jobs on the side. With so much free time during the day, it felt completely natural to me to look for an additional income source. The conservancy job fell in the awesome category on my resume but barely paid the bills. If they didn’t supply housing, I wouldn’t have been able to accept the position here.
After waving goodbye to Poppy, I hopped on my golf cart and headed to Mr. Baird’s inner island job site, hoping to catch him. When I pulled up, nails pounding into wood filled the air.
Tony, one of Mr. Baird’s regular crew, sat on a piling, smoking a cigarette. He greeted me with his favorite smackdown. “Look-a-there, if it isn’t my favorite do-gooder.”
“Hey, Tony. Is Mr. Baird here?”
“He’s already moved on to the custom job on East Beach. But he told me if you stopped by to say you can have the discarded wood. You got a Habitat for Humanity project or something?”
“No, just helping someone.”
“Of course you are.” He smiled, but it came off as more of a leer. He had a rough look and an attitude to go with it. Tony referred to me with words that by themselves weren’t necessarily bad, but the way he said them made me feel like he felt the need to put me down. When I told him I was in grad school, he’d lifted his eyebrows and said, “Oh, you’re a smart one.”
I earned the name do-gooder when he learned I worked to save sea turtles, and he’d gone on about how I was probably one of those who fought oil projects that would lower our price of gas and raise the GDP.
Tony reminded me of my dad. He also chose a life in construction, which gave him a lot of flexibility. If he wanted to take a day and surf, he could. But the similarities ended with lifestyle choices. My dad grew up in California and had a different world view than Tony. To my dad, working to help the planet was admirable. To Tony, environmentalists threatened the economy with their nonsense.
“Right this way, little do-gooder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Baird had me load up the wood for you. You can take the contractor truck to deliver it. We’ll need it back by noon.”
“What? How much is he going to charge for it?”
“Sounded to me like it was free. That’s something you liberals love, right?”
I gritted my teeth as I followed Tony around the lot to the alley. The beat-up pickup truck was loaded down with boards, still packed in cardboard boxes. It could be enough for Tate’s whole downstairs. It seemed too good to be true, so I pulled out my phone.
“Mr. Baird, this is Luna. Tony said you’re giving me this wood? It’s still in the packaging.”
“Yeah, take it. The client already paid for it, and I don’t have a good place to store it. We’re booked solid with custom jobs for the next year. Besides, you’re always helping me and not charging enough hours.” He was right. I hated charging for a partial hour here and there.
Buzzing with the excitement of delivering an awesome gift, I pounded on Tate’s door until my knuckles throbbed. The door cracked open, and Tate stood before me, damp hair tucked behind his ears, wearing only board shorts. I focused on the cerulean blue of his irises to avoid gawking at his ripped tan chest. His gaze cascaded from my face and down. I felt it, the sensation tickling across my skin like water droplets drying in the sun. At that moment, it registered that I still wore my bikini. Living on the beach, wearing a bikini became as natural as flip-flops, and I thought nothing of it. But Tate’s gaze brought on a new level of self-consciousness.
I swallowed and wrapped my arms around my waist. “I have a surprise for you.”
He blinked rapidly a few times.
I pointed behind me at the dilapidated pickup. “Mr. Baird gave you the wood I was telling you about. If you want it. I need to unload it, though, so they can have the truck.” The island forbade automobiles, but contractors could have them and use them when needed.
I skipped back to the truck, eager to show him the boards. The color ordered would be perfect for his cottage, if he liked the gray flat sheen. The heat of his gaze on my back had me self-consciously tugging on my bikini bottoms. They had gathered up, possibly giving me a wedgie. Of course, my mom, beach baby hippy woman, used to always tell me we should never be ashamed of our bodies. She went to nudist beaches, and when I was a kid, she hardly ever put me in a bikini top. I pleaded for a top the summer after my fourth-grade year. It was a bathing suit at the beach. No big deal, I reminded myself, as my fingers tugged on the fabric.
I opened a box for him, and his gaze slowly transitioned from my ass to the box. His facial muscles didn’t move, making him difficult to read. He reached out and ran a finger over one of the boards.
“He’s giving them to me? Why?”
I explained.
“I can pay him. I don’t need a handout.”
“I know. I really think it’s just a good timing kind of thing. He doesn’t
