Chapter 5
Jay leaned over the edge of his sailboat, peering down into the inky blues of the Pacific. Gentle swirls ebbed up and down, their soft movement glistening in the sunlight and swaying the ship like a baby's cradle. The salt of the ocean floated on the breeze and ticked Jay's nose. They had been out for hours and there was still no sign of that strange creature. He sucked in a deep breath and looked over to his team, all watching him expectantly.
"Sorry guys," he said and shrugged his shoulders while he shook his head slowly.
"No worries," Odie said, "I'm sure it will make another appearance sometime."
"Yeah," he leaned back against the edge of the boat and crossed his arms, furrowing his brows as he looked down to the floor.
"Don't worry about it Jay," Theresa said in a quiet whisper, leaning on the railing beside him.
"Do you sense anything?" he turned to ask her.
"No," she shrugged and shook her head, "Nothing at all."
He huffed and looked up to the perfectly clear sky.
"Well, now that this wild goose chase is over I can get back to the important things," Neil dropped back in one of the sailboat's lounge chairs and spread his arms out welcome the sun's warm embrace, "like my tan."
"Yeah, Neil's got a point, let's take the afternoon and relax," Atlanta said, "When's the last time we all went out to do something together that didn't involve Cronus?"
"Dude, let's head back to the beach," Herry nudged Jay's foot with his own, "Get a game of volleyball going or something."
"Sure," Jay forced a smile and pushed off from the railing to begin maneuvering the sails, "Herry, can you get the jib?"
"On it Captain," he saluted and hopped onto the bow to raise the front sail.
"Yo, Atlanta did all of you get caught up in Walking Dead yet?" Archie asked, securely seated in a cushioned bench in the center of the boat's hull.
"Oh my goodness," she said, jumping up from the ship's railing to come over and sit with him, "the ending? Why do they always have to leave it off on cliff hangers?"
"I can't believe you guys watch that show," Neil scrunched up his nose and stuck out his tongue, "have you seen those people? It's called shampoo, conditioner and brush."
"Yeah Neil, that stuff tends to come up short post zombie apocalypse," Atlanta said as she rolled her eyes, turning to Archie she took his hands and asked in complete seriousness, "In the zombie apocalypse would you kill me if I turned?"
"Of course Atlanta, I'd smash a shovel through your skull," he said in a soft voice and returned the question to her.
"I'd shoot you between the eyes with my crossbow," she replied with genuine sincerity and they both swooned out a sigh to one another.
"I'm no expert on romance," Odie said, "but I'm pretty sure that's not what it's supposed to look like."
"You can say that again," Neil said with a sneer, "Talking about how you would kill each other is not cute."
"Technically we'd already be dead," Atlanta said, sparing a glance to the model, she gasped in sudden realization and then turned to Archie to ask, "What if I was infected? Would you kill me then?"
"I wouldn't let you turn," he took her hands and squeezed them.
"Good," she said and held fast to his hands, with happy smiles they blissfully stared into each other's eyes. Neil opened his mouth wide and motioned to shove his fingers down his throat. Odie chuckled and shook his head, the only one to witness the mockery.
Opal sang along with the radio as she chopped vegetables for the omelet her father was making. It was the music he liked to listen to, from back when he was a teen, but she didn't care, every kind of music had a certain kind of respect from her. There was some great music from the day, revolutionists that would never lose their names in musical history. Belting out 'fat bottomed girls' off key her father rubbed one of his broad shoulders up against hers. She giggled and faced him and they sang the chorus of the Queen song into one another's faces.
The creases on his face deepened as he laughed. The touches of the sun were always evident on his face, always painting it unevenly, there were blotches of lighter skin where his eyes crinkled in smile and forehead furrowed in thought. He scooped up the cutting board from in front of her with large and calloused hands, hands of a laborer. Everything about him reflected his work, clearly fit for his age, if packing on a little extra weight around the stomach in his middle age. There were white and raised scars all over his hands from fish hooks, each with an entertaining bedtime story, most of which she was now certain he had embellished to impress her when she was younger. No one has to rush themselves to the emergency room because a barracuda had tossed a hook into their thumb.
He continued to sing and bounce with the music as he mixed the vegetables with the scrambled eggs and dumped the whole thing into a sizzling frying pan. The smell of simmering greens wafted up, over the subtle smell of fish and salt that was always lingering on her father. Opal took in a deep breath, the fresh smell flooding her nose, the warm steam wafting up to caress her face.
"Chickadee, can you get the door?" John told her when a knock sounded, scrapping the spatula over the bottom of the pan.
"Sure," she nodded and skipped off to oblige. Music still blaring in the background she opened the front door, sending a curious gaze out onto the porch. She didn't recognize the man, tall and slender. He was an older man with hair that had long forgotten its natural shade. It was a little wind tussled, a few stray strands sticking up how they pleased. The leather jacket and the jeans with rips in the knees gave him a more scruffy appearance, even though he was clean shaven.
"Hello," he smiled warmly and the wrinkles in his face deepened, "Look at you, last time I saw you was in the delivery room, I told them you'd have your mother's hair."
"Umm, Dad?" she stepped back from the doorway and called into the kitchen.
"Who is it?" he yelled over the music.
"Can you come here?"
"Chickadee, I'm in the middle of cooking," he said, "Invite them in."
"Ahh, come in," she looked back to the gentleman. He nodded a thank you and stepped into the landing, reaching down to take off his cowboy boots.
"No way," John said from the kitchen, looking over from where he stood in front of the stove with eyes wide, "Percival? What are you doing here?"
"Just in town," the man smiled and walked over, flicking the volume on the radio down in the process, "Is your wife in?"
"Ophelia's out right now," he said, looking back to his cooking, "but she'll be home in about an hour, you're welcome to stick around."
"Dad?" Opal slipped over to him and whispered, "Who is this?"
"John, don't tell me Ophelia never talks about me," he smiled, easily overhearing the girl's inquiry, "I was practically family."
"This is your mom's Uncle Percy," John said, "well, figuratively, helped look after her when your grandma passed."
"You knew her?" Opal asked with a whisper, sticking close to her father as he moved around the kitchen counter, "My grandmother?"
"We use to be really close friends back in high school," Percival took a seat at the small table pushed up against the wall in the corner and smiled in memory, his left hand slipping into the pocket of his jacket.
"What, umm, what was she like?" she asked, taking a plate full of eggs from her father. She shuffled over to take a seat at the dining table when John nudged her with his knuckle in the small of her back. John took one of the two seats his daughter had left free between herself and Percival and pushed over a plate of eggs to the guest.
"Thanks," he smiled and plucked up the fork as he looked back to the young woman across the table from him, a smirk pulling on the corner on his lips, "You're grandmother; she was to charming for her own good."
"Sounds like Ophelia," John said under his breath in a mutter and grinned down at his food.
"Mom says she remembered her singing, did she sing?" Opal asked.
"Yeah, she could sing like a siren," he said. Turning his attention over to John he reaching out a hand to tap him on the shoulder, "I saw this storm when I was coming up over the mountains, out on the ocean. See anything at all while you were out in the fishing boats?"
"Yeah, saw a strange storm pop up the other day," he leaned back in his chair, tossing one arm over the backrest, "wasn't over where the trawlers go though, didn't get a good look at it."
"I see," he nodded and placed his chin in his hand, "Watch yourself out there will you?"
"Of course, we stay out of the storms," he gave a good natured smile, "So, how long are you going to be in town?"
"Thinking I'll be around for a while yet," he gave a nod with a furrowed brow.
"You're welcome to stay here," John gestured to the doorway to the living room, "My nephew's using the spare bedroom while he's going to school but there's a couch open."
"I don't want to put you out," he waved off the offer.
"Ophelia's not going to let you stay in a hotel," he raised one eyebrow and gave a knowing smile. Percival just shook his head and grinned down at his meal.