Page 10 of Buck (Diver Downeast #2)

The OPD Captain had come into the diner where she’d worked the breakfast shift eight years ago, and seen the telltale signs of a black eye she’d tried to cover up.

When he’d asked how she’d gotten it, he saw right through her story of being hit by an errant softball at the park, and had called bullshit.

When she’d finally confessed that one of her brothers had slugged her, he’d left in a huff.

She’d subsequently learned through the grapevine that he’d paid Drew and Jeff a visit.

Bobbie never knew what, exactly, Mason had said, but whatever it was, it had worked.

Even though her ears still took the brunt of their abuse from that point on, they’d never used her as a punching bag again.

And for that, she would always be grateful to Mason; the brother of a man who’d set her life back so many years.

Bobbie got up and yawned, having almost fallen asleep.

She looked at her watch and sighed. Why was it that her days off went so quickly, and her work-week always seemed to drag?

Breakfast had passed, lunch had passed, and other than sighting a school of dolphins after she’d eaten at midday, she’d had the waters to herself.

Which was another great thing about her scheduled sail on Mondays.

She didn’t have to deal with the weekend warriors on the ocean, and any of their novice behaviors.

Knowing she was less than an hour from her destination, Bobbie reached for her phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. She’d been calling it every week for over a year, after all.

At first, when she started sailing from Maine to Canada, she’d had to register with the CBSA, or the Agence des Services Frontaliers du Canada each time, arranging to have customs come on board and check to see what she was bringing across international lines via water.

But once she’d done that for a few months, the agents had helpfully told her to join the NEXUS program for frequent sailors, which she’d done.

Now, all she had to do before coming into New Brunswick was call an 866 number, tell them she was headed into port, and they issued her a report number which she’d then present if for some reason she was boarded by customs.

Apparently, however, she was pretty small beans: bringing in dinner for a rich man and his buddies once a week. Nobody from customs had ever been waiting for her at the dock. Which meant she was always okay to get on with her business.

“Hi. This is Roberta Follster,” she said after she connected with NEXUS. Without pausing for breath, Bobbie rattled off her boat’s registration number and name, the location of her landing site, and her ETA.

“Hey Bobbie,” the person on the other end finally got a word in edgewise. “It’s Ginger. I thought it might be you, considering what time it is. What a great day for a sail.”

“Yeah. It’s gorgeous, Ginger. I’m just sorry I can’t keep heading north, like maybe to Nova Scotia. But duty calls.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ginger commiserated. “I’m on the phones for another five hours before I can call it quits.”

“Well, make sure you grab some fresh air when you get out. I understand it’s supposed to rain for the next few days.”

“Yeah. That sucks for you.”

“It won’t be so bad.”

Bobbie actually didn’t mind sailing in the rain. The weather service had said this particular front wasn’t going to be a nor’easter or anything, and high winds hadn’t been predicted.

If they had been, Bobbie would have cancelled this week’s trip.

“Anyway,” Ginger came back, “here’s your report number.” She rattled off the digits which Bobbie dutifully wrote down. Then they said their goodbyes and the call disconnected.

“Okay,” Bobbie said to herself after a little more uneventfulness. “Time to take her in.”

She easily navigated the marked channel that led to her client’s estate, and seeing a super-yacht moored at the inlet, she knew she’d be feeding a very rich bunch this week.

Not that Monsieur Provard ever entertained people who didn’t have money, but often times it was local politicians or city officials who got the VIP treatment.

Approaching the dock which she was allowed to use since she had food to unload, Bobbie easily brought her craft to rest against the bumpers she’d already slung over the port side. She leapt to the dock and tied the Small Dream off.

“Bonjour Bobbie.” A cheerful voice called out.

Allain, part of Monsieur Provard’s regular kitchen staff had clearly been watching out the oversized windows for her; ready to help get all her supplies up to the big house.

“Bonjour, Allain,” Bobbie returned happily. “I saw the colossus in the harbor. How many do we have on for dinner tomorrow night?”

Bobbie always packed enough for at least a dozen, and so far, none of her client’s meals had exceeded that number. But there was always a first time.

“Ah, not to worry, ma petite. It looks like neuf, plus le patron,” Allain apprised in a mixture of French and English. Bobbie had asked him to throw in French words where he could, so she could learn bits and pieces of the pretty language.

Allain continued. “Cinq who came in on that big yacht cet après-midi, and four from the mayor’s office who will be joining them.”

Piece of cake.

Which was kind of too bad.

Bobbie had been hoping for a challenge to keep her mind from straying back to Buck.

Right.

Like that would do any good.