Bimini Kill

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“I don’t like it, Vince,” Nan was saying. “I don’t like any part of it. It scares me, sort of. But he actually begged me, for old times’ sake, and the lawyer said I ought to give him a last chance before I start the divorce thing.”

It was a Sunday afternoon in Lauderdale in the off-season, a hot and lazy day, and I had been aboard my joy and my mortgaged burden, my three-year-old Bertram 54 sport fisherman, the Faraway Gal, when Nan Brogan had come out onto the big dock and stepped aboard.

I was just back from a long charter, and I had been putting the lines and the gear back in first class shape. I was reassembling one of the big marlin reels when Nan appeared. Now she sat on the transom in the sunlight and touched the opened can of cold beer to her cheek and looked at me in a wry way and said, “So I guess I’m asking you for old times’ sake too, Vince.”

It is a sour thing to endure when your girl marries someone else, particularly when you know in your heart she is making a mistake. The cruel ones said she married Yates Brogan for his money, but I knew that wasn’t true. She thought she loved him, I know. And it was partly my fault for having taken her too much for granted before Yates came along, and then, out of injured pride, putting up no fight at all when I saw her being attracted to him. But the worst part of it was watching how the two years of marriage had slowly changed her, had taken the sweet high edge off her spirits, had saddened her dark blue eyes.

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