Carol Ross - If Not For A Bee

She looked up to see frustration dance across his face. “Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right.” She dug another clam, and then several more.

He stood watching her for a few moments before he gestured at the sand. “That’s astounding—how good you are at this.”

She dug some more and dropped the clams in her bucket. “It is shocking, isn’t it? That someone as unworldly as I am could be good at this? Now, I have my limit and I’ve taught you all I can, so I’ll see you back at the pickup.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Nope.”

“But I want to tell you something.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She slipped her shovel over her shoulder, picked up her clam bucket and turned to walk away.

He reached out and snagged the handle of her bucket. “Yes, you do.”

She tugged. “No, I don’t.”

He held tight, looking puzzled by her words. “Why not?”

“Why in the world should I? You didn’t say those things to me. You said them about me, never dreaming I would hear. There’s no need to apologize for your opinion, but don’t pretend like you think better of me than you do. I am a simple person—that’s true. A mom .” She gestured at herself in her blue jeans, ponytail and Rankins Rebels hoodie. “What you see is what you get. And I’m fine with that. No, I’m happy with that. But don’t insult me and then patronize me by trying to be fake-nice.”

His face transformed with what looked like genuine surprise. No doubt he wasn’t used to people calling him on his bad behavior.

“What? I don’t think... I mean you’re... What I mean to say is, I’d really like to explain—”

“No, thank you. That’s not necessary. Let go.” She yanked hard on the bucket, but he held firm. She felt like one of her kids playing tug-of-war with MacGyver and she was suddenly afraid that he would let go and she’d tumble backward onto the sand. So she released her hold, intending to leave the bucket, even as she wondered what he’d been going to say about her.

“Can you please wait a second? I want to tell you why I said those things—some of those things.”

She stopped, turned and glared as his words sunk in. “You want to explain part of it now?”

“Yes.”

He seemed determined and not at all fazed by his odd comment. Janie suspected he wouldn’t leave this alone until she heard him out—or heard whatever part he deemed important enough for her mommy brain to hear. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeated.

“Yep,” she answered along with a one-shouldered shrug. “Let’s hear it.”

He seemed momentarily taken aback by her acquiescence.

“Um, all right... So, there was a woman a while back—a reporter—who wasn’t really a reporter...” He set the bucket down, then lifted his hand to the back of his neck and squeezed, looking up toward the sky as if searching for the right words to explain away his behavior. Finally he let out a whoosh of breath. “Long story short—she wrote an article about me and... It was unfair and dishonest.”

Janie watched him, silently waiting for him to add more. But he just stared back, all serious and sincere and...wet.

She felt a prickle of annoyance and finally asked, “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to add anything else? That’s your big explanation?”

“Yes, it was a very bad experience. It caused problems for me and...”

“I’m sure it did,” she said somberly.

He nodded like she was actually being sympathetic now and not sarcastic.

So much like Reagan, she thought, and wondered why supersmart people were often so literal. Reagan she felt sorry for—this man, not so much.

“You poor thing—how did you survive it? Someone said some unfair things about you, which you knew to be inaccurate and untrue? That’s just awful. I bet you were really angry, huh?”

His face evolved into a frustrated scowl. “Oh,” he said, “I get it.”

She shook her head. “I doubt very much that you do.”

“You’re a very stubborn and unforgiving woman, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m actually really, really not. Normally I’m way too forgiving and I let things go that I shouldn’t. I hate confrontation and I avoid it as much as I can. But you...” She stopped herself from adding an insult, barely.

“O-kay,” he muttered.

He was obviously not sure what to do with that statement and she couldn’t blame him. It was probably a bit of an overshare on her part, but talking to him was so frustrating...

And apparently he wasn’t finished. “So I can see you’re not ready to forgive me.”

She tipped her head like she did when one her boys was feeding her a line of nonsense. Not ready to forgive him? Was he really not aware of the fact that in the course of this conversation he hadn’t ever apologized? Only “explained”? But she wasn’t really expecting an apology and she knew this conversation wasn’t going to get her anywhere. It wasn’t going to resolve anything. And she was being truthful when she’d said she didn’t want him apologizing when he really didn’t mean it anyway.

She sighed. “Let’s just forget about it, hmm?”

“I don’t—”

She silenced him with a look. “That’s your only option at this point. Either give it up or I walk.”

He muttered something under his breath, then said, “All right, fine. For now.”

“Forever,” she countered.

He grinned. “Let’s dig some clams. I feel like if I go back to that pickup without my limit, Bering might leave me here.”

That actually made her laugh because Bering wouldn’t, but he would want to. “He might,” she teasingly agreed.

Janie had to give Aidan credit for improving; he managed to get half a bucket, but after a few methodical, yet unsuccessful, attempts in a row, Janie could see they were running out of tide...and time.

“You need to be a little faster,” she advised after he failed to get yet another.

He nodded. “I can do faster.”

He looked around determinedly until he found a dimple in the sand. He began scooping furiously, but she could see that the blade was too close.

“Aidan, hold on—you need to make sure you keep enough distance—”

But he was too fast this time, and Janie winced as she heard the telltale crack of the clam’s glasslike shell. She didn’t realize that he didn’t recognize the sound himself until it was too late.

He’d already dropped to his knees and pushed his hand into the hole.

“Wait, wait—”

“Ouch!” he yelped.

Janie squeezed her eyes shut.

“Crikey... That hurts.”

Janie cringed when she looked down and saw the bloody ends of his fingers. The water was cold—if he was bleeding that much already this really wasn’t going to be good.

Janie turned toward the surf, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun as she looked for Tag.

“Is this why they’re called razor clams?” Aidan’s voice was perfectly calm as he studied his injured hand. “Because the shell is literally as sharp as a razor?”

“I don’t know about that, but this is why it’s nice to have a cousin who is a paramedic.”

* * *

AIDAN SAT ON the tailgate of the pickup and watched Tag clean the wound. He examined the cuts.

“You’re definitely going to need stitches. The tip of this finger is almost sliced clear through.”

Aidan repeated his earlier observation. “I can see why they’re called razor clams.”

Tag chuckled and applied some disinfectant. “Maybe—I’ve heard different accounts on that. On the east coast they’re longer and skinnier—more like a straight razor. They also call them jackknife clams back there. Our Pacific razors are a lot more oval-shaped, and bigger—fatter and meatier. Tastier, too, I think. Anyway, a lot people claim the shape is where the name comes from.”