He remembered Nell telling him that Emma was the artist who painted the Amelia. “Miss Willis,” he nodded struggling to maintain a light tone. “So, did Charlie Lowell give you a proper Beaufort welcome?” asked Emma. “You might say that,” Jake replied. “I try to stay upwind from him “Good luck with that,” she said. “I best be going.” She came around the counter and headed for the door. “Bye, Emma. I’ll pick you up after work,” said Nell. “As long as they don’t need me at the hospital,” Emma called over her shoulder. Nell turned her attention back to Jake. “And who might this charming gentleman be?” She slipped a dog biscuit out of a jar on the counter and presented it to Pilot. “You now have a friend for life,” said Jake. “This is Pilot,
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Jake hurried over to the open ledger and turned it around to read the entries. He saw the date and the names of boats that had recently entered the harbor, with a detailed account of each. In a different handwriting were references to illness and transactions of the crew. He scanned the page until he found May 3, 1923 “Boat Name: Jamison, Owner: Jake Waterson, Homeport: Charleston, S. Carolina, Business of Craft: Fisherman? Skiff builder? Candlestick maker? Bootlegger? Traveler?” He could feel the blood pound in his ears. If she had recorded his boat, then in all probability, there was a record of the Amelia. Looking up from the book, he checked on Nell at the back of the store who was wrestling with a can of paint. If he asked to borrow the ledger, it would draw attention to himself. As he was considering his options, he heard her footsteps returning to him. He hastily turned the ledger back around and stepped away from the counter to the work board to post his request and scan for jobs. Nell returned with his paint, and began to write up his receipt. “That comes to $1.15,” said Nell. Crossing the room, Jake reached into his pocket for the stack of cash and peeled off two singles. As he waited for his change, he noticed the framed photograph of an infantryman draped with a black ribbon on the post above the cash register. The familiar Doughboy uniform could have been on any of the men in is outfit and a wave of anguish surged in him. “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” his voice cracking as he lost control. His intention was to sound concerned yet detached but he lost control of his voice and it
Jake hurried over to the open ledger and turned it around to read the entries. He saw the date and the names of boats that had recently entered the harbor, with a detailed account of each. In a different handwriting were references to illness and transactions of the crew. He scanned the page until he found May 3, 1923 “Boat Name: Jamison, Owner: Jake Waterson, Homeport: Charleston, S. Carolina, Business of Craft: Fisherman? Skiff builder? Candlestick maker? Bootlegger? Traveler?” He could feel the blood pound in his ears. If she had recorded his boat, then in all probability, there was a record of the Amelia. Looking up from the book, he checked on Nell at the back of the store who was wrestling with a can of paint. If he asked to borrow the ledger, it would draw attention to himself. As he was considering his options, he heard her footsteps returning to him. He hastily turned the ledger back around and stepped away from the counter to the work board to post his request and scan for jobs. Nell returned with his paint, and began to write up his receipt. “That comes to $1.15,” said Nell. Crossing the room, Jake reached into his pocket for the stack of cash and peeled off two singles. As he waited for his change, he noticed the framed photograph of an infantryman draped with a black ribbon on the post above the cash register. The familiar Doughboy uniform could have been on any of the men in is outfit and a wave of anguish surged in him. “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” his voice cracking as he lost control. His intention was to sound concerned yet detached but he lost control of his voice and it