“You’ll be rowing two seat,” he said.
“Great,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the violent shake in her hands.
“The coxswain will call out commands; you’ll be fine. Just watch the blade in front of you. And whatever you do, don’t look out of the boat.”
“Wait. How can I watch the blade in front of me if I don’t look out of the boat?”
“Just don’t do it,” he warned. “Throws off the set.”
“But—”
“And relax.”
“I—”
“Hands on!” yelled the coxswain.
“Don’t worry,” Calvin said. “You’ll be fine.”
* * *
—
Elizabeth once read that 98 percent of the things people worry about never come true. But what, she wondered, about the 2 percent that do? And who came up with that figure? Two percent seemed suspiciously low. She’d believe 10 percent—even 20. In her own life it was probably closer to 50. She really didn’t want to worry about this row, but she was. Fifty percent chance she was going to blow it.
As they carried the boat to the dock in the dark, the man in front of her glanced over his shoulder as if to try to understand why the guy who usually rowed two seat seemed smaller.
“Elizabeth Zott,” she said.
“No talking!” shouted the coxswain.
“Who?” asked the man suspiciously.
“I’m rowing two seat today.”
“Quiet back there!” the coxswain yelled.
“Two seat?” the man whispered incredulously. “You’re rowing two seat?”
“Is there a problem?” Elizabeth hissed back.
* * *
—
“You were great!” Calvin shouted two hours later, pounding on the car’s steering wheel with such excitement that Six-Thirty worried they might crash before they reached home. “Everyone thought so!”
“Who’s everyone?” Elizabeth said. “No one said a single word to me.”
“Oh, well, you only hear from the other rowers when they’re pissed. The point is, we’re in the lineup for Wednesday.” He smiled, triumphant. Saved her again—first at work and now this. Maybe this was the way one ended a jinx—by taking secret but sensible precautions.
Elizabeth turned and looked out the window. Could the sport of rowing really be that egalitarian? Or was this just the usual fear from the usual suspects—rowers, like scientists, were afraid of Calvin’s legendary grudge holding.
As they drove along the coast toward home, the sunrise illuminating a dozen or so surfers, their longboards pointed at the shore, their heads turned, hoping to catch a few waves before work, it suddenly occurred to her that she’d never seen this supposed grudge holding in action.
“Calvin,” she said, turning back toward him, “why does everyone say you hold a grudge?”
“What’s that?” he said, unable to stop smiling. Secret, sensible precautions. The solution to life’s problems!
“You know what I mean,” she said. “There’s an undertone at work—people say if they disagree with you, you’ll ruin them.”
“Oh that,” he said cheerfully. “Rumors. Gossip. Jealousy. There are people I don’t like, certainly, but would I go out of my way to ruin them? Of course not.”
“Right,” she said. “But I’m still curious. Is there anyone in your life you’ll never forgive?”
“No one comes to mind,” he answered gaily. “You? Anyone you plan to hate the rest of your life?” He turned to look at her, her face still flushed from the row, her hair damp with ocean spray, her expression serious. She held out her fingers, as if counting.
Chapter 9
The Grudge
When Calvin claimed he held no grudges and hated no one, he only meant it in that way that some people say they forget to eat. Meaning he was lying. No matter how hard he tried to pretend he’d left the past behind, it was right there, gnawing at his heart. Plenty of people had wronged him, but there was only one man he could not forgive. Only one man he swore to hate until his dying day.
* * *
—
He’d first glimpsed this man when he was ten. A long limo had pulled up to the gates of the boys home and the man had gotten out. He was tall, elegant, carefully dressed in a tailored suit and silver cuff links, none of which fit with the Iowan landscape. With the other boys, Calvin crowded the fence. A movie star, they guessed. Maybe a professional baseball player.