Ships in the Night

Ships in the Night BELL FYFE Ships in the Night Copyright © 2023 by Bell Fyfe All rights reserved Published by Little Mill Press No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Ships in the Night is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or dead s purely coincidental. Dedicated to the memory of Rev. Carol Cook—lover of books, of life and laughter, of good coffee and deep conversation. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Coming Soon About the Author Chapter One “It is a truth universally acknowledged,” the gangly girl with sideswept bangs and vintage brown suede knee boots intoned, “that a clergyman in possession of a modest parsonage, must be in want of a wealthy patroness.” Abby Reilly rolled her eyes in the direction of Selwyn Sherman, in whose company she’d silently critiqued every Ships in the Night performance for the past eighteen months. So far, five of the eight contestants had started with variations of the same line, and sure, the first line of Pride and Prejudice was among the best-known of all time…but come on. As usual, Selwyn had no comment. Abby turned her attention back to the stage, reminding herself that the girl at the mic deserved credit for entering her work in The City Bookmark’s renowned fanfic event. As a fellow aspiring author, Abby knew how hard it was to read your work to a crowd, even one as enthusiastic as the rowdy group that jammed into the bookstore every first and third Friday night of the month. “‘You’ve made great improvements to Hunsford Parsonage,’ Lady Catherine de Bourgh said, heaping praise on Mr. Collins, ‘but I’m afraid I won’t be satisfied until you muster the vigor to squeeze a little more shelving deep into this closet.’” The line earned a smattering of laughter, which the author acknowledged with a smirking mock curtsy before continuing. “Mr. Collins’ eyes widened as the highborn lady bent low, offering her round, matronly rump for his consideration. Extra shelving wasn’t all he hoped to squeeze in there.” More hoots and a drunken catcall. Abby joined in the applause out of politeness, gauging the crowd’s reaction. There had been bigger laughs tonight, but then again, there had been better jokes. Despite the sold-out crowd and the book sales they would generate, tonight’s event didn’t hold a candle to the earliest days of Ships in the Night when it was just Abby, her best friend Stephanie, the shop’s owner Ben, and a motley scattering of friends and bookstore patrons who happened to be browsing at the time. Back then, the three friends lit each other up like a string of firecrackers, chasing each other’s doctored prose and ad-libbed dialog, cheering each other on and rarely stumbling. They’d stuck to the classics, casting their favorite characters in sexual tableaus as ribald as they were outrageous, awarding each other points for wordplay and novelty. But this batch of contestants lacked nuance and, frankly, even a hint of the truly erotic. Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins? It was one step up from imagining your parents going at it. Abby generally tried not to be overly critical of the Ships in the Night contestants. Without them, this thing that had started out as a few laughs between friends would never have grown into a consistently sold out event that might well have saved one of the few remaining independent bookstores in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood. Besides, what right did she have to judge? The prose tonight might be tired and uninspired, but at least these authors had the guts to stand in the spotlight—unlike Abby, who was hiding out in the travel section with a plastic cup of cheap, warm chardonnay for company. And Selwyn. God bless you, Selwyn, Abby thought, giving his spine an affectionate pat and straightening his neighbors. Week after week, month after month, Selwyn and his Shoestring Guide to the Wonders of Egypt were always there for her. Once, during a particularly painful mangling of The Scarlet Pimpernel featuring Mr. Jellyband and three nubile fishwives, Abby had taken Selwyn’s book from the shelf and checked out the author photo on the back: salt-and-pepper beard, bow tie, retro black-framed glasses, and one slightly, skeptically raised eyebrow. Now, there was a man who saw the world as Abby did. Too bad he’d probably be in his eighties now, judging by the seventies-era polyester sport coat he wore in the photo. The woman onstage wrapped up with Mr. Collins declaring his newfound love of carpentry as he “hammered his joint home.” Pretty clever, Abby admitted to herself as she joined in the applause. Ben leapt nimbly up on the little plywood stage and took back the mic as the author dipped another deep curtsy. “Folks, that was Molly Wasyl with ‘A True Proficient.’ Grab a drink, help yourself to the refreshments, and we’ll be back in a few minutes with lots more of what you came for!” While the audience cheered, a man making a beeline for the cheap boxed wine stepped on Abby’s foot as he squeezed past her. “Oh,” he said, barely glancing at her. “Didn’t see you.” Abby huffed in