The Scent Keeper(77)

I had no idea where we would fit in the midst of all that. So when I arrived at The Island I slipped inside the heavy wooden door and stood out of sight. Again.

He was there behind the bar, just as he had been the last time. That restless, simmering energy was still the same, although his hair had been recently cut, I noticed. When he reached down to get something, I made my way quietly along the back of the room. I found a chair in a dark corner and sat watching him, my focus intent, refusing to wonder whose fingers had touched the waves of that red hair. A sturdy waitress with a flat American accent and tattoos sprawled across her hands placed a glass of water in front of me, took one look at my face, and left me alone.

The place was as crowded as it had been before, but now I spent more time looking around me. Customers lined the mahogany bar—an odd mix of boat builders, construction workers, and hip young software engineers washed up like flotsam, jostling at the edges of their territories, staking claims of space. It made me nervous, but Fisher didn’t seem to care. His hands moved, fast and hard, among the bottles, but then, just as I was thinking I might have been wrong to come back, I saw him pause, just for a moment, to watch the light catching on a stream of clear, sparkling liquid as it poured into a glass. My Fisher was still there, I told myself. I settled in to wait.

A few minutes later, the front door opened and an older man, tight and wiry, walked in, accompanied by a large black dog, which seemed as calm in demeanor as the man was sharp. I was surprised, not only because the two didn’t resemble each other, the way dogs and owners often do, but because I didn’t think animals were allowed inside bars. No one said anything, however, and the dog wandered through the tables like a familiar shadow. It was the same size as Dodge, even if the coloring was different, and I longed for the feel of its fur between my fingers. It was all I could do not to reach out.

The dog raised its nose, tested the air, and then came over and sat down next to me.

“Who are you?” I asked, letting my open palm run along its backbone. The dog looked up and put its chin on my knee, its eyes brown and waiting. I could feel the tears starting in mine.

“You like him?”

The man’s voice was loud and amused, as much for the room as for me. I glanced up and saw his face, too close. His eyes were the dark blue of a bruise, his mouth pulled into a smile. Behind him, I noticed a movement and saw Fisher, his eyes growing wide as he caught sight of me.

“He’s a good dog,” I said to the man, shifting back in my chair.

“I’m a good trainer,” the man said. His smile grew wider. “I could train you.” He laughed, inviting the bar to join in, but Fisher had appeared beside him.

“Knock it off, Frank,” he said. He looked at me once, quick.

“Emmeline,” he said, and for a moment the longing was there in his voice. I wanted to grab it, and him, and run away. But I wasn’t the only one who heard it.

Frank raised an eyebrow and stepped a bit closer to me. “Come on, Fisher, I’m just talking to the girl. She likes my dog…” He was grinning now, an ugly thing.

Fisher’s fist rose fast, but the man caught it in his hand. They stood there, their arms a tight bridge over me, their faces contorted. The room waited; I could feel the warmth of the dog’s breath against my leg.

With a flurry of movement, an older woman with bottle-orange hair stepped up and slapped their hands down, the shock of it more effective than force.

“What have I told you about this, Fisher?” she said.

“Wait,” I said, trying to stand, but there was no room.

The woman looked me over. “And you are…?”

“Leave her alone, Izzy,” Fisher said, turning on the woman.

“Really, Fisher?” She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “You’re gonna pull that shit on me? Okay, you and the girlfriend—out. I’ll take the bar tonight.”

The dog’s owner gave a small, victorious smile. One of the dockworkers leaned back from the bar. “Aw, come on, Izzy. Give the boy a break.”

She ignored him and flicked a dishtowel toward the bar, never taking her eyes off Fisher. “I don’t care how good you are—this is the last damn time this happens. Don’t come back until you can control yourself.”

Fisher seized my hand and headed for the door. As we left, I looked back and saw the dog’s big, dark eyes watching me.





THE BOAT


As soon as we got outside, I yanked my hand from Fisher’s and stomped down the wooden stairs toward the water.

“Hold up!” Fisher said, catching up with me as I reached the docks. I turned on him.

“You said you didn’t want to be your father,” I said, breathing hard. “I waited for you. I looked for you. And I find you here, in a bar? Getting in a fight?”

Fisher’s face flushed. “I was protecting you.”

And now he sounds like his mother, I thought.

“That turned out well,” I said, my bitterness sharp and undisguised.

He stared at me, his eyes running across my face, taking in my fury, the makeup on my face. “You’ve changed,” he said.

“No choice.” I shot the words home like the bolt of a lock. Fisher pulled back as if I’d punched him. I knew I had no right to be so cruel—I was hardly blameless. I had set so much of this in motion.