The Water Keeper(21)

“What were you going to do had I not showed up?”

Another shrug. “No plan for that either.”

Gathering her strength, she sat up and pushed the sheet off her. Naked. She spoke in broken resignation. “I can’t fight my way out of this room. If you’re going to do something to me . . .” She lay back. “Just get it over with.”

Sometimes people’s pain is deeper than we can first see. I was sorry I hadn’t seen it sooner.

I set my backpack on the bed, unzipping it. “There are some clothes in here. Not much, but it’s what I’ve got. Maybe tomorrow we can get you something more feminine. Tonight you might sleep without a shirt. Give your skin time to scab over. Otherwise everything’s just going to stick to you and you’ll have to go through the whole warm-shower peel-off in the morning.” I set the pain pills on the bed next to her. “Tomorrow you’re going to feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. Two of these will help with the pain and swelling.” I laid the room key on the nightstand next to her and walked to the door.

Standing at the exit, I said, “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning.”

Tabby stood looking at me, anticipation and saliva dripping from his mouth. I made a stop sign with my hand and he sat. Then I pointed to the bed, so he hopped up on it and lay with his head alongside her leg. Another stop sign. “Stay.” He wagged his tail.

As I was pulling the door shut, I heard her say, “How do I know you’re coming back?”

“Well, if I don’t, you can keep my dog.”

She wrapped an arm around his chest and almost smiled for the first time.

I pulled the door shut and looked down at the marina and Fingers’ ridiculous orange lunch box staring back up at me. He’d like her. “I know. I know,” I told the box. “Don’t say it.”





Chapter 7


Sunlight pierced the crack in my eyelids. I sat up to find my friend gone. Bench seat clear. Fingers’ Rolex told me I’d been asleep a few hours, so I climbed out of the boat, walked up the dock, and met the attendant bringing me a cup of coffee. He handed it to me. “Didn’t know how you took it.”

I nodded and handed him twenty bucks.

He smiled. “Mister, if you need a keeper, I’m available for hire.”

I sipped and stared up at the motel. “You’d be a good one too.”

I knocked on her door and heard a rustling. When she answered, she was wearing my shorts and long-sleeve fishing shirt. Both of which swamped her. Tabby appeared, licked the outside of my fingers, and stood smacking me with his tail. Beneath the long sleeve was a short sleeve, which I guessed she was using to soak up the blood and protect the outer layer. She’d pulled her hair back, revealing cuts and scrapes and an otherwise beautiful face with roots still gray. I wouldn’t say she was rested, but she looked like she’d slept. Barefoot, she swung the door wide and stepped aside. The room had been cleaned, bed made, groceries bagged. Both the bottle of wine and the pain pills sat on the table. Neither the cork nor the seal had been broken. A steaming mug sat with the tea bag dangling.

Her face looked slightly puffy above her eye. She sat on a chair, hands between her knees. “I don’t have any money. For—” She waved her hand across the small world in front of her.

I stood opposite her. “You hungry?”

She said nothing and nodded.

I laid a pair of flip-flops at her feet. “Wasn’t sure of your size, but . . .”

She spoke without accusation. Only honesty. “You have a way of avoiding some of the things I say to you.”

I gestured to the flip-flops.

“You’re doing it right now.”

“I know, but I’m worried about your feet.”

She slid her feet in and her toes curled and uncurled. Her feet were muscled, arches high, toes calloused, and calves defined in taut muscle. She stood and shoved her hands in the pockets of my baggy shorts.

“I talk better with food in my stomach,” I told her.

She smiled.

We walked two blocks to a diner and took a seat in a booth against the window. “You drink coffee?”

She rubbed her eyes and attempted a smile. “People who don’t . . . aren’t people.”

The waitress brought coffee, and we ordered breakfast. As the silence settled around us, I broke the ice. I extended my hand across the table. “Murphy. But most folks call me Murph.”

She met my hand with hers. “Elizabeth. But everybody calls me . . . Summer.”

“How’d you get from Elizabeth to Summer?”

“Made my Broadway debut as Anna in The King and I. The Times headline the next day read, ‘Meet the Star of This Summer’s Hit: Summer.’ The misprint was a comical hit among the cast members. Been Summer ever since.”

“You danced on Broadway?”

She nodded but there was no arrogance in it. Only a silent admission of something lost. “Sang too.”

“How long ago?”

She shook her head and studied the ceiling. “Twenty-plus years.”

“Just the one show?”

“No.” Her eyes studied the ceiling. It was the first time I’d seen them in daylight. Emerald green.

She saw no need to promote herself, so I asked, “How many?”