The Water Keeper(30)

The girl laughed. “Gladly.”

Summer was not in the mood for shopping, which I understood. But she couldn’t leave looking like that. The girl took her to a dressing room and handed her several pieces of clothing, which I assume she tried on. Fifteen minutes later, she returned to the cash register. Now the clothes were beautiful, but shame shadowed her face.

“What’s wrong?”

She held up the price tags.

I paid the girl and tipped her for her help, and we walked outside. That’s where I realized just how beautiful Summer really was. She was stunning. I’d never seen emerald-green eyes like hers. Not even in the movies. And she had presence. Something I could only guess she learned on Broadway.

She held the two bags of clothes and studied the sidewalk. Unmoving. Finally, she looked at me. “I can’t—”

I knew what was going on here, but there was little I could do about it. “You hungry?” I stepped out into the street and walked toward a dog park. Closing the gate behind us, I let Tabby off his leash and he began sniffing and peeing on a hundred bushes and poles. And one fire hydrant.

Summer and I sat on a bench in the shade, but despite my attempts at small talk, she wouldn’t look at me. Finally, she spoke. “You’re doing that thing again where you don’t talk about what I’m trying to talk about.”

“What are you trying to talk about?”

“I can’t—”

I turned, faced her, and pushed my Costas up on my head.

“I’m trying to thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, that’s not . . .” She shook her head. “I’m not . . .”

To our right, the Daytona Beach Fire Department opened one of its huge bay doors, and a large red truck tore out of the parking lot, lights flashing and horn blaring. She looked up at me and studied my face a long minute. There was more but she swallowed it back, letting her eyes return to the bubble gum–dotted sidewalk. Pigeons circled in a Tabby-safe distance around us.

“I’m trying to tell you something that will change your opinion of me,” she said.

“Why do you feel the need?”

She held up the bags. “Because I’m not deserving of—”

“Sometimes we need to let others do for us what we can’t do for us.”

“How do you make money?”

I laughed. “I have a job.”

“Yeah, but I had a job once, too, and I never walked around with a wad of hundreds like that.”

“I’m unmarried. I live alone. Rent free as long as I keep up the place. I eat little. Don’t spend much. Don’t have a gambling addiction. And I don’t like credit cards, so the hundreds are sort of a necessity.”

This gave her pause but didn’t really convince her. She shook her head. “Look, I’m not really a good judge of men. I’ve made . . . mistakes.”

“Welcome to earth.”

“I need to know if I’m making a mistake with you.”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Summer—”

Like Angel in the church, Summer was adept at invading my personal space. She stiffened. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Everything I’ve told you is true.”

Another step closer. “And what about the stuff you’re not telling me?”

“It’s true too.”

“But—”

“Summer, I don’t want anything from you. You are free to get off my boat anytime. I’ll take you to whatever authority you like. I’ll tell them everything I know, give them the picture on my phone, cooperate in whatever way you want. But you need to know that their chances are only marginally good at finding . . . a body. I’m trying to find a breathing person. Big difference.”

She closed her eyes. She backed up and tried again. “That came out all wrong. It’s not what I was getting at. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know . . .” She tapped her chest. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Summer, hang in there. You have some long miles ahead of you. And some of them might be difficult. Okay?”

She nodded and slung one bag over her shoulder, which must have still felt raw because she winced. I took the bags in one hand, Tabby in the other, and we strolled the sidewalk in search of food. Standing between us and a corner pizza parlor sat a bookstore. She tugged on my shirtsleeve. “You mind one more stop?”

She entered the bookstore and walked up to the counter. “Do you have book thirteen in the David Bishop series?”

The attendant walked to a shelf, pulled down the hardcover, and handed it to Summer—who clutched it to her bosom and then did that little unconscious twirl thing she did when she was happy. Her feet were moving like some sort of jitterbug dance move. “I’ve been looking for this, and my library hasn’t had it in months.”

The attendant spoke excitedly. “We’re scheduled to get a galley copy of book fourteen in about three months. Online preorders have put it at number three on the Times list, and it’s been at number one on our Indie list for seven weeks already. Two women got arrested in New York last week snooping around the editor’s desk trying to find a copy.” She shook her head. “I cannot wait!”