The Water Keeper(40)

I smiled. “What?”

“You scared me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have done it.”

The water was warm and it felt good. I looked at the water below me. Summer thought I’d seen something. “What? A shark?”

“No, I just felt a warm spot—”

“Not funny.” Without saying a word, Summer left the safety of the sand and dog-paddled into deeper water a few feet away. Keeping her head above water, she looked up at Clay, who stood staring down at the both of us. He said, “Miss Summer, you’re swimming.”

She seemed proud of herself. “Yes, sir, Mr. Pettybone, I am.”

I climbed onto the sandbar as darkness fell in earnest. Summer paddled over, and when her feet sank knee-deep in the soft sand, I offered her my hand. She reluctantly accepted it. Climbing out and standing on the hardpack, she stared out across the water while the wind dried her face. In the distance, we could hear the crash of Atlantic waves along the shoreline. She whispered, “It’s just water.”

I nodded. And when she turned back to face me, I whispered, “Forgive me?”

She studied my face. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes.”

“Can I get back to you on that?”

I admired her strength. If ever a momma had a fighting chance at finding a daughter, this one might. You had to be tough to make it through something like this. And in my experience, she had tough coming.

Clay met Summer on the boat with a towel while we idled up Willoughby Creek toward the waterside efficiency hotel connected to Pirate’s Cove Resort and Marina. We tied up along the bulkhead, and I left them to tend the boat while I walked up to the office and rented three rooms. Returning, I gave them each a key and pointed. “How ’bout we meet back here in ten? Fried shrimp on me.”





Chapter 16


Farther upriver, the lights of two bars shone festively on the water. Summer disappeared while Clay walked to his room just feet away. He was moving slower, walking from chair back to column to doorframe—anything he could grasp to steady himself. When he reached his door, he unlocked it and walked in. Before he shut it, he looked back at the boat but not at me.

Fifteen minutes later, we moored alongside two waterfront restaurants. I gave them a choice between live music at the Twisted Tuna or something quiet at Shrimper’s Grill and Raw Bar. Summer and Clay picked live music. We sat outside, along the water. Moon high and shining down. I’d made Gunner stay in the boat, which he did, but his whining told me he didn’t like it. His vocal protest attracted a few kids who were feeding the fish along the dock. A minute later, three kids were scratching his belly.

Smart dog.

We ate shrimp and talked little. I figured Summer was trying to decide if she was mad at me and Clay was conserving his energy, trying to keep the spasms at bay. While his eyes focused on his food, which he chewed slowly, every few minutes he’d glance at the boat.

When she’d finished eating, Summer wiped her mouth, pushed back from the table, and offered her hand to Clay. “Mr. Pettybone, would you be so kind as to dance with me?”

Clay set down his iced tea, wiped his mouth, and pushed back his chair. “Well, yes, ma’am.”

Clay stood possibly six feet three inches and Summer was about five foot nine, so he reached down and she reached up. They walked to the makeshift dance floor. He held out his arms, she placed hers alongside his, and they danced. He was a good dancer. Summer laughed as the two slowly shuffled beneath the sound of his humming. Every few steps he’d raise an arm and send her into a spin. It was one of the more beautiful things I’d seen in a long time. An older, dying lifer full of regret and sorrow and a brokenhearted, middle-aged woman full of sorrow and regret. The two together made a happy sound out across the deck. The laughter was the proof.

When he grew tired, Clay stopped and bowed. All of the tables around us clapped for Summer, who was an accomplished dancer. Any idiot could see that. She returned him to his seat, where he sat smiling like he’d just won the lottery. Then she turned her attention to me.

Which I was afraid of.

She walked around the table and leaned in close to my face. She was happy, her cheeks flushed. “And you, kind sir?”

“I don’t dance.”

She held out her hand. “And I don’t swim. Get your butt out of that chair.”

She had a point. I stood, and she led me to the dance floor. “I’ve only really danced once in my life, and that was—”

“Well, before about an hour ago, I’d never been swimming. So you’re in good company.”

With most every table watching her instruct me, she lifted my arms into the position she wanted. I felt like the straw man in The Wizard of Oz. “You ever see Dirty Dancing?”

“No.”

She mouthed the words without vocalizing them. You’ve never seen Dirty Dancing? Sweat beaded on her temple.

“Nope.”

She continued to make fine adjustments to my arms, shoulders, and stance, and spoke without looking at me. “What is wrong with the educational institutions of America?”

“Are we finished yet?”

She sized me up. “You’re no Patrick Swayze, but you’ll do.” She hung her right hand into my left and placed my right hand around her waist, with her left hand on my right shoulder. Then she began telling me where to put my feet. “Step here.” “Step there.” “Good, now raise your left hand straight up.” “Step backward.” “Now bring your left hand across your face, like you’re looking at your watch.”