“Yes. I caught four.” I could feel the boat move slightly.
“Now that is a lot more impressive than your rope-catching. Any keepers?” he asked.
“All of them were keepers.” It was the first time since we met that we were actually having a regular—well, almost regular—conversation. Something about the way he was talking now and the sunshine on my face made me smile.
He stopped in his tracks and stared at me as if I had sprouted two heads. What was wrong? It wasn’t like I had never smiled at the man. Maybe he was just surprised that I was actually a real person.
“That’s real good,” he said slowly. The way he was looking made heat rise on the back of my neck. I almost forgot about the rope in my hand. He dragged his eyes away and wrapped the rope around his hand. Then he pulled again. I planted my feet against the hull of the boat to give the boat leverage. It was starting to give.
He nodded toward the oar. “Push off a little with your oar to loosen it more.”
I let go with one hand and dug the oar in, pushing with all my weight. The boat was slowly easing out of the muck. The sooner I was free, the sooner I could get my fish to Nestor and escape from this strange feeling that was pouring through me. I stood and grabbed the line again with both hands. The black-fly family swarmed in again. I waved my elbow around and before I was ready, he pulled. Hard. I screamed as I lost my balance and careened sideways into the brackish water.
The sunshine disappeared as warm ooze smothered me. I panicked and flailed my hands and legs back and forth, trying to right myself in the endless mud. Algae, organic matter, and God knows what else were in my nose, my mouth, and even my eyes. As I battled the quicksand of sludge, I could see the headlines: CLEAN FREAK SUFFERS HEART ATTACK AFTER FALLING IN THE MUD. How ironic.
Finally, my feet found something solid to stand on and I pulled myself up, sputtering and wiping sludge away from my eyes and mouth.
When the world came back into focus, my first vision was of J. D. Hardy’s horrified face. I must have looked like the swamp monster of Loon Lake as I stood there with mud and other foul particles plastered to me. Since he wasn’t going to come to my rescue, I groped at reeds and anything that would steady me as I half waded–half swam toward the shoreline. My progress was slow and when I was close, a hand reached out to help me. I grabbed it like a shipwreck victim. J. D. strained to pull me out, and through my cloudy, muck-filled vision I watched the muscles in his jaw ripple. Or maybe he was just trying not to laugh.
With one last yank, the swampy shore gave up its resistance and let go of me with a sucking force. At last, I stood on solid ground and wiped the muck and foul matter off my face.
When I could catch my breath I said, “You did that on purpose!”
He lifted his hands in the air. “I swear to you I didn’t mean that to happen.” He did look rather sorry. “Really,” he said with all sincerity.
We were close now. I was sure he could smell the bowels of the lake in my hair.
Then I froze as it dawned on me.
All the years of therapy at hundreds of dollars an hour had taught me to do things like purposely miss braids in handmade bracelets, touch public food in grocery stores, throw trash around my room, and avoid making my bed. And now, I was dirtier, smellier, more disgusting than I had ever been in my life. I had been baptized in the mud of Loon Lake.
J. D. Hardy’s brows drew together as if he was waiting for a tongue-lashing. Instead, I peered down at myself, noting the mud that seeped between my toes and wondering where my sandals had gone. I opened my mouth to reassure him that I was fine, when I felt something that sent the soggy hair on the back of my neck straight up.
I let out a high-pitched scream that could have been heard in town. “Get it off—get it off!” Jumping up and down, I lifted my shirt and turned to J. D. “Oh, my God! Get it!”
“What?” He sounded as panicked as I did.
Before I could explain, I contorted my shoulders and felt something wiggle out of the underside of my shirt. I looked down to see a tiny frog, who was probably more terrified than I was, drop to the ground. We stood stunned, watching the little guy leap to freedom in the lake.
From the corner of my eye I saw J. D. shift a wary gaze my way while the frog descended into the dark, boggy water. I dipped my head to my chest, trying to control myself. He didn’t move. I was pretty sure he was afraid of what would happen next. But I was way beyond worrying about what he thought of me anymore.
A low rumble started in my throat. He touched a hand to my back. “Are you all right?”
I put my hand over my mouth and lifted my head. He leaned down and studied me more closely and I couldn’t contain it any longer. I dropped my hands and laughed so hard I thought I was going to fall over. I couldn’t seem to stop. It was the silent laughter that comes out in spurts of choking and gurgling breaths. My stomach actually hurt as I tried to draw air into my lungs.
“Did you just snort?” he asked. I was so winded that all I could do was nod my head as I crouched down on my hands and knees to keep from falling over in hysterics. I heard a deep, slow chuckle as he joined me.
When I was a little more in control, I looked up at his grinning face. Billowy clouds danced around his head. He reached down to pick up my fallen baseball cap. “You could have had frog legs to go with those fish.”
It was the first time I had seen him smile up close. Wow!
Half an hour later, I emerged from J. D.’s steamy bathroom. My soggy clothes were stuffed in a small plastic bag he had given me, and I wore a borrowed Detroit PD T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that hung to my knees. Not the most fashionable attire, but it was clean and appreciated.
I had stood in his shower under the stream of hot water, trying hard not to lose track of the minutes or the number of times I soaped and rinsed. Curiosity about J. D. made it easy. His bathroom counter was dotted with shaving supplies and simple necessities, and I had found man shampoo and basic bar soap on his shower shelf. A flannel shirt hung on a hook behind the door. And after I towel dried my hair I used his black comb. It felt strangely intimate.
I retraced the route J. D. had used when he led me to the bathroom. The hallway opened into a large great room where windows faced the lake and sliding glass doors revealed the deck outside. The great room was bright and airy and surprisingly appealing, with its split-stone fireplace on one end and open kitchen and dining area on the other. The cathedral ceiling gave the illusion of space and the simple pine and earth-tone furniture fit perfectly with the space. Above me, a loft over the first-floor bedrooms overlooked the great room.
I couldn’t help searching for clues that might tell me more about J. D. Hardy. He was tidy, but not overly so. In other words, he was normal. At least compared to me. A recent nonfiction book about two iconic American inventors rested on a table by the couch. He either had brains or he was trying to impress someone. Since there wasn’t any sign of female habitation anywhere, confirming his deputy’s comment that J. D. had no women in his life, I had to guess that J. D. liked to read. Which was unsettling. I preferred to think of him gutting wild animals and cleaning his guns when he wasn’t working.
J. D. sat on the deck that overlooked the lake. I let myself out through the sliding doors and he turned. His lazy gaze wandered from my wet hair to my bare toes that curled in response to his inspection. It was strange standing in front of him wearing his clothes.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Yes. A shower has never felt so good. But, I can’t guarantee that you won’t find another frog in your bathroom. And—I did try to rinse all the muck down the drain.” What a stupid thing to say. He wouldn’t care about cleanliness like I would.
I hugged the bag to my chest and scanned the lake. I was surprised to find the boat no longer trapped. It rested partially on the grassy shore in front of the house as if nothing had ever happened.
“Hey, how did you free it?”
“Actually, it was prett
y easy once you were no longer in it. I took my canoe out and gave it a few strong pushes until it came off the reeds and then I pulled it to the shore, where I could haul it out. Your fish and your sandals are right there.” He nodded at the bucket near the foot of the steps that led down from the deck.
I smiled. “Thank you.”
Were we at risk of actually getting along?
His eyes strayed to my chest, making me acutely conscious of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra. I felt my nipples harden and resisted the urge to cross my arms. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt this strange tingle from just a look.
He lifted his eyes to my face and scratched a patch of red that was spreading up his neck.
“By the way, does Nestor Nagel know you used his boat?”
The bubble of warmth that had invaded me crashed down like a bursting water balloon.
“Does he know? Do you think I stole the boat?”
He stood up. “It was just a question. No need to get so defensive.”
I reminded myself of all the reasons a man like J. D. should be off limits. He was an officer of the law, a man who saw things in two shades: right and wrong. He would believe the worst because it was the obvious. And how could I feel attracted to that?
“Why would I get defensive over the fact that you just accused me of stealing a boat?” My voice sounded shrill even to me. But I didn’t care. I’d had enough of being accused of crimes I didn’t commit.
Forget the image of J. D. Hardy reading by the fire. He probably drank milk every night while he practiced his handcuffing maneuvers and read law-enforcement manuals. Like Colin, his underwear was most likely ironed and his sheets starched. While we had been talking like friends earlier, I had forgotten one thing. The man thought I was nothing but trouble.
I used my shriveling reputation as an excuse to leave. “Never mind. You’ve already got me pegged. Guess I’ll go find a party, some cheap wine, and my smokes now.”
His lips clamped into a grim line. He looked about to say something, but then shook his head.
I gave him a bright smile and reached for the bucket. “I better row the boat back to the dock before the owner calls the police . . . or are you on duty?”
“Leave it and I’ll do it later,” he said, turning away.
I picked up my bucket and shoved my feet in my wet sandals. Then I headed toward the path that led back to the dirt road.
I was angry and hurt. But even more disturbing was the vague sense of loss that burned inside my gut.
Chapter 8
At 6:00 that evening I walked along Crooked Road toward Nestor’s house. In the west, clouds were thickening and the air stirred. I could smell rain on the breeze. The gloomy sky matched my mood. I carried a bottle of Chilean white wine to accompany the fish I had dropped off at Nestor’s earlier. Colin would have deemed the vintage unacceptable. Anything below $30 was for cooking, not drinking, he used to say.
Since the early days of our relationship, Colin had taken it upon himself to bring expensive wine to Sunday dinners at my parents’ house. It had been nauseating to watch my parents and Alexa fawn over his choice as they swirled and sniffed from crystal goblets. Usually I grew bored and found an excuse to duck out and play video games with Elliot in the basement. No one ever seemed to miss me, anyway.
The wine in my hand dredged up a nagging question that had been bothering me for weeks.
What attracted me to Colin in the first place?
Colin was handsome. He was a successful lawyer who dealt with high-profile cases that involved defending the little guys and often ended up on the local Toledo news. Initially, he lavished attention on me, which was intoxicating for someone who had always been more of a wallflower than a flirt. The first heady feeling of attraction had been kind of nice. But the man behind the heroic persona was disappointingly shallow. Maybe that’s why I had put off the idea of a commitment for so long. The whole relationship felt wrong. Since I’d walked in on him and Alexa romping naked, I had asked myself over and over how I could have made such a mistake with Colin.
My complete failure to turn either of us on in bed hadn’t helped.
I learned to dread sex as much as I did an overused port-a-john at a rock concert. The times Colin would console me with a kiss and a tiny laugh, saying Not every woman was born to please a man, were embarrassing. Never mind the fact that I had never felt “pleased.” Colin excused his own inadequacy by accusing me of being frigid. A piece of me wanted to scream that it just wasn’t true. Frigid was unfeeling. Frigid was cold. If I were frigid, those comments wouldn’t have hurt so much.
Nestor greeted me at the screen door wearing an apron and a big smile. “Here comes my fishing hero! Good evening, my dear. I’m so glad that pole was finally put to good use. It’s been months since I last ate fresh fish in the Keys.”
“Ah, the Keys. Don’t tell me: Your last fresh taste was something exotic, right?”
He smiled. “Snapper fresh off the boat.”
As he hugged me and turned to walk into the house, I was struck again by his frailty. His back was all bones, and he grabbed pieces of furniture as he made his way through the house, unconsciously steadying himself.
“I didn’t mean for you to cook the whole meal by yourself, Nestor. What can I do to help? I make a pretty good sous chef, you know.”
“You don’t have to do a thing. I’ve been looking forward to cooking for someone again—it’s been too long.” He led me into the kitchen, where he poured us each a glass of wine.
“Cheers!” he said, clinking my glass with a wink. “I’ve got another guest coming too. I hope you don’t mind. I figured you needed to meet some people who were closer to your own age by a few decades. While I finish up in here you two can relax on the back porch.”
I heard the sound of a car pulling in the gravel driveway. An uneasy suspicion grew in the pit of my stomach as I peered out the window at the familiar SUV. Why did this keep happening to me? My mind raced through all sorts of ways to duck out on this meal. But the fact that it was Nestor, and bluegill, made me stay put. If J. D. could handle an evening with me, I most certainly could handle an evening with him.
They shook hands at the front door. Then Nestor turned toward me. I stepped away from an old coat rack I had been trying to hide behind. “J. D., I’d like you to meet our new neighbor and the granddaughter of an old and dear friend, Elizabeth Lively.”
J. D.’s gaze traveled over me. What was he seeing? Certainly not the woman he was expecting me to be. My khaki-colored cropped pants and a pastel print short-sleeved blouse were amazingly normal.
“J. D. called me this afternoon and I thought, Why not? We have plenty of fish,” Nestor said.
I smiled brightly through bared teeth. “Oh, he called you? Did he mention I was working hard for our dinner in your boat?”
Nestor wagged his shaggy brows. “It would be such a crime to let any fish go to waste, so I did the only decent thing and invited him for dinner.”
“Avoiding crime is my job.” J. D. put his hands in his pockets and nodded toward my wine. “Using a glass this time, I see.”
“Oh, you two know each other already. I forgot,” Nestor said with a twinkle in his eye.
“You might say that,” I mumbled.
Nestor laughed. “I heard about an officer coming by Dory’s house the night when Gladys Stubbs called the police. Was that you, J. D.?” If I didn’t know better, Nestor was having fun with us.
J. D. winked at Nestor. “That was me.”
“That old busybody thought you were an intruder, Elizabeth? Well, I sure hope you two managed to clear up any little misunderstanding.”
“By the time I arrived it was obvious what was going on. Between her taste in music and her hospitality, I had little doubt about Miss Lively. In fact, I was just about ready to kick off my boots by the time I left.” Would it be rude to kick him in the shins while I was a guest in Nestor’s house?
“Well, if you two
know each other, you should use your first names.”
“Betsy, isn’t it?” J. D. asked Nestor with a straight face.
“Just Elizabeth,” I said.
“And call him J. D., honey. Now you two go sit out on the porch while I finish up in the kitchen.”
I bit my lip and followed J. D. across the creaking floorboards onto the back porch. J. D. ran his hand along the back of one of the old Persian cats who was sitting on the arm of the settee. The cat purred as if he were a familiar friend. When J. D. sat, he climbed right into his lap.
While I stood recalculating whether I should fake an illness and go home, I heard a patter of raindrops starting on the porch roof. I hugged my arms to my chest. I didn’t relish walking home in the rain. It was cooling off by the minute, or maybe it was just the present company. I took a chair in the corner—as far from him as possible.
Not surprisingly, we continued where we left off this afternoon.
“That drink’s a little upscale for you, Elizabeth. What happened? Couldn’t find the economy jug?” J. D. asked.
If the cat hadn’t been in his lap I would have thrown the pillow at him. Why couldn’t this guy just let it go? Fine. I could play along.
“No. Actually, I’m saving the jug for the party later tonight. Want to come?”
“I’ll pass for now. But I’ll be sure to stop by if anyone gets out of control or starts a fire.” His mouth tilted up in one corner and he leaned back, spreading his arms across the back of the settee and crossing his ankle over his knee. I searched my mind for something witty to say, but came up blank.
“So, your grandmother knew Nestor?” he asked.
“Yes. They were friends.”
“So you decided to weasel a free dinner out of Nestor before your big party?” His eyes flickered and I ignored his amusement.
Every time I was around J. D. Hardy, I felt like I was caught up in a web of mind games. He was baiting me and I was taking the worm just like the bluegills earlier. I could correct him. But it felt too draining.
Skinny Dipping Season Page 9
