dorm room, safe and sound. Then she began to find bad interpretations for the absence of a call, turn all the nonevidence upside down. She checked the time: 6:35. Too early to place a call of her own, not without appearing to be checking up, and Norah didn’t like that. Nell’s index finger trembled on the buttons. She made herself put the phone away.
A bird chirped in the flamboyant tree that stood near the back door.
Nell walked down the crushed-shell path to the beach side of the Cay.
The sea lay flat and motionless as it often did at dawn, more like jelly than water. Nell slipped off her nightgown and dove in, half expecting viscous resistance, but there was none. She found a nice rhythm right away, body riding flat and high, hips controlling everything, forearms loose, stroke soft on entry, speeding up at the end, and most important, feeling the water, mantra of her college coach. Feeling the water came naturally to Nell, was the reason she’d been drawn to swimming in the first place; and no water felt like this. Nell swam around Little Parrot Cay.
By the time she climbed back onto the beach, a light chop had ruffled up, as though her own motion had got things going. The sun, two or three handbreadths above the horizon, was already warm. Nell walked D E LU S I O N
13
to the dock at the south end of the beach, turned on the hose and held it over her head, streaming the salt away, feeling fresh as this perfect morning.
The truth was that back in her racing days, despite her love of the water and how coachable all her coaches said she was, she’d never been quite fast enough—a winner of heats now and then, but never a champion. Johnny, on the other hand: she remembered how she actually rocked in the water when he flew by in the next lane. She took a deep breath. He’d rocked her in the water. Remnants of some kind of bad dream came to life in her brain.
The worried feeling, washed away, began to return. She turned off the hose, and was walking back up the beach to get her nightgown when she heard a faint drone in the sky.
A plane appeared in the west; a seaplane, floats glowing in the sun. The wings tilted and the plane came down in a long, curving arc. Nell put on her nightgown. The plane skimmed onto the water with a splash and coasted up to the dock, pushing a silver wave. The lettering on the tail read: DK INDUSTRIES. Nell went out to the end of the dock. The pilot’s door opened.
“Hi, darlin’,” said Duke Bastien. He threw her a line. Nell caught the end, looped it around a cleat. “Sorry to bust in,” he said.
“Duke,” she said. “It’s your place.”
“Bad manners is bad manners,” said Duke, stepping onto the dock.
Duke was a big guy; it trembled under his weight. “Clay up?” he said.
“I think he’s still sleeping.”
“You had one of your swims?”
Nell nodded, at the same time hiking up the shoulder strap of her nightgown, the fabric not transparent but very light. Duke was looking at her face, not her body; he actually did have good manners.
“Are you two going fishing?” Nell said. Duke had a thirty-two foot inboard with a tuna tower, tied up on the other side of the dock.
“Clay didn’t mention it.”
“’Fraid not,” said Duke. “Mind getting him for me?”
Nell walked up to the house. A warm breeze sprang up, blew some deep red blossoms out of the flamboyant tree and across her path. A phone rang as she went inside. Two cell phones lay on the kitchen counter, his and hers. It was Clay’s. She answered.
“Hello, ma’am. Sergeant Bowman here. The chief handy?”
14
PETER ABRAHAMS
“One moment,” Nell said.
She went into the bedroom. Clay opened his eyes. He saw her and smiled. She knew that under the covers he was hard, all set for her to climb back in. That would have been nice. Nell covered the mouthpiece. “Sergeant Bowman’s on the phone. And Duke just flew in—he’s down at the dock.”
“Duke’s here?”
Clay sat up. He was one of
A bird chirped in the flamboyant tree that stood near the back door.
Nell walked down the crushed-shell path to the beach side of the Cay.
The sea lay flat and motionless as it often did at dawn, more like jelly than water. Nell slipped off her nightgown and dove in, half expecting viscous resistance, but there was none. She found a nice rhythm right away, body riding flat and high, hips controlling everything, forearms loose, stroke soft on entry, speeding up at the end, and most important, feeling the water, mantra of her college coach. Feeling the water came naturally to Nell, was the reason she’d been drawn to swimming in the first place; and no water felt like this. Nell swam around Little Parrot Cay.
By the time she climbed back onto the beach, a light chop had ruffled up, as though her own motion had got things going. The sun, two or three handbreadths above the horizon, was already warm. Nell walked D E LU S I O N
13
to the dock at the south end of the beach, turned on the hose and held it over her head, streaming the salt away, feeling fresh as this perfect morning.
The truth was that back in her racing days, despite her love of the water and how coachable all her coaches said she was, she’d never been quite fast enough—a winner of heats now and then, but never a champion. Johnny, on the other hand: she remembered how she actually rocked in the water when he flew by in the next lane. She took a deep breath. He’d rocked her in the water. Remnants of some kind of bad dream came to life in her brain.
The worried feeling, washed away, began to return. She turned off the hose, and was walking back up the beach to get her nightgown when she heard a faint drone in the sky.
A plane appeared in the west; a seaplane, floats glowing in the sun. The wings tilted and the plane came down in a long, curving arc. Nell put on her nightgown. The plane skimmed onto the water with a splash and coasted up to the dock, pushing a silver wave. The lettering on the tail read: DK INDUSTRIES. Nell went out to the end of the dock. The pilot’s door opened.
“Hi, darlin’,” said Duke Bastien. He threw her a line. Nell caught the end, looped it around a cleat. “Sorry to bust in,” he said.
“Duke,” she said. “It’s your place.”
“Bad manners is bad manners,” said Duke, stepping onto the dock.
Duke was a big guy; it trembled under his weight. “Clay up?” he said.
“I think he’s still sleeping.”
“You had one of your swims?”
Nell nodded, at the same time hiking up the shoulder strap of her nightgown, the fabric not transparent but very light. Duke was looking at her face, not her body; he actually did have good manners.
“Are you two going fishing?” Nell said. Duke had a thirty-two foot inboard with a tuna tower, tied up on the other side of the dock.
“Clay didn’t mention it.”
“’Fraid not,” said Duke. “Mind getting him for me?”
Nell walked up to the house. A warm breeze sprang up, blew some deep red blossoms out of the flamboyant tree and across her path. A phone rang as she went inside. Two cell phones lay on the kitchen counter, his and hers. It was Clay’s. She answered.
“Hello, ma’am. Sergeant Bowman here. The chief handy?”
14
PETER ABRAHAMS
“One moment,” Nell said.
She went into the bedroom. Clay opened his eyes. He saw her and smiled. She knew that under the covers he was hard, all set for her to climb back in. That would have been nice. Nell covered the mouthpiece. “Sergeant Bowman’s on the phone. And Duke just flew in—he’s down at the dock.”
“Duke’s here?”
Clay sat up. He was one of
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