The Art of Floating Read Free Page A

tracks.
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    As she walked, Sia considered amphibians.
    Frog.
    Axolotl.
    Salamander.
    Newt.
    Toad.
    Yes
, she decided,
that’s what I’ll call him
.
    Toad.

CHAPTER 2
    Sia was still lying in bedwhen she began to wonder what was taking Jackson so long. A Saturday morning coffee run usually took no more than twenty minutes, twenty-five if the line was long, twenty-seven if they opted for cappuccino, and still only thirty if Slow-Pour Sally was manning the espresso machine. That included the amount of time it took Jackson to jog down the street to Starbucks. But, Sia thought, they had decided against cappuccino that morning, Slow-Pour Sally was away on vacation, and the timing was good—too late for the midmorning slam and too early for the lunch rush. It should have been a twenty-minute run.
    She looked at the clock. One hour had passed since Jackson had slung on shorts, a T-shirt, and his favorite pair of stink-ass, falling-apart sneakers that he absolutely refused—“No way in hell”—to throw away.
    â€œBack in twenty,” he’d called over his shoulder as he’d lit down the stairs.
    â€œSu-gaaaaaaaaar,” she’d hollered back, reminding him for the zillionth time to get three packets of raw sugar, even though she knew he’d forget.
    It should have been a twenty-minute run.
    Sia flopped onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. Their bedroom was a cool purply blue that absorbed the morning sun streaming into their eastward-facing windows. When the real estate agent had shown them the place, she’d said drolly, “Morning people, I hope.”
    â€œIf you only knew,” Jack had answered, referring to Sia’s habit of rolling out of bed somewhere around four A.M. to write.
    Even now, an hour outside noon, sunlight was smeared evenly around the room, making sharp shadows against the walls and floor.
    Sia gave up and climbed out of bed. She went to the window, pushed up the screen, and leaned out. “Jackson,” she called.
    No answer.
    Weird. Maybe he was in the shed or in the driveway fiddling with his truck. Maybe he’d gotten distracted on his way out the door. Not likely before his first hit of caffeine, but there was always a chance.
    â€œJackson,” she hollered out the window a second time, but only Gumper responded. At the sound of Sia’s voice, he bounded up the stairs and smashed into her. He hadn’t had his walk, and he was agitated. Ready to burst.
    Sia threw on some clothes, put her hair in a ponytail, headed downstairs, and let Gumper out on the patio. She looked around. Jackson’s money clip, cell phone, and keys weren’t in the silver box on the hall table. His truck was still in the driveway. Clearly he’d gone.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    At first Sia wasn’t worried. Irritated, yes. Worried, no. After all, Jackson was the most popular man in town, loved equally by men and women, high school punks and town officials, old and young, beautiful and hideous. He’d been born with that rare kind of natural charm that drew people in—charisma, folks called it—and few could resist. If by chance his buddies Nils Larsen or Harry Thompson had tried to distract him from the thought of his very naked wife in bed with the promise of big stripers in the surf or an old boat for sale at a steal, he might have given in.
    Sia clipped the leash to Gumper’s collar, grabbed a few dollars, and headed out the door. Though Gumper argued for his normal morning beach romp, she took the road to Starbucks. She was sure she’d find Jackson dillydallying either on the way or in the town square.
    When she called his cell phone for the first time, it went straight to voice mail. She left a message asking where he was and teased him about both her caffeine withdrawal and his unfortunate distraction. The second time, the flat, computerized phone company voice told her,