The Art of Floating Read Free Page B

“I’m sorry. The caller you are trying to reach is not available.”
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    Within three minutes, Gumper was panting and Sia was coated in sweat. “Holy crap, it’s hot out here,” she said. “It’s May. Did anybody predict this f’ing heat wave?”
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    She got to Starbucks at 11:30. Len and Lucy were in the square. “We’ve been here for forty-five minutes,” Lucy said, “but we haven’t seen Jackson.” While Sia went inside, Len held Gumper’s leash and let him lick the remnants of his latte.
    â€œHey, Sia,” Stella called from behind the counter. The line was long, bolstered by the low-fat-frappuccino-hold-the-whipped-cream-please ladies who had just wrapped up their morning workout at the gym.
    Sia waited. She was thirsty, cranky, and caffeine deficient. Not a good combination. She asked Tom and Ann, Mr. Pearl, Cat and Stan, and a few others who came and went if they’d seen Jackson. All said no.
    â€œI’ll have a grande cappa, triple shot, extra froth,” Sia said when she finally got to the head of the line. Then she paid and stood aside while Henry mixed her coffee. “Hey, do you guys remember what time Jackson came in this morning?” she said.
    Stella glanced at Henry. “Jackson? I don’t think he’s been here.”
    â€œHe hasn’t?”
    â€œNo. Henry, did you serve him while I was on break?”
    â€œNope.”
    Sia took her drink from Henry. “Are you sure? He left home hours ago to come here.”
    â€œSorry. Haven’t seen him.”
    Sia could feel the folks behind her glaring at her back. Holding up the line was as close to a federal offense as you could get in Starbucks.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “If he pops in, tell him to give me a buzz.”
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    Coffee. That was what started this whole thing. They’d wrestled to see which one of them would make the run.
    â€œLoser goes for coffee,” Jackson had said. “Winner gets oral sex.”
    Sia had won.
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    At noon, assuming Jack had gone for a swim, Sia and Gumper walked the full length of the public beach. All the way to the clam shack and back. When they didn’t find him chopping through the surf with his clunky but effective backstroke, fear trickled in.
    â€œStay,” Sia told Gumper, and she hightailed it to the stretch of beach on the wildlife refuge side of things . . . the part on the opposite side of the island that was closed to the public during significant parts of the year so that the town’s most honored, most endangered, and (according to some) most pain-in-the-ass bird—the piping plover—could nest and raise its fledglings in peace.
    â€œSorry, little plovers,” she called as she bolted past the “Piping Plover Nesting Ground: No Entry Beyond This Point” sign at the end of the boardwalk. She could just imagine Jack’s face when he found out she’d (a) broken the law he worked so hard to protect and (b) put their beloved plovers at risk. Horror. Disappointment. Maybe even a smidgen of anger, though Jack didn’t get angry easily or often.
    â€œWhy would you think I’d go for a swim near the plovers?” he’d say. “You know how I feel about protecting the plovers.”
    â€œI didn’t know where else to look,” she’d answer. “I was getting scared.”
    To minimize any potential damage, she stayed close to the water’s edge.
Twelve pairs of plovers have nested at the refuge
, she recalled from Sunday’s “Plover Report” in the paper.
Four have settled in at Sandy Point.
    But despite her conscientious search, Sia didn’t find a single sign of Jackson.
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    2:30.
    â€œGump,” she said, rubbing his head, “where’s