Carefully laid pages from the McCall Mountain Times covered the gray plastic conference tables, with a brown craft paper runner down the center of each. The runners were dotted with blue mason jars filled with bright yellow daisies and lavender from Mary’s garden, and more blue jars, lit up by sunlight and flowers, hung from an enormous oak tree at different lengths, scattered among the branches as if they’d grown there. Three of the cheerleaders were busy hanging the last of them, one of them running back and forth to the pharmacy for the rest of the flowers and jars Mary had loaded the counter with. At the far end of the tables, there was a charmingly mismatched stack of plates and a basket lined with a blue gingham apron for the silverware.
“How did you do all this in an hour?” Sam looked around at all the beautiful details and realized Sara had just put her no-show professional caterers to shame.
“I didn’t really do much,” Sara said, nodding in the direction of the kids, “But they did.”
Sara had convinced ten of the Lake Patrol officers to man the grills, all topped with an interesting combination of frying and grill pans, and two of the students stood behind them with pitchers of batter.
“Okay, people,” Sara turned and called out. “It looks like we’re ten minutes out. Can we have the first pancakes on the grill please?”
The sophomore girls holding the pitchers went down the row of grills one by one, pouring one even pool of batter on each, then held up a cell phone and looked at Sara.
“Great, that was perfectly done. Now make sure these guys flip them together when the timer goes off. We can’t afford to have any that are over or underdone.”
Murphy leaned out of the row to look at Sara.
“You were serious about that?”
Sara rolled her eyes and looked over at the girls. “You’re in charge,” she said, “And I’d keep your eye on that one.”
The girls started the timer and fell into fits of giggles.
“Chef Brighton?” Mara Rooney, a plump girl with deep green eyes, hurried over with a chalkboard in her hand. “You said you’d give me the menu for me to put on the board?”
“I did say that,” Sara said, turning to look around her, “But I might have been lying because I have no idea where I put it.”
Sam reached over, took the notebook out of Sara’s back pants pocket, and handed it to Mara, just as the cell phone alarm beeped and all ten officers flipped their pancakes at one time.
Sam almost clapped.
****
The breakfast was in full swing when the press arrived. Frank Sinatra played from one of the patrol cars, courtesy of the Chief, and the serving table was piled high with summer berry pancakes drizzled with vanilla syrup, with a glass pitcher of golden maple syrup at hand for the traditionalists. The students topped up a platter of crispy bacon every few minutes, and there was even a big bowl of grilled potato wedges dusted in a mysterious spice combination Sara refused to divulge. The citrus lime spritzer, a simple mix of orange juice, sparkling water, and wedges of fresh lime, seemed to be one of the biggest hits with the crowd. It was guaranteed to look beautiful in the photos, which was the real reason Sara chose it.
Later, as the breakfast wound down and the kids started cleanup, Sam found Sara taking down the mason jars of flowers from the tree and reached above her head from behind to hand her a jar just out of her reach.
“I still don’t know how you pulled it off, but every one of those kids thinks you’re a superhero.” Sam looked at Sara with something that almost looked like respect.
“I’m glad,” Sara said, handing the jar off to one of the students to return to Mary. “I had a blast. They’re great kids.”
She shaded her eyes and looked up into the branches. “Can you reach that last jar up there on the right? I’ve been trying to hook it with a stick, but that plan’s gone south a few times now.”
Sam pulled herself smoothly up onto a lower branch and stood to reach the jar. She handed it back down to Sara and jumped to the ground.
“So,” she said, “A deal’s a deal. I’m at your service. When do you want me?”
You wish, Sara thought. Although I guess watching her climb that tree wasn’t the worst part of my day.
“How about tomorrow around four p.m.?” Sara said. “You know where the cabin is.”
“Great,” Sam said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As Sara turned back to the tree, Sam touched her hand. “Not very many people surprise me,” she said. “Thanks for saving my ass.”
Chapter Six
The next evening, Sam pulled into the cabin driveway and grabbed the Lake Patrol life jackets she’d thrown into the back seat of her truck when she left work.
Sara stepped out of the cabin, the screen door slapping shut behind her. “You’re not thinking I’m going to wear one of those, are you?”
“I know you’re going to wear one,” Sam said. “I haven’t seen you really swim yet. How do I know you won’t sink like a brick?”
Sara stood on the porch, hands on her hips. She was barefoot, in black chino shorts and a loose white linen shirt that was half tucked in, as wild as her hair.
“Why would I buy a boat if I couldn’t swim?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t put it past you.” Sam smiled, and held the vest out to her.
“Seriously?” Hands were still firmly on hips.
“Look,” Sam said, “If you want to show me you’re a strong enough swimmer once we get out there, I’ll reconsider. Maybe.”
Sara relented and they fell into step on the trail that led from the front porch down to the docks. The sun was glittering over the surface of the lake and a great blue heron skimmed the surface of the water as they came around the corner of the cabin. The dark water lapped at the sides of the dock as they walked out to the boat slip, the boards creaking and shifting under their feet. Sam threw the boat cover off and left it on the dock with her shoes.
“Ready?” She offered Sara her hand. “And don’t you dare step on the side of that boat.”
“I’m so excited,” Sara said, stretching out on the white leather lounge seat. “I’ve missed my boat, even if she did try to knock me out.”
Sam laughed despite herself, then looked around her and noticed the boat looked brand new. The bloodstains were gone, and Sara had polished and cleaned every inch of it, including the chrome, and placed a tiny blue and white striped pillow in the captain’s chair. Sam held it up by one corner and looked at Sarah.
“You’ve got to be kidding me with this.”
“Hey, I had to do something while you had me grounded, so I tidied up a bit.” She was clearly pleased with herself as she slid her sunglasses from the top of her head onto her face. “You know you’re jealous. You wish you had a pillow like that for the patrol boat.”
Sam rolled her eyes, tossing the pillow at her and motioning for her to come to the front of the boat. “I’m not here to drive you around, Miss Brighton. You’re going to back this thing out of the slip.”
Sara looked at the six-inch space between the side of the boat and the dock on either side with concern. “I can’t, I’ll crash it.”
“First of all,” Sam said, “You’re not going to crash anything with me here, and secondly, you’ve got to start sometime, and that’s now.”
Sara reluctantly traded places with Sam behind the wheel and turned the key.
“Okay,” Sam said, “There are two kind of throttles in boats, foot throttles and hand throttles. Can you drive a stick?”
“Yep, my first car was a standard.”
“Great, that will help you get the feel of the throttle faster, which is really the hardest part. If you can learn to handle that right, the rest will fall into place with practice.”
Sara filled in Sam what she’d already learned from Bart Riley when she bought the boat, which wasn’t much. Now she wished she’d paid better attention.
“Okay, let’s try backing out,” Sam said, sitting in the passenger’s seat opposite where Sara
stood behind the wheel. “You want to ease the throttle back slowly, giving it less gas than you think you should, and turn the wheel slowly when the nose clears the dock.”
Sara tried to focus, getting a good look at the space she had on either side between the boat and the dock. When she felt like she had a grasp of it, she pulled back on the throttle. The back end of the boat jerked into the bumpers covering the inner corner of the dock with a sharp thunk, then bounced against the other side of the slip.
“Whoa,” Sam said, jumping up and grabbing the edge of the dock to steady to boat. “You want to give it about half of that gas to ease it into reverse. Remember, you don’t have brakes, so if you rocket out the back it’ll be hard to correct.”
Sam pushed them back into position by hand and told Sara to try it again, but obviously Sara and that throttle was not a good combination. The boat bounced like a ping pong ball against the edges of the dock until Sam finally switched places with her and backed them easily out of the slip, turning the wheel smoothly as the nose passed the end of the dock, then easing the throttle forward and into the open water.
“It feels so graceful when you do it,” Sara said, settling into the passenger’s chair. “How old were you when you learned to drive a boat?”
“I was six,” Sam said, her eyes on the horizon. “My dad taught me to swim and drive a ski boat in the same summer.”
“How did you not know how to swim by the time you were six? The kids here seem to live in the water.”
“You’re right, they do,” Sam said. “But I was adopted that year, so it was the first summer I’d had with my parents.”
Sam accelerated around the end of an island point, then pulled them smoothly into the quiet cove Sam had busted her in last time. It was perfect conditions, though; there wasn’t even a ripple on the water, and the sun had intensified into a deep gold, the light visibly hovering above the navy blue surface of the lake.
“Okay,” Sam said, stepping back and turning the wheel over to Sara, “Let’s call a truce between you and that throttle.”
“I know what the problem is.” Sara started unbuckling the life jacket, tossing it onto the back seat before Sam had a chance to stop her. “This enormous vest is in the way.”
“You’d better hope you have a swimsuit under those clothes,” Sam said, “Because you’re wearing that vest until I know you can swim.”
Sara unbuttoned her shorts and stepped out of them, then took off her shirt and dropped it on the seat. She wore a sleek white bikini top underneath, with white boy short bikini bottoms. She stepped onto the side of the boat before Sam could stop her and dove into the lake.
When she surfaced, Sam watched the water slip over her body, glossing the curve of her shoulders, then her hips, as she swam a perfect freestyle stroke fifty yards out and turned to come back.
“Fuck,” she said to herself, killing the engine and pulling on her sunglasses. “She’s gorgeous.”
Sara reached the teak platform of the rear of the boat and pulled herself up to standing, twisting the water from the length of her hair.
“So,” she said, “What do you think?”
The lines of her body were more feminine than Sam had expected. In clothes, she looked athletic and petite, but in a wet white bikini, shaking the water from her hair, she looked perfect.
“That’ll do,” Sam said, looking intently at one of the dials on the control panel. “Get dressed and we’ll practice turning in reverse.”
Sara slipped her white linen shirt back on. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Sam looked down and shook her head before she caught herself. Sara was standing there in white bikini bottoms and an unbuttoned shirt; Sam was always professional, but this was going to be more challenging than she thought. She stepped out from behind the wheel.
“Okay, let’s see you back up like you’re coming out of the boat slip at home.”
Sara slid past her and turned the key, letting the engine fall into an idle, then pulled back the throttle.
“That’s better,” Sam said, “But you’re still hitting it too hard.”
“I’m barely touching it!”
“I know it feels like that, but driving a boat is different from how it feels to handle a gearshift on a car. It takes a while to get used to. Try it again.”
Sara took a couple more passes before Sam got up and traded places with her.
“Okay,” she said, “I think you’re just trying too hard. Come closer.”
Sara stood up and watched Sam slowly pull it into reverse.
“Do you see how my hand is barely touching the knob? You’re wrapping your fingers around it more aggressively, which is getting in the way of learning the feel of it.”
“What do you mean by the ‘feel’ of it?”
“When you’re driving a boat,” Sam said, “You have to be aware of the water; you can make the motion and force of the water work for you, but you have to respect it as a partner and pay attention to how it moves.”
“Okay,” Sara said, “I think I understand.”
Sam let Sara take her place behind the wheel, but stopped her before she started.
“Put your hand on the throttle,” she said, “But don’t apply any pressure. Just stand there, think about how it feels in your hand, and what the water is doing underneath you.”
Sara stood, listening to the water lapping at the side of the boat, and let her palm relax onto the throttle. She pulled back softly, with the pads of two fingers, and opened her eyes. The boat glided back effortlessly.
“That was beautiful.” Sam smiled.
The sunlight was fading into soft violet evening, and eventually it got too dark to see, so they headed back to the dock. Sam drove, but Sara watched her hands, memorizing the way they moved over the controls. The wind blew Sara’s hair around her face and when Sam shifted down to cut the wake as they neared the dock, she looked across at Sara just as the last of the sunlight fell across her eyes. They were clear green, with amber flecks that looked like gold shimmering under water.
“Come here,” Sam said. “Stand in front of me.”
Sara hesitated, then stepped behind the wheel, aware of the warmth of Sam’s body behind her. One of Sam’s arms came around her on the left side and held the wheel, and the other held the throttle on the right.
“Okay,” Sam said, “I’m going to pull her in, and I want you to put your hand under mine on the throttle and close your eyes. Don’t think about what I’m doing; just pay attention to how it feels.”
Sara felt her arms around her and slid her hand under Sam’s. She closed her eyes and leaned back slightly into her chest, feeling it move with her breath. Sam’s hand closed lightly over hers and eased the throttle forward, then back, turning the steering wheel with her other hand. They slid easily into the slip, and Sara felt Sam touch it into reverse with the pressure of one finger to gently stop the boat.
“You can open your eyes.”
Sara stepped away from the wheel and looked at Sam, who’d turned to tie off the boat to the dock. After the cover was secure, they walked up the dock in the semi-darkness, fireflies hovering around them like sparks from a fire.
Sara opened the back door and turned on the lights over the back deck. “Do you want a beer?”
“Next time,” Sam said, her eyes holding Sara’s for a second too long. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”
****
Sam loaded the lifejackets into the truck and pulled out of the drive, the headlights shining into the forest as she rounded the corner on the drive back into town. The window was down and she let the wind sift through her hair. Her mouth was set, tense, and she reached across to the glove box and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She’d smoked through her twenties, until her dad said that it was the only thing about her that had ever disappointed him. She quit that day, but she’d always kept a pack in her glove box. She’d had the same box for the last three years. She shook one out of the box and lit it, drawing in the smoke a
nd exhaling it against the wind.
The house was dark when she pulled in, but instead of knocking, she just walked around to the screened in porch in the back. Sam knew she’d be there, and she was. Mismatched candles dripped wax on the table, Ani Difranco’s staccato guitar played from the kitchen, and Lily was bent over a book, writing like there wasn’t enough time to get the words on the page. Sam climbed the steps and knocked on the back screen door. Lily looked up, shocked to see her, or shocked to see something existed besides her pen; Sam couldn’t tell which.
“What are you doing here?”
Sam opened the door. “Can I come in?”
She nodded, picking up the pen. She raised one finger to let Sam know she’d just be a minute, so Sam sat on the hearth built into the screened in back porch and threw another log on the fire, pushing back the chill that had started to come through the screens with the dark.
Two months ago, when Lily had just started working at Lake Patrol, Sam had been in the next booth at Moxie Java one morning and heard one of Lily’s friends trying to talk her into coming back to Boise.
“Lils,” she said, “Don’t be stupid. I’ve never even met anyone else with an opportunity for a book contract. They want to buy the last one and pay you to write two more. What the hell are you doing here? You should be writing.”
She didn’t hear what Lily said in return, or maybe she didn’t say anything at all, but her friend had plenty to say for both of them.
“They want you, you idiot. They want to pay you to write. It’s what you love more than anything in the world. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sam was listening now, and heard Lily tell her she felt suddenly trapped, as if she would be locked into a life that she wasn’t sure she wanted.
“I want to write. I never said I wanted to publish. Those are two different things.”
But now, here she was, writing in a quick stream across the page, almost bleeding onto the table before she remembered to go down to the next line. She paused, wrote one more sentence, then looked up at Sam and leaned back in her chair.
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