As Waters Gone By

by Cynthia Ruchti

  Who ever does hear the whole story? Emmalyn divided her focus between the waves and the stones at her feet.

  “His uncle found out and turned him in to the authorities to teach him a lesson. The court took it more seriously than the uncle intended. But the bottom line is he paid his time and the fine and has forty-eight months of parole officer home visits now. The locals are a little skittish about hiring him. Some of them.”

  “And you thought I’d be more gullible? Because I’m new to the island?” Emmalyn hadn’t meant for her words to sound haughty. Of all people. Good grief. Of all people.

  Cora stopped walking and waited for Emmalyn to fully face her. “I hoped you’d be more forgiving.” Her expression pinched. “Usually those who are practiced at forgiving are better at it.”

  The cords in Emmalyn’s neck stiffened. Rankled. That was the word for how she felt. A substantial, no-wind’s-going-to-blow-this-down word. “Did Boozie insinuate I’m practiced in forgiveness? Because I’m not.”

  “I made an assumption. Does Boozie even know your husband’s in prison?”

  “She’s a good guesser, but we haven’t talked about it.”

  “Even if she did know, she’s no gossip. I can list you a few gifted in gossiping. But that would be gossiping. It’s just my opinion, but I think what the courts did to your husband was extreme, considering he obviously hadn’t intended on harming anyone. And the deal with the accelerator recall. Why didn’t his lawyer lay more heavily on that tidbit?”

  The woman knew more than Emmalyn had expressed to anyone. Ever.

  “Librarians are a curious lot,” Cora said, as if sensing Emmalyn’s question. “And we have access to all kinds of online information, not that it takes a library anymore.” She leaned closer. “But you did not hear me say that. We need libraries. They’re vital to our community life. If it weren’t for libraries—”

  “Cora. How did you know those particular details about Max’s case?”

  “I looked him up. Indirectly. I looked you up on the Internet. I like to know who I’m doing business with. Read the news articles from back then. It wasn’t hard finding more than the little you told me. I’m sorry if that felt like an invasion of privacy. I assumed you’d want to know Nick’s background like I wanted to know more about yours.”

  * * *

  Two emotions battled for dominance. Was Emmalyn going to seethe or let it go, grateful someone—a woman who’d been a stranger a day ago—cared enough to talk candidly about it?

  Cora pulled her shirt away from her neck. “You know what? You’re right. A person’s background shouldn’t matter as much as their present and their future. If a person wants to tell their story, fine. If not . . . ”

  Emmalyn sank to the pebbled beach, not caring that her seat would likely get wet, crossed her legs, and stared into the endlessness of the water.

  Cora lowered herself to sit beside her. “But were you expecting to keep it a secret from the island forever? He gets out in a few months. How were you going to explain his showing up one day?”

  “I’m not sure he will.”

  Cora tossed a rock into the water. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  Emmalyn thought she’d have at least several weeks before she was required to have this kind of conversation. And she didn’t expect it would be with the roofer/librarian/EMT/massage therapist. “We’re not communicating anymore. I don’t know what his plans are.”

  “Why aren’t you communicating?”

  Massage therapist/marriage counselor. “He asked me not to contact him.” The long-legged bird scampered toward them, then seemed to notice the human intervention in progress and made an abrupt U-turn.

  “And you complied?”

  A late season mosquito made its presence known. She swatted it into submission. “Max made it clear he doesn’t want to hear from me.”

  “Guaranteed he does.”

  “How would you know?” Emmalyn bent her torso forward and said, “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “Emmalyn, Nick is my son.” Cora folded her hands in her lap with finality. “I know.”

  A son fresh out of jail. A brother or brother-in-law who sent him there. A husband on deployment. A business that would fall apart if she didn’t climb roofs and massage other people’s muscles. Okay, so maybe Cora knew a few things.

  “But I understand if you don’t want to hire Nick to paint for you. I get it. Kind of a long shot. He works a few hours a week for Boozie, but she can’t take in every stray.”

  Why did unconditional grace come so easily for Boozie and Cora? Maybe Emmalyn needed a mentor more than she needed her cottage finished.

  With a resigned grunt, Cora stood and tossed one last stone into the water. “Well, I’m in the middle of the project, so . . . ”

  “When could he start?” It didn’t feel like a poor risk. Not yet, anyway.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’d want someone to give Max a chance, despite what he’s done.” The words bounced back to her as if they were ricocheting bullets. Ping, ping, ping. She pressed a hand to her chest to stop the bleeding.

  Emmalyn wondered what the record was for not thinking about an incarcerated loved one? A whole hour? She had yet to draw close to the record.

  * * *

  The wind lessened enough for Emmalyn to start scraping the outside trim without flecks flying up her nose. The skylight and roof repair crew finished, leaving the skylight itself as the only hint they’d been there. Every scrap of discarded material, every stray roofing nail was picked up before they left. Cora trained her team well.

  The air cooled considerably when the sun ducked behind the tree line. She stopped scraping and listened to dusk settling in while she stretched the cramped muscles in her hands.

  The rustle she heard—dry leaves—wasn’t quick, like the movements of a squirrel. It was slow, deliberate, with the heft of a human. Emmalyn looked at the paint scraper now lying on a window ledge. Not her preferred weapon at a time like this.

  Step. Step, step.

  She should have left a half hour earlier when her hands first started to cramp from gripping the tool’s handle—alternating right hand to left. She’d considered it.

  Closer. Then quiet. Whoever it was had crossed from the leaf-strewn wooded area behind the cottage to the silencer grassy patch others might call a yard. If this was Nick’s way of introducing himself, they definitely had a problem.

  Something flicked just past the edge of the cottage, then retreated. Emmalyn kept her eyes on the spot and waited, scraper clutched in front of her like a medieval sword. A doe tiptoed into the open, so close to the side of the porch Emmalyn could count the animal’s impossibly long eyelashes. The animal paused, flicked her ears, then resumed her stroll to the beach.

  She dipped her head and drank from the now nearly still water. Freshwater. Did deer drink ocean saltwater? How remarkable to have an ocean-sized expanse of freshwater. If she could keep up the property taxes, Emmalyn would continue to own a spit of land that touched the edge of the remarkable.

  And on the spit of land was a not-as-sorry-looking-as-yesterday cottage breathing fresh air for the first time in a long while.

  Within a few moments, the deer flashed the white side of her tail and disappeared into the woods. “Wish you’d seen that, Max.”

  She was talking to him again. Good sign. If only he wanted to hear it.

  7

  What’s this?” Emmalyn settled into one of the vacant chairs by the fireplace in The Wild Iris with her M-labeled Wild Iris mug nearly full of strong but smooth coffee. A birch bark basket sat on the cold hearth at her side, tagged “M.”

  “Early housewarming gift,” Boozie said, sliding a plate of eggs benedict onto the table in front of her. “I thought these things might come in handy even before you move in.”

  Her mother always told her anything that looks too good to be true not only is, but probably has a despicable downside. After his arrest, Emmalyn wo
ndered if her mother meant Max. Boozie’s despicableness hadn’t shown its face yet. Mothers can be wrong.

  Hand sanitizer. Good idea. Human-friendly mousetraps—triple pack. A coffee-table book. A bit premature, but a lovely thought. Oh. The book held stories and pictures of some of Madeline Island’s unique or historic summer houses and cottages. She flipped through the first several pages as she sipped her coffee.

  Boozie returned from wherever she’d flown. “I thought you might need some inspiration.”

  “It’s a beautiful book.”

  “I haven’t been out to your cottage yet, but I imagine it’s a few days from being inspiring on its own.”

  “An understatement. Except for the view. You’re welcome to see for yourself.” Why hadn’t she thought of inviting her before now? “And thank you for all of this. You’ve made the transition so much smoother than it would have been.”

  Boozie tugged on the hem of her brocade vest. It just topped the waistline of the skirt of the day—apricot with a chiffon overlay. Another recycled bridesmaid number? Her tights mimicked the brocade pattern of the vest.

  “The transition from landlubber to islander?” Boozie asked.

  More like from hope atheist to hope agnostic. “I don’t think I qualify as an islander with so few days under my belt.”

  “Some stay for years and never qualify. You? There’s hope for you.”

  Her insights could be irritating sometimes.

  Boozie pointed to something nestled in the tissue paper at the bottom of the basket and pirouetted toward the kitchen.

  Hope for me? Boozie sounds so sure. How does a person get that sure? Emmalyn’s hands stumbled as she unwrapped the orchid tissue paper. An embossed leather journal. The invisible magnet latch give way when she opened it. A title page read:

  Letters to Max

  (Until You Come Home)

  A slip of paper, stuck like a bookmark after the title page, held a message from Cora. “I’m keeping one of these for my husband. Small things that happen in my day. Things I wish I could tell him if he were here. An occasional rant. Sometimes just a date and the page dotted with tears. Thought you might want to keep a record like this too.”

  Emmalyn had journals. “Letters to Max . . . Because You’re Not Here!” It wouldn’t be right to throw this genuine leather journal—this gift from a new friend—in the garbage. She’d hold onto it. But the temptation to tear out the title page nearly overwhelmed her.

  Emmalyn scribbled a “Thanks for the goodies” note on a scrap of the tissue paper and left it by her untouched eggs benedict. “Sorry. Not hungry this morning. But put it on my room tab. I owe you so much more than that.” She scooted out the door before Boozie returned and read any more of her mind, before Cora happened by and psychoanalyzed what was wrong with Emmalyn’s long-distance marriage.

  Very little. Other than the fact that he’d wanted a divorce and she thought she might still be in love with a man who mourned he’d ruined everything. Every. Thing. Emmalyn hadn’t argued to the contrary. She should have objected.

  She’d made it to the driver’s seat of the Prius before the first tear fell. It had friends.

  * * *

  A motorcycle—no, a dirt bike—leaned against the scruffy-looking shed near the back entrance of the cottage. Nick.

  Emmalyn sighed. Now? She looked heavenward. “Very funny.”

  Where was Cora’s son? Emmalyn had locked the cottage. Unless he’d learned the art of lock-picking while in jail, he couldn’t have gotten inside.

  Yet another thought she shouldn’t have entertained.

  She circled the cottage to the front porch and found him sitting on the low steps, bent over a small book.

  “Good morning. You must be Nick.”

  He jerked to attention and slid the book into a back pocket of his cut-off jeans. Cut-offs. And there it was just above his paint-spattered athletic shoe—an ankle bracelet where most kids wore a tattoo.

  “Mrs. Ross. Nice to meet you.” He stood and shook her hand. “Thanks for taking a chance on me.”

  The look on his face held her attention in a way the ankle bracelet couldn’t. The monitoring system wasn’t what defined him. It was that sparkle of brilliance tempered with humility in his brown-black eyes. The tilt of his eyebrows—appreciative, not cocky. The set of his mouth, as if he had more to say but couldn’t find the words.

  She knew the feeling.

  “Do you want to take a look inside and see if it’s a job you’re interested in?”

  “I already know I’m interested.”

  She wondered if his mother told him how Emmalyn intended to change the cottage’s interior. It was no small task. “After you see it, I’ll need an estimate. Supplies and labor. I have five gallons of paint I hope you think will work. I’ll do the outside trim. Oh.”

  “What?”

  “I was going to get some exterior paint in case I finished scraping today. If I could find some on the island.”

  “We might have some left over from another project. I could have my mom drop it off when she brings my ladders.” He studied the façade of the cottage. “You’re going with white, I hope.”

  A young man with color preferences?

  “I mean,” he said, “it fits the place. Makes me crazy when people put up a beach cottage here that looks more like a Miami condo or the wing of a space station. That’s not what this island is about.”

  She trolled for something to say in response.

  “Sorry. I should watch my language around prospective employers. I didn’t mean crazy as in postal.”

  She laughed aloud at that. “Nick, you don’t have to worry about my thinking you’re crazy. When you hear how I plan to transform the interior of the cottage . . . ”

  “Mom told me.”

  “Let’s go check it out.” Emmalyn unlocked the front door and led him into the cottage. She flipped the light switch, which turned on the overhead bulb but did little to illuminate the cottage more than the natural light from the beachside windows and the skylight in the kitchen.

  “Kinda rough as is.” Nick brushed a hand over an interior wall and pressed his thumb on the window casings.

  “Yes. There’s no denying that fact.”

  “The whole thing white, huh?”

  “All the ceilings, all the walls, all the trim. I don’t usually like to paint over original wood, but this isn’t anything fancy. I want to salvage the hardwood floors though, if I can.”

  “Of course,” he said, as if twenty years older and an expert in home restoration.

  “Two smallish bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs,” she said.

  “Uh huh.” He pulled out his phone and thumbed a message.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you listening?”

  “Calculating, Mrs. Ross.” He showed her the phone screen. “I have a square-foot-paint-use calculator app.”

  “Oh.”

  “This . . . is . . . going to take a boatload of paint.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “So, what’s my deadline? When do you plan to move in?”

  Plan to move in. She didn’t have a plan. She had no more than wishful thinking. “How long do you think it will take you?”

  “You’ll want to let the paint harden in for a good two days—a week would be better—before you sand the floors. Or do the floors first, but then you run the risk of—” His thoughts trailed off as he peeked at the configuration of the stairwell.

  It had seemed a much simpler idea before she crossed the ferry. Spruce up the hunting cottage with a bucket of water and Lysol had turned it into a renovation project for an HGTV episode.

  “But I should be done with my part within a week,” Nick said.

  “This next week?”

  “I work fast, but I’m good.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “And”—he pointed to his monitoring device—“I don’t have much else going on in my life at t
he moment.”

  “Does . . . ?”—Did she dare ask? She knew too little about how all this worked—“Does everyone who gets out of jail or prison have to wear one of those? That seems . . . ”

  “Harsh?” He tapped his opposite heel against the bracelet. “It depends. If you’re talking prison . . . ”

  “Prison.” She needed to sound more casual. “Hypothetically.” Yeah, casual enough.

  “Some go from prison to a halfway house, depending on the offense. Some are released free and clear. It depends. For me, this piece of jewelry came because of a violation of the terms of my parole.”

  “Oh?” Cora, you didn’t tell me everything.

  “Small violation. They’re making sure I know my place. The jewelry comes off in two weeks.”

  She didn’t want to know the difference between probation and parole. If she never saw the inside of another courtroom, she’d consider herself blessed. Max had been so tight-lipped about everything once he was moved from the county jail to the state prison after his sentencing. She knew less than a nineteen-year-old.

  A nineteen-year-old who could set off alarms if he left the island. So, he was not encumbered by other jobs at the moment and could get right to work on Emmalyn’s cottage.

  It probably helped, for the renovation schedule, that Nick wouldn’t have to be picky with the cutting-in process. White trim against white walls and white ceiling allowed for a more casual application of paint. Emmalyn had done enough of her own home renovations to know that much. She doubted Nick could finish that week, but she wasn’t ready to sand floors, anyway.

  “What’s your estimate?”

  “I’ll need actual measurements, not just the virtual.” Nick indicated his cell phone app. He pulled a carpenter’s measuring tape from his waistband. “Okay if I get started?”

  “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  She should have been scraping trim while Nick measured and figured and thought about ladder placement to reach the ceiling of the stairwell. Instead, she took the Cottages book to the spot where sea grass and sand met, dangled her legs over the drop-off, and dreamed about the details that could turn an empty, hollow, bleached-out shell into a home.