Snapshots (16 page)

“Scram,” Rick said halfheartedly. She merely flipped her tail up and down a few times, rearranging the dust into feathery patterns.

Having given up on the dog, Rick was bending now and assessing the contents of the refrigerator when Trista walked into the room. She had showered and changed clothes, and her hair was still damp.

“I won't be here for lunch,” she said too airily for his taste.

He slammed the refrigerator door and stared at her. This just wasn't done; when they were at Sweetwater Cottage, no one picked up and went off on his or her own. Everyone did things together.

“And where might you be going?”

“Just—out,” Trista replied. Her attention was distracted by the dog, who was standing outside at the bottom of the stairs. “What's wrong with her ear?” she asked.

“Maybe she got in a fight,” Rick said, still bewildered that Trista would go anywhere without him. Could she have a date? Who did she know here, anyway? The questions surfaced, leaving him feeling indignant, though he couldn't have explained why.

“We'd better check it,” Trista said. She stepped out and bent beside the dog, who gratefully nuzzled her hand as Trista petted her. “Would you please hand me a clean rag out of the box in the kitchen? And put some water on it from the sink.”

When Rick came back inside, Trista took the damp rag from him and began to swab the sore. The dog was patient, submitting without a whimper. Rick was reminded of the efficient manner in which Trista had ministered to him on the night of the prom so long ago, and the memory unsettled him.

“I hope this won't get infected. Rick, Hal may have left some antibiotic cream in the guest-room bath after his dog tangled with that rottweiler on the beach a couple of years ago. How about taking a look.”

Deciding that it would be better not to comment about not having wanted the dog around in the first place, Rick trudged back into the house and soon emerged with the antibiotic. Trista squeezed some onto the wound, but as soon as she moved away, the dog pawed at her ear.

“Uh-oh,” Trista said, moving to stop her. “We can't have that. Come on, dog. Let's go up on the porch and I'll get you some of that barbecue we ate yesterday.”

He followed Trista inside. “You're going to feed her,” he said accusingly.

Trista pivoted to face him. “If I don't, she'll rub the medicine off that cut before it has a chance to do any good.” She opened the refrigerator.

“Maybe we should relocate that dog to the pound.”

“You're aware of what happens to dogs in shelters if no one adopts them,” Trista reminded him darkly.

“Why don't you take her back to Columbia with you? Give her a real home?”

“That wouldn't be fair. She wouldn't get enough exercise living in my condo, and I'm not there much.” She spoke regretfully and as if she wished things were otherwise.

As soon as Trista carried the dish of barbecue outside, the dog lost interest in pawing at her ear and immediately began to gulp great mouthfuls of pork. “There,” Trista said with satisfaction. “This is our good deed for the day.”

“Hmmph,” Rick said, but he couldn't help smiling at the dog's wagging tail.

They stood watching, their differences forgotten. “Hey,” Rick said on a sudden inspiration. “Why don't we ride the bikes down to the docks by the Purple Pelican. Unless you have a hot lunch date, that is.” He couldn't resist adding that last part.

“Of course I don't,” she said, seemingly amused. She slanted a look in his direction. “I was just going out because you were being disagreeable.”

Well, what did she expect when she was making noises about doing something without him? “Wouldn't a bike ride be more fun? I found the tire pump this morning and fixed the tires so they'll hold air. Maybe.”

“Okay, you've talked me into it,” Trista said. “We could pick up lunch at Jeter's and eat it at the public docks.” The docks included a marina, prized because of its location at the mouth of Tappany Creek. Boats heading north on their way home from wintering farther south often put in for a day or two, and it was fun to read their names and home ports off the sterns.

Under the house, their faces speckled with squares of sunlight admitted by the latticework, they brushed spiderwebs from the bikes' wheels and handlebars and then set off. At Jeter's, they bought shrimp-salad sandwiches, and when Jolly learned what they were going to do, he offered them his old rowboat.

“It's tied up on the easternmost dock. You might as well use her. No good if she just sits there accumulating barnacles,” Jolly said.

It was only ten minutes, easy pedaling to the docks. This was a route they knew well: right on Center Street, over the creek bridge and right again. They leaned the bikes against a tumbledown fence and strolled along the dock, past empty berths where fishing vessels tied up in the evenings. The visiting boats displayed the names of faraway ports: Bar Harbor, Norfolk, Quebec. A couple was disembarking from their Boston Whaler with a tub of freshly caught fish, and Rick and Trista stopped to help; afterward, they chatted with a gnarled old man who was mending crab traps.

The weather was sunny, the breeze minimal, and once in the rowboat, which Rick insisted he could manage by himself, Trista occupied the bow and leaned her head back so the sun's rays would reach her neck.

“A suntan looks good on camera,” she explained to Rick, who only grinned and said she looked good on camera with or without.

Rick was an expert oarsman, slicing the oars cleanly into the water. The boat skimmed easily toward a neighboring island, the one where the marsh ponies lived.

“Are you sure you don't want me to help you row?” Trista wanted to know after a while, but Rick shook his head.

“Physical activity helps me think,” he told her.

“About what?” she asked with interest. She seemed unaware of the pretty picture she made, and he swallowed, forcing himself to concentrate on rowing.

“Wouldn't you say I have a lot to decide?” he asked. “Not only on a personal level, but professionally, as well? I have little enthusiasm for returning to Homicide,” he admitted, finding it hard to say the words. He'd been so committed to his work for so long that it pained him to have landed at a juncture where he actually was considering a change.

She shaded her eyes with her hand. “So Alston's offer is welcome, then?”

“It's appealing.” Encouraged by Trista's willingness to listen, he admitted his many misgivings about going back to work at the department.

“If you accept Alston's job offer, you'd be moving to Columbia. Is that what you want?”

He rested on his oars. “I believe it is,” he said softly.

After a long moment, Trista diverted her gaze toward the nearest spit of land, which extended from the ponies' island. As they watched, one of the ponies appeared on the beach. “Look,” she breathed, pointing.

The pony was a solid swaybacked specimen, its legs short, its mane tangled. It lifted its head, sniffed the salty air. For a split second, it made eye contact with him and then flicked its mane before wheeling and trotting back into the underbrush.

They kept watching for more ponies to appear as he headed the boat toward the wild and desolate lee side of the island, where Rick tossed out the anchor and shipped the oars. As he settled in the bottom of the boat with his back against the seat, Trista passed him a sandwich. She slid down so that she was sitting in the bottom of the boat, too, and they rocked gently on the waves as they ate. They washed down their food with the cans of cold Cheerwine that they'd bought from the vending machine at the docks and munched on the gingersnaps that Jolly had thrown in for free.

As they relaxed, inhaling the familiar scents of marsh and creek and ocean, Rick told Trista about inviting Stanley and his family over on Saturday.

“I remember Luella,” she said, looking pleased. “She always arranged time to talk with Martine and me when she visited Queen, even if it was only a few minutes. That made us feel so special, since she was older and engaged to be married.”

“She's going to call you to ask what she can bring,” Rick said. “Find out if she knows how to make Queen's waffles.”

Trista only laughed. “Doubtful. It was a secret recipe.”

They stayed moored in the lee side of the pony island for a long time, talking if they felt like it but often remaining silent. It was good to be comfortable with each other, requiring no words in order to communicate. When it was time to go, it was as if they both arrived at that conclusion at the same time, and Rick moved to resume the oars while Trista stowed the picnic leavings under the seat in the bow.

“If only we'd brought fishing poles, we'd catch our dinner,” Rick said regretfully as he headed the boat toward the docks and began rowing.

“Who would clean it?” Trista, sitting tall in the bow, turned and widened her eyes at him. She was notoriously squeamish about gutting fish.

“I'd clean if you'd cook.”

“I'd cook if you'd clean up,” she said.

“Sounds like we've come full circle,” Rick replied with a grin.

At the dock, shrimp boats nosed into their slips and began to unload their bounty, the fishermen shouting to one another as they secured their craft. After tying Jolly's boat, Rick fielded the idea of ducking into the Purple Pelican to scope out the menu.

“Remember their crab casserole?” Trista said. “And how we never could duplicate it at the cottage with the crabs we caught off the dock?”

“And their fried oysters? They're still the best.”

When they checked the daily special on the chalkboard beside the door, they exchanged a glance of pure glee and immediately asked to be seated at one of the tables.

“Two plates of fried oysters, please,” Rick told the waitress before she had a chance to take their orders, and she appeared with the plates almost immediately, sliding them expertly across the blue-checked plastic tablecloth. The oysters were hot and succulent, and the accompanying hush puppies light and fried just right.

“These oysters are so good,” Trista said, digging in. “Have you ever considered that they taste like fried ocean?”

Rick laughed. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”
Fried ocean,
he thought. Who else but Trista would come up with something like that?

They chattered about her pending visit to her mother, and about Lindsay and Peter, whose happiness they both envied. But they didn't talk about Martine. Never about Martine. And that was okay.

After dinner, feeling mellow and satiated, they rode the bikes slowly home in the dusky light and stored them beneath the house. As they emerged from the latticed space, the cool breeze teased Trista's hair into tangles, and the clouds parted to reveal the ghost of a moon against the blue-gray sky. The sea was calm, whispering on the shore.

The dog met them on the back porch and wagged her tail in delight. Trista bent to pet her.

“Let's open a bottle of champagne,” Rick said.

“Champagne?” Trista brightened.

“Why not? We bought it last year to toast Lindsay on her birthday, but for some reason we didn't drink it.”

“We went into Charleston that night instead. Lindsay wanted to eat at Blossom.” This was their favorite in-town restaurant.

Rick told Trista where to find the champagne behind the bar, and after she disappeared into the house, he paused to scratch the dog behind her ears, which he wouldn't have done if Trista had been watching. The dog was a pretty shade of tan, with a spot of white on her chest, and she seemed forlorn but grateful for this bit of attention that had felicitously come her way. In that moment, Rick felt a pang for all lost dogs, for all creatures who did not have a home.

“Rick?” Trista called through the screen door. “I can't find the glasses.”

He continued on inside, poured the champagne and smiled when Trista declared that it tasted like fizzy sunshine. They adjourned to the porch, neither of them surprised when the dog trotted around the house and up the stairs to join them. She sat down politely beside Rick's chair and rested her head on her paws.

“Remember Bungie?” Rick asked, absently inspecting the cut on the dog's ear. “How we thought it would be funny to use her when we competed in our high-school talent contest? Too bad the principal wouldn't let us.”

“Are you kidding? Mr. Helms got so wound up over not allowing any live animals on the school premises that he completely forgot to monitor the song we were going to pantomime.” Trista laughed.

The song had been Concrete Blonde's “Joey,” which was one of those tunes that gets into your head so that you can't stop hearing it in your mind for days. The lyrics were about a drunk, but the three of them had convinced Mr. Helms that the song was about a dog so they could include Bungie in their act. When they finally informed the principal that they were going to scrap the live dog in favor of Trista's dressing up in a furry suit, the principal was so relieved that he didn't pay any attention to the words of the song.