Page 102 of Drawing Home
“And what do you win?”
“First prize is two hundred dollars. If I win, I’m going to use the money to self-publish the book.” She’d thought it all through—she’d print a bunch of copies and ask Alexis to sell them at the bookstore.
“And if you don’t win?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Pauline will put it in the local/indie section in the back of the library.”
“What’s the local/indie section?” Bea said.
“It’s stuff that people in town write that doesn’t really get published. Like if you just wrote a book and printed up copies for your friends. Or I guess I could photocopy these pages and bind it up. That sort of thing.”
“Stuff that people in town write that doesn’t get published?”
Penny nodded. “Yeah, you know, like—”
Bea stood up from the bed, grabbing one of the posts like she was suddenly unsteady on her feet. Then she left without a word, taking the manuscript with her.
Emma had to admit, the progress on Kyle’s boat was impressive. The gunwales, stripped and refinished, gleamed in the sunlight. The floor was restored and varnished; it was hard to envision the state it had been in the last time she’d stood on the deck.
“It looks great,” she said, taking a seat on a narrow bench near the helm.
“Thanks. I’ve made a lot of progress but it’s not done yet.”
“And you’re sure this thing is seaworthy?” Emma said when he started the engine, only half teasing.
“Sean’s mechanic completely rebuilt the motor. I did some woodwork for him in return. The next major task is finding the right name.”
“Ah, yes—the grand boating superstition.”
“Tradition,” Kyle corrected her, casting the lines.
“This one regular at the bar, Pete Hasting, named his boat after his wife. They had this horrendous, ugly divorce but he said he couldn’t change the name because it was bad luck.”
Kyle laughed. “That’s a problem. But, yeah, I guess there’s a fine line between tradition and superstition on the water. But I like that about it. Rules, ritual, camaraderie. It’s like religion without all the guilt.”
She smiled, looking up at the sky as they backed out of the slip. A gull soared overhead, and for that moment, she felt almost as free as the bird.
It was a perfect day to be on the water, and the bay was littered with boats. She recognized a few sailboats from the marina but she was sure a lot of the traffic was day-trippers sailing in from Connecticut or Rhode Island. She had no doubt that in a few hours, a lot of people from these boats would be calling Sean to pick them up and take them to Main Street for dinner. A month earlier, she would have been the one seating them in the hotel dining room.
Emma watched familiar landmarks pass. She breathed deeply. When they were beyond the breakwater, he picked up speed.
“We really should be doing this at sunset,” Kyle said.
“Sunset? Hmm. That sounds pretty romantic,” she said. “Maybe too romantic for just friends.”
“You’d be surprised how much can fit under the heading of ‘just friends,’” he said.
Emma smiled. “I probably shouldn’t be.”
He reached for her hand. Her phone rang.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling it out of her bag. “I just need to check who it is—”
Andrew Port.
“Emma, is this a good time to talk?” he said.
She pressed the phone firmer against her ear, trying to hear him clearly. “Um, sure. Everything okay?” No, everything was not okay. That was why she had an attorney in the first place.
