43
SLADE
THREE YEARS EARLIER
A woman’scries spill gently over the weathered wooden boards of the jetty, carried on the early morning air. I look around, searching for the source, but the marina appears empty, just the gentle bobbing of unmanned vessels waiting to be sailed later in the day.
Her cries are muffled and tired, as if she’s been here for some time. My heart clenches, bringing me back to the time Sinclair saw a dog hit by a cab in the street. My sister cried for days after that, swearing that if she got her own dog, she’d call it Monty, after the one she ran to save, but failed.
A flash of color further up the jetty grabs my attention and I squint against the sunrise, finally spotting her. She’s wearing a light blue dress, making her blend into the ocean behind her as she sits, legs dangling off the edge, staring out across the water.
“The sunrise is quite something here,” I call gently, not wanting to spook her.
She turns, looking back at me. “Oh, sure is.” She tries to smile as she wipes at her eyes with her fingers. “I’m sorry, is this your boat?” She tips her head toward my father’s yacht.
I walk past it, closer to the end of the jetty where she’s sitting.
“My father’s.”
“It’s nice… I’m sorry, I’ll stop loitering.” She gives me a polite smile. “Something drew me to sit in this spot, that’s all.”
“Don’t apologize… Can I?” She looks at me as I gesture beside her.
“Go ahead.”
I join her, glancing at her profile. She’s a similar age to Mom. Wavy hair in a warm caramel blows around her shoulders, and her eyes have tiny creases at their edges from a lifetime of smiles. Eyes that are currently mournful and glassy.
She’s not the first person I’ve seen here this early before. It’s the best part of the day. Watching the sunrise over the ocean. Wondering what the day has in store for you. The adventures that await. But she’s the first woman I’ve met who’s so clearly crying about something. Or someone.
“Do you like to be on the water?” she asks.
I gaze out at the horizon, taking in a deep lungful of fresh, salty air.
“I do. My father loves it, so we grew up taking vacations on the water.”
“That sounds nice. My friend loved it, too. Always said she wanted to live on a boat one day.”
“Yeah?” I hitch a brow, glancing at her and noting the way she smiles, but her eyes remain sad.
“Yeah.” She sighs. “Bridget was fun like that. Never able to stand still, always running to the next exciting thing. We’d have a blast.”
I nod, but don’t say anything. My father taught me you can learn a lot from listening and not speaking. And something tells me this woman didn’t sit here because she was looking for companionship. She’s sitting here to remember.
“Have you ever met someone like that?” She turns to me, her tears drying. “Someone that makes everything exciting and fun?”
I think of some of the guys I like to hang with, the other adrenaline junkies. The skydivers, the base jumpers, the thrill seekers.
“Yeah, I guess I have.”
She smiles softly. “Bridget was always up. High, wild, free. Except on the days she wasn’t. I wish I’d recognized those days earlier.”
Sourness settles in my gut as her face falls and she looks back out over the water.
“I’m sorry,” I say, despite knowing my words won’t help.
Her eyes pinch. “It’s been years. But I take a trip every year to remember her. Just a couple of days. Perhaps I’m crazy, but I like to find a place to sit and talk to her. Tell her she’s the reason I became a therapist.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.” I take a risk, letting my next words flow out gently. “But what is crazy is carrying the weight of blame around for something that is out of our control.”
