AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I sputter a laugh. “Everyone else moved on from that mid-pandemic, Kit.”
“I am not everyone else. And I know how much you loved hearing me sing them. I wrote one, about a fair maiden who waves her beloved off to sea, promising she will count the moments to his return… and then runs inside, pulls on her yoga pants, and binge-watches true-crime shows. Want to hear it?”
“I kinda do.”
“Good, because either way, you’re going to hear it. Over and over, while we row for shore. To keep our spirits up.” He lifts his hands. “Don’t thank me. It’s the least I can do.”
“Torturing me with sea shanties?”
“Yep.”
I won’t mind.The thought comes in a very small, quiet voice.I won’t mind at all.
I’d loved the sea-shanty phase, because it came at a time when Kit was overwhelmed with work, grinding through his days, the two of us barely exchanging five sentences between breakfast and a dinner that came so late I was often in bed before he ate.
I’d played a couple of sea shanties from the internet, alone in my office, struggling to get through my own days of online teaching, and he’d come in during one and asked me to replay it. Soon we were spending lunches together, Kit with his guitar, riffing on shanties, as silly as he could make them.
We found time, Kit. Even in the midst of all that, we found time to be together and have fun and push the world away for a little while. So what happened?
We continue along the beach until I veer inland. To get to the secondary boathouse, we need to pick our way through a thick barrier of trees, half of them dead and gnarled. The building appears ahead, tucked into that gloomy forest.
The best thing I can say about my private boathouse is that it’s upright. Pretty much upright, anyway. I’d bought it from a Fox Bay local who was planning to haul it away to the dump, and I’d paid for him to bring it out here and put it back together. It’s weathered, with peeling paint that I keep meaning to redo as a summer project with Madison, but when we’re up here together, we’re too busy paddling and exploring and reading and lazing the days away. Important stuff, for both of us.
I’m also not in a rush to paint the shed because I’m hoping it’s atemporary structure. The watercraft should all be stored in the boathouse, which is modern and gorgeous and designed for, well, holding boats. There’s plenty of room; Kit had the builder put in berths for our personal watercraft. Yet I’d quickly discovered that no amount of polite signs—or clauses in the rental agreement—kept people from taking them out on the water. It isn’t a matter of “don’t touch my stuff”—it’s a matter of “I don’t want you getting killed by touching my stuff.” I only discovered renters were ignoring my request when anglers picked up a near-hypothermic guest stranded on my paddleboard.
This isn’t a little forest pond. It’s Lake fucking Superior. I’m tempted to have people sing “The Wreck of theEdmund Fitzgerald” before they get the keys to the boathouse. If a freaking carrier ship can go down, taking the entire crew with it, they shouldn’t be trying out my damn paddleboard for kicks.
Seeing the boathouse, Kit frowns. “Not to be critical but…”
“It’s a piece of shit that ruins the aesthetic of the island?”
“I’d never say that. Madison told me you had to slap something together fast to keep renters from using your stuff. Which is fine, and yes, it’s not the prettiest thing, but if you decide to keep renting, and it bothers you, you’ll replace it. Otherwise, none of my business. I’m just surprised by the location.”
“Fifty feet from the actual shore? Near a crappy sliver of beach covered in sharp rock shards?” I waggle my brows. “Think of it as my piranha-filled moat.”
He hesitates and then smiles. “Renters don’t venture out here. Which means they don’t find the shed.”
That’s the idea, but they’ve broken the lock twice. I don’t say that—I just nod. We cross the last ten feet. Then we’re at the doors, barn-style ones that should open onto the water, but if I had it on the shoreline, people would definitely try to get access.
I spin the combination on the first lock.
“Two locks?” Kit says. “Has someone broken in?”
“I’m just making sure they don’t try,” I lie.
I get both locks open, swing the doors wide and—
“What the hell?” Kit says.
He brushes past me as he strides into the boathouse. I can only stare, certain I’m seeing wrong,wantingto be seeing wrong. Kit grabs a battery-operated lantern and shines it around the gloom.
Destroyed.
My boats.Ourboats. They’re…
We aren’t taking these to shore.
We aren’t taking them anywhere.
