Chapter 38
About an hour later, Eliot returns with Joan, talking up the Waters.
“Would you like to go check it out before we go fishing?” Mick asks Phoebe.
“Sure,” she says.
We pile into Mick’s truck and head to the Waters. The drive is short—only a few miles from Joan’s house. Close feels better.
When we park, Mick rolls the windows down halfway while Hank stays in the truck, his paws propped up on the dash like a lookout.
The building is plain but pleasant—gray clapboard and stone, tidy landscaping.
I’ve only been inside one place like this, when we’d visit my grandmother after things got really bad and her life had shrunk to a single room.
I know this is the beginning of the end for Joan, too, but for now, I tell myself it’s only a narrowing meant to keep her safe.
Mick pauses at the door, letting Phoebe and me go first. She tilts her face up, her expression caught between curiosity and dread.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper, taking her hand. Her fingers are cool, her grip tight.
I brace for an antiseptic tang, but instead I get lavender and fresh laundry. The lobby is warm and bright, anchored by a seating area where three women lean toward one another over coffee, a deck of cards spread between them.
Phoebe’s grip on my hand eases.
At the reception desk, a woman with a sleek bob greets us. Mick introduces us, explaining that our friends just brought Phoebe’s grandmother, Joan, over for a tour.
“Oh, yes! Joan!” she says. “What a lovely lady!”
“We were wondering if we could see the memory care unit?” I ask.
The woman apologizes, explaining that no one is available to give us a tour, but that we’re welcome to look around the common areas.
Mick thanks her, and we wander past a free coffee and flavored water kiosk, then check out a small café stocked with pastries and juices. Next to it is a pleasant dining room with a stone fireplace.
“Look, Feebs. Fireside dining,” I say.
She smiles as we keep walking down a hallway, stopping when we get to a small movie theater. Rows of chairs face a big screen, and flanking it are shelves stuffed with worn paperbacks.
Phoebe drifts toward them, running her fingers along the spines. She pulls out a large-print copy of Anne of Green Gables and looks up at me with big eyes. “Mom read this to me,” she whispers.
“That feels like a good sign,” I say.
“What do you think, Feebs?” Mick asks.
“It’s nice,” she says. “But it feels like a hotel. Not a home.”
“We can make her room feel cozy and personal,” I say.
“But she won’t have her own furniture, will she?” Phoebe asks.
“Not all of it,” I say. “But we can bring some of her favorite things.”
“Like her rocking chair?”
“I bet there’ll be room for that,” I say, hoping I’m right. “And we’ll hang family photos and bring her yellow quilt.”
Phoebe hesitates, her brow furrowed. “Couldn’t she just stay in her house with a nurse or something?”
“It’s safer for her to be here. The staff is trained to deal with memory problems, and they’re here around the clock.”
I glance at Mick, but he’s already moving toward the lobby. His jaw is set, and his eyes are focused, like he didn’t hear her question—or maybe because he did.
—
When we get to Mick’s, he opens the garage door and moves efficiently—grabbing several fishing poles and his tackle box, then hitching his small bass boat to the back of the truck. He opens the door to let Cash out of the house, and he hops into the backseat with Phoebe and Hank.
As we wind down the driveway, Mick rests his arm along the back of the bench seat, his fingers hovering behind my shoulder.
Before turning onto the main road, he pauses and scrolls on his phone, then sets it on the console. The first chords of “Born to Run” pour from the speakers.
My pulse jumps, sending me back in time to long drives through the countryside.
We make our way to the lake, windows down, the air scented with pine, cedar, and fresh earth. Trees crowd the road, sunlight flickering across the pavement, until the view opens and the water appears. I catch my breath, the lake a sheet of blue-green glass beneath the late-afternoon sun.
At the public launch, Phoebe and I get out with the dogs and watch as Mick coasts the truck down the sloping ramp, the boat rocking in its harness.
He shifts into park, steps out, and frees the transom straps, loosening the bow hook before bracing a foot on the trailer. He gives the boat a clean shove. As it slides free with a soft rush, he walks it down the line and ties two quick half hitches.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the clean, mineral scent of childhood.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, then jogs to the truck. He gets in, pulls away from the dock, and parks in the lot.
When he returns, the dock shifts under his weight, rocking as he climbs into the boat. The dogs leap in after him. He offers a hand to Phoebe, but she refuses, getting in without help.
His hand still out, he looks at me. I take it and step onto the boat, settling into a seat in the back.
Mick unties the line and guides us from the shallows.
The motor’s hum vibrates into the soles of my shoes.
Cash leans over the gunwale, nose working the air, while Hank plants himself at the bow, ears pricked.
We putter forward. As we reach the reeds, Mick drops anchor.
“You remember how to cast?” he asks Phoebe.
“Of course I do,” she says.
He knots the leader with a flick of his hand, then passes her the rod.
She adjusts her grip, and he nods.
“Bet I catch one first,” Phoebe says.
“I like the confidence,” Mick says.
I close my eyes, feeling the boat sway in the slow rhythm of the water.
“Hey, Billie. You wanna try?” Mick asks after a while.
I open one eye and smile. “You know the answer to that.”
“What’s the answer?” Phoebe asks.
“Billie prefers to watch,” he says.
“Yup,” I say, as the cool breeze skims my face.
A few minutes later, Phoebe squeals. “Got one!” she shouts, reeling it in. “Told ya I’d be first!”
“You sure did,” Mick says, helping her unhook a small perch before laying it in her hands.
“Hey, Billie! Take a picture!” she says.
I snap a few photos before she tosses the fish back into the lake. It sails through the air in a flash of silver.
“All right. Time to get down to business,” Mick says.
He works a spinnerbait in—twitch, pause—then traces a quick figure eight at the side of the boat. On the second loop, a muskie shoots out from the weeds. Mick stays calm as he angles it wide and brings it to the net.
Phoebe applauds, whooping. They briefly admire the catch before Mick tips the net.
“Back you go,” he says as the fish splashes into the water.
“You forgot to take a picture,” Phoebe says.
“I don’t need a picture. It’s right here,” Mick says, tapping his temple.
He casts again, the line whispering over the lake before it drops with barely a ripple. Somewhere in the distance, a loon calls—a long, low note.
When the sun finally dips below the trees, Mick reels in his line and stands, the boat swaying under his weight. I shiver, pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt.
“Time to head in,” he says.
I gaze at the far shoreline, where the pines lean toward the water, shifting into shadow.
We putter back to the dock, where Mick coasts in, the hull kissing the bumpers with a soft thud.
Phoebe and the dogs scramble onto the dock, and once again, Mick’s hand finds mine, holding it tight as I step out.
He ties the boat off in a quick motion, then climbs out and jogs back to his truck. The sound of his boots on gravel fades, replaced by the hush of water against the pilings.
I look back over the horizon, the last streaks of orange fading into night.
Across the parking lot, headlights flare. Mick turns and backs the trailer down the ramp.
Phoebe and I watch as he swings out of the cab and strides onto the dock to untie the boat, throwing the rope inside. He wades ankle deep, maneuvering the boat with a rope until it’s close enough to hitch to his truck.
Once it’s snapped into place, he looks up at us. “Okay, girls, we’re all set.”
We climb into the truck, the dogs jumping up beside Phoebe.
Mick shifts into gear, rolling away from the lake.
The ride back feels intimate, the dash lights washing Mick’s profile in sharp relief. Phoebe falls asleep in the back, her head resting on Cash’s side. I let my head tip against the window, watching the telephone poles flash by.
Dean would hate this, I think. Not the lake, not the boat—but this.
Mick shifts his grip on the wheel, then he glances into the rearview mirror. “She’s out.”
I look over my shoulder, studying Phoebe’s rounded cheeks. “Today was good for her.”
Mick’s jaw moves like he’s about to respond, then doesn’t. Instead, he eases the truck through a curve, the headlights washing over a row of pines.
Eventually, we reach my old neighborhood, then Joan’s driveway. Mick shifts the truck into park, and I turn just as Phoebe’s eyes blink open.
“We’re home,” I say.
—
Inside, Eliot looks up from his laptop and stretches. “Did you catch anything?”
“A few,” Mick says. “How’s Joan?”
“Fine. Good. We watched a bad Hallmark movie.”
“Is there another kind?” Mick smiles.
“Oh, please,” I say. “You love cheesy movies.”
He smiles and shrugs.
Eliot heads out, and Mick and I make a quick dinner—grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. After we eat, I go upstairs with Phoebe, Hank at our heels.
When we enter Joan’s darkened room, we find her in bed, staring at the ceiling. She looks over at us, smiling.
“I caught a fish, Gram,” Phoebe whispers.
“That’s nice,” Joan says.
I turn to Phoebe. “Why don’t you go wash up and put on some PJs?”
She nods, then says, “Will you sleep here tonight?”
“Sure,” I say.
She smiles, then runs out of the room.
I sit on the edge of the bed, studying Joan’s face, thinking of Phoebe moving away from her.
A moment later, Phoebe returns, jumping into bed, cuddling against her grandmother.
I smooth the covers over them, Hank curling up at the foot of the bed.
“Good night,” I say, standing. “I’ll be back soon to check on you.”
Phoebe nods, then yawns, her eyes already closed.
—
When I get back downstairs, Eliot is gone, and Mick is leaning against the counter, arms folded, the kitchen light pooling over his shoulders, Cash sprawled in the corner.
“I’m staying here tonight,” I say. “You can go.”
He hesitates. “You sure?”
“Positive,” I say.
He nods, his gaze lingering on me, like he’s looking for something he’s not sure he wants to find. Then he steps forward, closing the space between us.
“Billie.” He says my name low, like a question and a warning at once.
A precarious beat hangs between us.
“Thank you for trusting me to take Phoebe to New York,” I finally say.
“You’re welcome.” He swallows. “I’m going to miss her.”
“I know you are,” I say.
He inhales, his chest rising. “I’m going to miss you, too.”
I hesitate, thinking of Dean, but say it anyway. “I feel the same.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“It’s true. Tonight felt special. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out on a lake like that.”
“Maybe we can do it again sometime soon.”
“I’d like that.”
He stares at me a long beat. “I should go.”
I nod.
He calls Cash, and we go to the door.
When we get there, he turns and faces me, his hand on the knob.
“Good night, Billie,” he says.
“Good night, Mick,” I say.
He opens the door and slips into the darkness, Cash at his side.