The tree remained by the marina, though, snagged beneath the surface of the floodwaters alongside my boat. The unseen impediment had hooked it like an anchor that shifted only slightly with the rhythm of rising water.
I ran down the concrete steps to the dock. Secured a few slips down from where The Hines had been tied, my family’s boat rode high on the flood. She wasn’t agile on the water or remotely as beautiful as The Hines, but we used her to putter downriver to the stadium to wait for fly balls on warm summer nights, so she was still seaworthy. Tied to this dock, I thought she’d be safe.
I thought we’d both be safe.
I grabbed the rail of the boat and leaped across to the deck. I could feel the surge of the flood beneath my unsteady feet. Carefully, I gripped the wet handrail and scrambled around the stern to peer over the opposite rail. The tree lurched in the current there, just a few yards away.
Next door, Ralph Potter came to the shelter of his cabin doorway. He was barefoot and shirtless despite the cold, wearing jeans that rode low on his hips. He grinned and bellowed across the rain. “It’s Bible time, Laurie. We’re the last ones left! Better pack your stuff and find a hotel room.”
I shouted back. “You leaving, Ralphie?”
He laughed and shook his head. He lifted his coffee cup to me — probably holding his morning hair of the dog. “I’ll go down with my ship!”
Big talk, but that was Ralphie. He’d come home from Baghdad with a crazy look in his eyes. I knew he sold a little dope to keep body and soul together, but otherwise he hung around the marina drinking, fishing, and sometimes howling at the moon.
I shouted, “What about this tree? It could wipe us all out!”
“Pray for more rain,” he called with a cackling laugh. “The only way that tree is leaving is on more water!”
“We’re all going to drown!”
More laughing. “Aw, you know more boaters drown from beer than floods!”
He was right, of course. The bodies of most drowned boaters were found with their flies down.
“Did you sleep last night?”
“Slept like a baby! Never heard the thunder or lightning. You?”
No, I hadn’t slept much.
The rest of our small community of marina dwellers had wisely hauled their boats out of the water before the river officially hit flood stage and the heaviest debris began to boil past. Yesterday, the fire department had come by to deliver their warnings — get out now, they’d said, because we’re not coming back to rescue you later. All of the other regulars obeyed and cleared out before nightfall, except crazy Ralphie. And me.
“If you get scared, you know where you can cuddle up, right?”
I mustered a grin and nodded. “You have groceries?”
“Could use some coffee.”
I tossed him a can. He caught it one-handed and cradled it against his bare chest.
Above us, a black pickup truck pulled into the marina and slid to a stop on the slick asphalt. A man in overalls and a parka climbed out of the truck, a cell phone to his ear. He ended the call, then jogged across the parking lot. He pushed through the gate left unlocked by the last hastily fleeing boater.
He shouted my name and peeled back the hood of his coat. It was Nolan McKillip.
Ralphie gave me a raised eyebrow and disappeared into his own boat.
“Now what?” I muttered to myself. But I raised a hand and waved at Nolan.
He bypassed the concrete boat launch where foam and debris surged up the ramp and made for slippery footing. Instead, he rattled down the steps and strode purposefully up the boardwalk, wind at his back. Then he saw the huge tree, riding the water perilously close to my boat.
“Are you crazy?” he shouted over the roar of river. “You’re going to get swept away!”
“It’s an adventure!” I called, managing a little cheer. “Help me with the lines?”
“What can I do?”
“I’ll toss this one to you. Take it up to those pines and tie me off?”
He nodded and held up his hands to receive the line.
I tossed my grocery bag, minus my coffee, into the cabin, then tied a buoy to a length of nylon rope, coiled it up, and threw it expertly — like riding a bike, a skill never forgotten. Nolan, not a boater, caught it clumsily, then struggled up the muddy bank and wrapped the line around a listing pine. He made a hash of the knot, but it would hold. I repeated the process, and he tied off the second line to a different tree.
He came back down the bank, rubbing the crud off his hands, and there was nothing to do but invite him to stay.
“You want to come aboard?” I called, but I heard my own lack of cordiality.
If he heard it too, he ignored it. Nolan jumped from wet dock to thrusting deck, and I made a grab for his arm, but he didn’t need steadying. He landed lightly and gathered me up in a hug — quite an experience since he’d taken to pounding iron and feeding a forge in his studio. He had muscle now, and shoulders that felt wonderful to cling to. Folded into his warm frame, I felt safe for an instant.
But then he got a closer look at me, and his eyes widened. “Jesus, what happened?”
“It’s nothing. I was trying to start the pump, but the lever kicked back on me.” I started to turn away. “A silly mistake. It looks worse than it feels.”
Nolan cradled my cheek in his warm hand. “Sweetheart.”
I jerked my head to avoid his touch. To take the sting from that little rejection, I smiled up at him and hoped it didn’t look false. “Come inside before you get soaked.”
In the cabin, I kept my slicker on. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”
He unzipped his parka, shook the rain from his hair, and glanced around. I tried not to imagine what he thought. The cabin looked like the studio apartment of a careless grad student. Or maybe a fugitive on the run. Unmade bed in an alcove and a cluttered kitchen with little more than a hot plate, dorm fridge, microwave, and dishes in the sink. The gray morning light did little to warm the cabin.
It was all a far cry from the converted carriage house where I lived before it all started. On my parents’ estate, I’d had the run of the grounds and half the carriage house for a studio. My apartment — furnished with Mother’s priceless castoffs and paintings by friends and family — overlooked the swimming pool. At night, with the tiny white lights glittering in the trees, it had been an elegant setting for parties when I felt like having friends over for drinks and talk.
How far away that seemed now, even though the estate was only a mile or two from the houseboat.
Nolan looked toward my easel and paint boxes that were stashed, unused, in a corner with a tangle of buoys and bumpers. A couple of crushed beer cans in the mess finished the picture.
With a frown on his brow, he turned on me. “Laurie, you can’t be serious about staying here.”
I said, “I know what I’m doing. I’ve boated all my life.”
“But what’s the point of staying? This flood is dangerous.”
“It’s where I live now. It’s my home.”
“But— Look, your mother called me. She’s scared to death.”
“She called you, of all people? Why?”
“She worried, that’s why. I am too. Staying here — it’s nuts.”
“I’m not stupid. I’ll leave if it gets too bad. Coffee?”
“It’s not just the flood,” Nolan said. “She said Dennis called the house.”
I snatched up my grocery bag and pushed aside some dishes to make room for it on the kitchen counter. Then I fumbled with the coffee pot, trying to tamp down panic.
“She said Dennis was drunk on the phone with her. Has he been here?”