One white-tipped paw slowly stretched out long, and I let Eddie try to gather up a crumb from the sandwich bun. “Don’t make this a habit, okay? One time only.”
“Mrr,” he said, and reached out a second time.
“Say, you know what else happened on the way home?” I glanced over to the boat next door. No Eric, which was just as well, because I was about to enter the gossip zone. “Remember that construction site downtown, where they’re renovating that old department store into condos and offices? You’ll never guess who I saw hauling bricks in a wheelbarrow.”
Eddie was paying no attention to me, so I pushed the last little crumb of bun his way. It was a bad idea, though, to let him take food off my plate. With Eddie, all it took was once to establish a bad habit. How long it took for him to establish a good habit, I didn’t know.
“It was Mitchell,” I told my uncaring cat. “Mitchell Koyne. You know, tall and loud and typically unemployed?” It wasn’t unknown for Mitchell to take on summer construction jobs, but if he was working at the toy store, why was he doing hard labor? It was very unlike Mitchell, and I was starting to worry that aliens had invaded his body.
“What do you think?” I asked.
But for once, Eddie had nothing to say.
* * *
After I took care of the dishes (meaning I threw away the foam container and napkins, and washed the plate and the fork that I’d used to eat what had spilled out of the sandwich) I debated on what to do with the rest of my evening.
It was a beautiful night, and even though I could easily continue to sit outside and read, I felt a pull to get up and do something. The absence of yard work on a houseboat was usually a bonus, but today I could have used a few weeds to pull.
I considered the social possibilities. Ash was working. Kristen was working, Aunt Frances and Otto were at a concert in Petoskey’s Bay View, Pam was working, Rafe was sanding drywall and being cranky about it, Holly had houseguests for a couple of nights, and, since it was past seven o’clock, it was too late to start calling around and finding out what my other friends were doing.
“What about you?” I asked my furry friend. “Want to go for a bike ride?”
Eddie, who was sprawled across the boat’s dashboard, opened one eye a fraction of an inch, gave me a look of utter disdain, and went back to sleep.
“I take it that’s a no?”
His mouth opened and closed silently.
Smiling, I kissed the top of his fuzzy head and headed outside.
* * *
Five minutes later, I was rolling along on two wheels, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. Which would turn it into a frizzy mess later on, but I wasn’t out to impress anyone, so who cared?
I pedaled up from the marina, riding around the edge of downtown to avoid the ice-cream-cone and fudge-eating tourists, and thought about who, if she or he had been in town, I might actually want to impress.
There wasn’t a sports figure in the universe that I cared about enough to do more than make sure my shirt was tucked in. Same thing for actors, singers, and politicians. If I could go back in history, I’d have loved to meet Amelia Earhart, but wanting to talk to someone and impressing them were two different things.
No, the only kind of people I’d ever consider trying to impress were authors. Barbara Kingsolver, for one. Louise Erdrich for another. Plus Laurie R. King, John McPhee, Ann Patchett, Malcolm Gladwell, Mary Roach, and lots more. But, again, all those folks were people I wanted to meet more than to impress.
Of course, there was one person I’d recently wanted to impress but upon whom I’d totally failed to make a positive impression. And I was uneasily certain the consequences were going to last a long time. Ash was still saying that his mom liked me just fine, but he was wrong about that; he just didn’t realize it yet.
“Seriously wrong,” I said out loud.
“Are you sure?”
I stopped my slow pedaling, squinted, and looked around. Had I really heard someone say something?
“Is ‘seriously wrong’ a proper term?”
It was a young voice, it sounded familiar, and it sounded like it was coming from the sky, which made no sense. I looked left and right and finally focused on where I was. Right in front of the oh-so-symmetrical house in which the prodigy Dana Coburn lived. Only where was he? She?
“Are there degrees of wrong?” Dana continued. “Or is modifying ‘wrong’ as nonsensical as modifying the word ‘unique’?”
“There’s no modifying ‘unique.’” I slid off the seat, straddled the bike, and looked up into a large maple tree.
“Glad to hear that.” Dana slid backward on a large branch until he—she—came up against the massive tree trunk. Sitting up, the child asked, “Is it always going to be painful to listen to people assault the English language? My mom says I’ll get used to it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”
Dana scrambled down the tree. “That’s not a satisfying answer.”
“No, but it’s an honest one.”
Two small feet hit the ground with a light and very Eddie-like thump. Dana ignored the dirt and bits of tree bark clinging to shirt and pants and faced me. “Explain, please.”
“Sure.” I leaned forward, putting my elbows on my handlebars. “You’ll grow accustomed to some things people say, maybe even most, but there will always be a few things that drive you batty.”
Dana nodded. “I understand. It makes me sad to hear anyone say ‘ain’t,’ but I attribute that to poor education. Hearing people say ‘kind of unique,’ however, makes me want to tear out their hair in large clumps.”
“You’re not alone,” I said.
“You’re not like my mom.” Dana grinned. “You don’t talk to me like I’m a little kid.”
“Well, you’re not mine. That makes it easier.”
“Mom’s always after me to comb my hair and wash my hands.” Dana looked down at the former tree parts still clinging to shirt and pants. “She wants me to wear dresses to Sunday dinner.”
“Moms will do that,” I said, wondering why, now that I had a solid answer to the female or male question, I was so satisfied. It was very possible that I put too much importance on gender. Did it matter so much to attach a pronoun to someone?
“I wish she wouldn’t do so much of it.” Dana kicked at the bottom of the tree. “All she wants to do is change me.”
It was a feeling I understood well, but I also knew that Dana’s mom was doing her best. Which meant it was best that I divert the conversation immediately.
“So I talked to Rianne Howe the other day,” I said. “Have you ever been in the back office of Benton’s?”
Dana’s face lit up. “You’ve been there? I’ve only read about it. Is the ship’s wheel still there?”
For once, she sounded like a normal kid. “I bet Rianne would let you give it a spin, if you asked. Especially since you know so much about her family.”
“No, that’s okay.” Dana’s expression went suddenly still. “I don’t like . . . I mean . . . I don’t go . . .”
Her voice trailed off and her words rose into the treetop and wafted away. Clearly, I’d wandered into territory where I didn’t belong. “Anyway,” I said easily, “the wheel is still there. And there are model ships all over the place. Maps of the lakes, too.”
Dana, who had been studying the tops of her shoes, looked up at me. “Charts. Navigation maps are charts. Are they recent or old ones?”
“No idea,” I said. “Why?”
“The older the chart, the more valuable it is as a collectible.”
I squinted, trying to remember, but gave up quickly as to not tax my limited mental faculties. “They looked very chartlike is all I can say.”
Dana shoved her hands into her pockets. “It would be unlikely that they’re old, given the circumstances.”