Once Upon a River Page 0,46

fact, she didn’t want to leave any trace of herself. Finally, she set the cup on the unfinished plywood floor. In the middle dresser drawer she found neatly folded blouses in pink, white, and mint green. The other dresser contained the man’s blue jeans. She put on a faded pair and cinched the waist with the most worn of his belts and cuffed the legs. In the same drawer, she found a T-shirt and a dark blue sweatshirt. She draped her muddy clothes over the side of the tub in the adjoining bathroom.

She retrieved her coffee from the plywood floor. Another room opened off this one and was probably supposed to be the bedroom, when it wasn’t torn down to wall studs. In the middle of the room, balanced on sawhorses, was the curved wooden skeleton of a rowboat, bigger and deeper than her flat-bottomed boat. Back in the kitchen, she found the man cooking, and she might have felt at ease if only her gun and her backpack were leaning in the corner by that corn broom rather than lying under the bed wrapped in rabbit skins at the cabin with Paul. The man apologized for what he called “this mess” and placed items on the round table one at a time. Each thing glowed as it passed through a shaft of sunlight: plates, forks, two glistening jars of preserves, and a stick of yellow-white butter in a glass dish. She wondered if she was losing her grip; otherwise why did butter and jelly seem like otherworldly miracles?

“Sorry this place is such a construction zone,” he said. “I’m determined to do all the work myself, save money. I want to learn how to fix and build everything. That’s one of my goals in life.”

She nodded.

“You’ve got to be hungry.” He held out his hand, and she shook it. “I’m Michael. Mike Appel.” The stress was on the second syllable, like the word repel. “I’ve lived here all alone for four months, and you’re the first person from the neighborhood who’s been in my house. You’d think on a river people would always be socializing.” He gestured with the spatula. “You haven’t told me your name.”

She almost said Maggie. “I’m Margaret,” she said, and when he didn’t seem entirely satisfied, she added, “Louise.”

“That’s a pretty name.” He repeated it wistfully. “Margaret Louise.”

That was what her mother had called her, as if one name weren’t enough.

“People don’t use two names so much these days.” He laughed.

“Or just Margo,” she offered.

“What’s your last name?”

“Crane.”

“Margaret Louise Crane. Very nice.” He pushed aside several books

that lay open on the table and set a glass of orange juice and half an omelet in front of her. One book with a library sticker was called Building Bookshelves.

“Thank you,” Margo said.

“I shouldn’t let this table get so cluttered,” Michael said. “So what do you do over there at that little house?”

“I fish.” The omelet was buttery and cheesy.

“I’ve never fished,” he said. “Don’t even know how to fish, but I’m building a boat. I’d like to be more self-sufficient, like you.”

“Fishing is easy,” Margo said. She lifted the edge of the omelet and admired the tiny, uniform cubes of green pepper, onion, and mushroom inside. “Mostly you just have to sit there and wait.”

“Maybe you can give me a lesson, tell me what tastes good out of this river. Hell, I don’t even know what to put on a hook.”

“I use worms and minnows. Sometimes crayfish.” She moved her feet so the dog could lie under the table, next to a neat stack of newspapers.

He said, “I work for the power company, so I know you’ve got no power over there. Have you got a generator? A two-way radio of some kind?”

She shook her head. Margo worked her bare feet beneath the heavy body of the fishing dog. Her boots and socks sat beside her chair.

“It’s incredible you live like that. And you don’t have a job or go to school?”

“I’m nineteen,” Margo said, as if that would explain it. She looked across the river at the cabin. She was eager to open the brick of ammo and load her Marlin. She hoped Paul would have no reason to look under the bed.

“Your place looks like a hideout, you know, like a place in a movie where criminals get away from the cops. Would you be the gangster’s daughter?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Or his girlfriend, maybe?”

A knot began to form in Margo’s stomach. He probably meant