Once Upon a River Page 0,54

her boat, and then slipped below the surface again as she made her way upstream. When a quarter moon appeared, Margo pulled herself into a snag to rest. Her arm muscles burned, and her hands were roughed up from the oar handles. She felt the night pulling at her boat, luring her into the dark, easy current. She pushed off again.

The river curved and narrowed slightly, and she recognized a familiar irrigation pump and boathouses on the north bank. She held the brightest stars in her sights until they disappeared behind trees.

But once she neared the cabin, she saw the Playbuoy was still there. When she reached Michael’s oil-barrel float, she misjudged the distance from shore and stepped out into thigh-deep water. She tied the boat under the gangplank, between the float and shore, where it would be less noticeable. The noise must have woken Michael or King. A light came on in the bedroom, and King soon jogged out into the yard, over the planks, and onto the float. Margo petted her and held the Marlin out of the water.

She saw the kitchen light go on, and she dragged herself to shore.

Michael opened the kitchen door before she knocked. “Margaret!” he said.

“Can I have some matches?” It was all she could bring herself to say, not knowing if Michael’s dinner invitation was still open. Margo should have checked for Danielle’s car in the driveway before coming to the door.

“Margaret, come in,” Michael said. She saw the clock behind him. It was ten-thirty. “It’s cold out there. Feels like fall.”

“Is Danielle here?” Margo clenched her teeth. King stood beside her.

“Nope. I’m all by myself.”

“I brought King back. She came out to find me.”

Michael looked at Margo. “Do you want to talk about whatever’s going on?”

Margo hunched her shoulders to stop her shivering. “That island with the willows upstream,” she said. “I’ll row you up there if you want. Tomorrow.”

“Come in, and let’s talk about it,” Michael said. He leaned against the doorframe. “Tell me about that man at the cabin.”

“Do you like great blue herons?” Margo asked. She felt drunk, dizzy.

“Who doesn’t like them?” Michael said.

“There’s herons on Willow Island. A campment of herons, living in the trees.” She put one hand against the doorframe. “Dozens of them. One came so close that it brushed my leg with its wing.”

“I don’t suppose you know the story about Leda and the swan?”

Margo thought of the word. “Heronry,” she said. “The herons are in a heronry.”

“I like cranes, too. Not as common in these parts, of course. The females are reclusive. Now it’s time to come inside and dry off.” He tugged at her wrist, but stopped when she resisted. He took her hand. “If you seriously don’t want to come in, I’ll just give you some gas for your boat, okay? And I’ve got a box of matches you can have.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You know, I miss my dad. And my ma. She doesn’t want me to visit her.”

“Come inside, Margaret. We can talk about it.”

“I mean . . . I miss them so much.” She couldn’t imagine Michael or anyone understanding how even losing Brian had been difficult.

Michael nodded. He held both of her hands gently. “Cleo’s going to get cold out there waiting for you. We’ll let her have two names, like you. She can be King Cleo. Come in, and I’ll make you an omelet. By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be thanking me for it.”

Before she stepped through the doorway, Margo looked behind her, across the river, toward the dark little cabin. She would row across tomorrow, after Paul was gone, to get her belongings—hopefully her pack would still be under the bed. King followed her inside, where it was warm and safe.

PART

II

• Chapter Eleven •

Margo brought in the mail from the box. It was April, and she had been staying with Michael since late September. The danger of freezing and flooding had passed, and yesterday they had launched the oil-barrel float. Margo had walked the gangplank onto it no fewer than twenty times today, enjoying the way it tipped beneath her weight. The arrival of a letter addressed to Margaret Louise Crane made her hopeful it would be from her mother, to whom she had written and sent Michael’s address. She had received a Christmas card from Luanne saying once again that now would not be a good time to visit, but that she would write again soon. It contained a twenty-dollar bill. This envelope, however, was