Chapter 18: Ninety Days

I drove to the yard at seven the next morning with the proxy in my bag and his note in my pocket.

The Heron was gone.

There was a pale rectangle of dock where she had been, and the water lay flat and empty.

Ford was in the tin building, planing a long strip of cedar at the bench, with the radio off.

He looked up when the door opened.

He set the plane down very carefully.

"You didn't sleep," he said.

"I was at the hospital."

"Is Kendra all right?"

"She'll eat something today."

I stood in front of the bench, and the shavings curled on the floor around my shoes.

"Sixty-eight," I said.

His eyes came up.

"Days left," I said. "Until the ninety are up."

"Sixty-eight," Ford said.

He knew the number too.

Neither of us said what happened on day ninety-one.

I put my hand in my pocket and took out his note.

The paper had gone soft at the folds.

"I haven't read this," I said. "I carried it for two days."

"You can throw it out."

"I'm going to read it now. You can watch."

I opened it.

It was six lines in his square capitals.

You owe me nothing.

If you want out on any of the ninety days, say it, and I'll tell the lawyers the same.

I won't use the vote or the boat to keep you.

Marrying you was the best thing I ever did, and I did it for the wrong reason first.

I read it twice.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever read," I said.

"Probably."

"You wrote a whole page about how you're giving me an exit."