Chapter 31: Shoes

The summer evening boat got in at a quarter past eight, just after sunset.

Which was the only reason Jet could meet it.

Margie had bought him a pair of brown leather boat shoes in Rockland, size twelve.

He'd worn them every night since, around the cottage, to practice.

He still walked in them like a heron in a parking lot.

"Lift your feet," I said, on the ferry ramp.

"I am lifting them."

"Lift them higher."

"They're very heavy, Abbie. How do you live like this?"

He had on a clean white shirt Margie had ironed, the black knit cap, and his hair tied back.

He had a bunch of flowers in one fist.

Pink and white roses, a little crushed.

"Where did those come from?"

"A gift," he said. "Lesson two. Something she'd like."

"Jet. Where did they come from?"

"The church," he admitted. "The bush by the door. I asked it first."

The ferry bumped the ramp.

My mother came down it third, in a blue raincoat with a rolling suitcase, looking for me.

She saw me, and her face crumpled, and she let go of the suitcase in the middle of the ramp.

I ran.

She held onto me so hard my ribs hurt.

"You stupid, brave girl," she said into my hair. "Nine years. Nine years, and it was him."

"I know, Mom."

"I knew you didn't unclip. I always knew. Your father taught you knots before you could read."

Then she let go and wiped her eyes and looked past me.

Jet was standing very straight at the bottom of the ramp, with the roses held out in front of him.

He'd retrieved the suitcase.

"Mrs. Colcord," he said. "Good evening. Small craft advisory. Seas two to four feet."

My mother stared at him.

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